#canon typical swearing

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Cliffs: Slippery When Wet

While searching for Libertalia, Shoreline runs the Drake brothers aground.

An alternative beginning to A Thief's End: Chapter 13: Marooned

---

“On your right!”

The first thing Nate thinks is, Yeah, right. Because he isn't sure how Sam can see anything in this storm. They're moving so quickly, and rocks are appearing so suddenly, and ocean mist blends so thickly with savage rainfall that Nate can't see a damn thing.

“Watch out, watch out!” Sam is screaming over the waves. Whatever he thinks he sees, he really believes it's there.

Nate glances to the side, and that's when a flaming, 500 foot naval frigate smashes into their fishing boat.

“Oh, shit!”

The fishing boat splinters underneath them and tosses them to the waves, the frigate barreling through like a linebacker through wet tissue paper. 

“NATHAN!”

Nate slams against the water’s surface. The frigate's wake drags him down, and he frantically swims against it. But it's really no use. Nathan Drake may be a veteran explorer and a daring adventurer, but even he is subject to the forces of nature. (Or, in this instance, the forces of a giant, bloodthirsty Shoreline boat.)

The surface grows further and further away, and Nate allows himself to be sucked down, with the hopes that maybe, eventually, the boat will pass and the waters will calm.

---

The boat passes. The waters do not calm.

Nathan gasps for breath, coughing as seawater threatens to invade his lungs. He treads water a bit frantically and only semi-effectively.

“Sam?” he calls, but it comes out as a croak. There's no way Sam could hear him in a storm like this. The ocean is roaring, and the rain is torrential. Nate can barely hear himself.

Once he's no longer at risk of dry-drowning, Nathan searches the area. He can’t see much, really, but he’s willing to bet there are more Shoreline boats out there. He could try searching for one, hoping to climb aboard. But at the very least, he would be tossed back into the water. At most, they'd probably just shoot him. So stowing away isn’t an option.

All things considered, Nate is lucky. They’d crashed close to the island. Or… he thinks they crashed close to the island. It's tough to tell in the storm. All he can really do is start swimming and hope to run into something eventually.

The longer Nate paddles, the more he realizes how bone-deep exhausted he is. His muscles strain as he pushes through the water. Every so often, he catches himself slowing down, and he has to kick even harder to keep from sinking. Waves come and go, frequently breaking over his head and sending him spinning underwater. Each time, Nate manages his way back to the surface, but each time, he feels how much harder it is to swim. How much more his lungs burn.

In movies, when the stranded traveler finally sees land, they speed up, so eager and reinvigorated and desperate for reprieve that they get their second wind. But when Nathan finally gets close enough to see the shore, he can barely tread water anymore, much less swim. He’s so, so close, but his arms and legs simply won’t listen.

Look, guys, Nate tries to reason with his limbs. If I don't get out of the water now, I’m going to drown.

We’re cold, his arms argue back.

We’re tired, his legs agree.

You're useless, Nate thinks bitterly. Fine. I’ll do it myself.

But without arms and legs, Nathan is little more than a limbless torso with a head. And for a limbless torso with a head, he does pretty well for himself. But the expectations aren't particularly high for limbless torsos with a head. So in actuality, he doesn't bring himself to shore. He barely stays afloat.

No, the real savior here is the tide. Mother Nature, in all her years of terrorizing Nate, finally cuts him a break. And through the tide alone, Nate washes up on the beach. He lifts his head out of the waterlogged sand and pushes himself up with jelly legs and marmalade arms. The rain continues its barrage, blowing sideways and stinging Nate’s face. But he’s already so soaked that it makes no difference.

“Alright,” Nathan mutters to himself, trying to muster the strength to trudge forward. “I gotta get off this beach.”

The sky is so dark that Nate can’t tell if it’s day or night. And unfortunately, the island is no more visible on land as it was from the water. He’s running blindly into the storm, deafened by rolling thunder and numbed by harsh wind against wet skin. It really should be no surprise that Nate slips almost immediately, falling off a rocky ledge, smacking his shoulder on the way down, and landing on his face.

For a long, dangerous second, Nathan considers staying put. Surely this can wait. His every muscle stings, spasming with fatigue. His shoulder pounds to the beat of his heart. He desperately needs a rest.

But then Nate starts thinking, and he realizes what he forgot.

“Goddamn it,” he growls, pushing himself up and breaking into an uneven jog. “SAM!”

There’s a very good chance that Sam didn’t even make it to shore. Maybe he found a boat. Maybe he was captured. Maybe he’s still in the water.

Maybe he’s dead.

Nate doesn’t hold onto that thought for long. He can’t. It would only make it that much harder to find Sam. (Because Sam is alive, dammit. He’s too stubborn to drown, and bullets obviously don’t have the same effect on him as they do everyone else.)

Wiping the rain from his eyes, Nathan finds a craggy outcrop in his way. The conditions are terrible for climbing, but the conditions are also terrible for running and swimming and trying to outgun a fleet of Shoreline ships, so what does Nathan care? He finds handholds and footholds and starts his ascent.

The climbing isn’t as bad as Nate expected. It’s slippery as hell, but the rocks are relatively short. It takes very little time to make it over the precipice. The view is dismal - just white waves and foreboding rocks sticking out of the water like giant daggers - but it gives him a glimpse of something else. Light, glinting off something to his left. So Nate carefully jumps down to the saturated shoreline. It jars his every joint and bone, but he can’t worry about it. He approaches the light, now clearly his supply box.

Or it was his supply box. Because there’s not a single supply inside. It’s just a useless box.

“For god’s s-” Nathan groans. “Of course. Everything’s gone.”

So Nate just moves right ahead. He really can’t stop right now.

“Maybe that’s a good sign,” he muses. “Maybe Sam took it.”

Maybe he’s looking for excuses to believe Sam is okay. Or maybe it’s true and Sam did take it. Who’s to say?

Nathan runs under a felled tree and climbs further up the cliff. “On the bright side, I can’t lose anything else… except my life.” And then something strikes him. “Talking to myself… That’s the first sign of crazy, isn’t it?”

And the second sign of crazy is asking yourself questions that you already know the answer to.

He pulls himself up yet another ledge, but his muscles are shaking worse than ever. The strength it takes to just walk, much less climb, is starting to get to him. His movements slow, limp worsening.

“Alright,” he tells himself. “I’m alright.”

And then Nathan steps off a cliff.

“Ugh!” he grunts, standing immediately. If he lays down now, he’ll never get back up. “Just push through,” he pants, moving forward. “Just push- augh!”

The ground beneath his feet crumbles, large chunks of rock splashing in the ocean below. Nate scrabbles for a solid surface, just barely grabbing hold in time. Once more, he pulls himself up and keeps moving.

“To hell with this place,” Nathan groans, carefully shuffling past the new gap in the ledge and climbing the next cliff face in his path. It’s getting worse. His head is spinning, and just reaching for handholds has him grunting like he’s playing in the finals at the Wimbledon. (Yeah, he watches tennis. What of it?)

But he reaches the top eventually, groaning and whining the whole way.

“Gotta keep going. Gotta keep going.”

The next climb is situated under a waterfall. Nate doesn’t consider this, because every climb has been wet. What’s a little running water going to do?

Kill you, Nate. It will probably kill you.

So he grabs hold, inching his way along a narrow ledge. He’s doing okay, considering, until the grip under his fingers is loosened by soggy moss. He slips, screams, and catches a lower ledge.

“Hah,” he wheezes. “That was… That was close.”

Slowly, painfully, he reaches up for a safer handhold. The muscles in his back are screaming. His injured shoulder shrieks.

And he slips again.

“No, no, no-!”

But Nathan has Drake luck. He grabs a piece of rock jutting out from the cliff face, slicing his hands in the process, but preventing certain doom. The waterfall is still dumping buckets on him, weakening his grip. He pulls himself upwards, barely managing to reach the next handhold. But he does reach it, and progress is progress.

And then the rock crumbles, his fingers slip, and he finds himself falling. There’s no catching himself this time. No close calls. He’s going to die.

Nate slams into solid rock, curls in on himself, and falls limp. Moving forward is no longer a question or a choice. It’s an impossibility. And though Nate loves himself a good challenge, he’s not going to beat this one.

---

Sam doesn’t like rain. That’s not particularly unique about him, but it is worth noting. So on a remote island, washed up and pummeled with a monsoon?

Not his scene.

“Nathan!” He keeps screaming, even though Nathan has yet to yell back. He’s worse than a lost dog, because at least lost dogs come when their name is called. Nathan just wanders.

And yet, Sam keeps shouting.

It’s been hours now. The dark clouds have thinned out, revealing light gray underneath. The sun is flirting with the horizon, but Sam imagines it might be another hour or so before they’re making out. The rain has tapered off, at least for the time being, reduced to a gentle mist. The ground is sodden, Sam’s boots sinking with every step, and plants drip with the remnants of the storm.

“Nathan!”

Sam must have walked halfway across the island by now. He’s taking the long way - running the perimeter of the island - in the hopes that Nathan is still on the beach. But at this rate, the likelihood of Nathan staying on the shore is getting slimmer and slimmer. More than once, Sam wonders if he should just give up and move inland. He could find a high cliff and signal for Nathan. That could definitely work. And it’s tempting, because once Sam reached the top, he could sit down and wait for Nathan to come to him.

But if Nathan was injured in the crash, he may not have left the beach at all. And the risk that Nathan is hurt and in need of assistance is greater than the relief that Sam would feel knowing that he doesn’t have to keep walking.

“Nathan!”

Sam is tired. He’s so, so tired, from his skin to his spleen to his skull. The crash roughed him up a bit, and dragging his ass to shore was no picnic either. And now, going on hour six (seven?) of searching, Sam is worn to the bone.

But that doesn’t stop him. When he spots the cove - when he spots his brother, collapsed on the ground - Sam breaks into a sprint.

“Nathan!” He slides to his knees, shaking Nathan’s shoulders. “Wake up!”

Nathan’s eyes snap open, looking at Sam like Sam just stole his Gameboy. (And Sam would know. He stole Nathan’s Gameboy back in ‘81. Legend has it, Nathan is still looking for it.) “Sam?”

“Yeah, dumbass. Don’t recognize your own brother?”

“Shut up,” Nathan groans, pushing himself up. He blinks a couple times, rolling his shoulders and wincing. “Where are we?”

Sam tries to bury his worry with wit and sarcasm. “Uh, did you smash your brain in?” And Sam tries to subtly check Nathan’s head for any sign of that. “Remember? The crash? Shoreline? Libertalia?”

This seems to strike a chord. “Ah. Yeah. Right. That place.” He sighs but makes no move to stand up. “I was looking for you, and then I… fell.”

“Fell?” Sam looks up, but the cove is mostly covered. “Fell from where?”

Nathan points up at a hole in the natural ceiling. “Cliff. Up through there.”

“Jesus, Nathan.” Sam curses. “You're lucky you're not dead.”

“Oh, yeah, lucky me,” Nathan groans. “Death would’ve been the kinder mercy.”

“Any chance you found Libertalia before you swan dived off a cliff?”

Nathan’s unamused expression tells Sam everything he needs to know.

“Okay, fine. No Libertalia. Yet. Are you…? Can you walk?”

“I think so?” It’s a question, not a statement.

“Well, let’s try, huh?” Sam tries to keep upbeat, because Nathan kind of looks like shit. The odds of him being out of commission are decent.

“Yeah, okay.”

Sam takes hold of Nathan’s left arm, but even touching it makes Nathan yelp. He drops the arm like it’s broken glass that is also on fire and covered in acid.

“What? Is it broken?”

Nathan grabs his shoulder, cringing in pain. “Uh, I don’t… I don’t think so.”

“Well then what? Broken ribs? Did you get stabbed or something?”

Nathan shakes his head, carefully pulling his shirt collar down past his shoulder. The drenched henley is happy to accommodate. “Oh. Um. Yikes.”

And “oh, um, yikes” is right. Because Nathan’s left shoulder is lower than the right, an unnatural bump under his skin.

“You idiot. You dislocated it.”

“Damn, sorry. I’ll get your permission next time,” Nathan spits.

Sam doesn't have the energy to argue. He just sighs and yanks Nathan’s shoulder back into place.

“Shit!” Nathan screams. He grabs his shoulder protectively and mutters more curses under his breath. “Warn a guy,” he hisses.

“I needed you relaxed. You always tense up when you dislocate something.”

“Dude, that was one time.”

“And you tensed up, and I couldn't get your arm back in, so who's fault is that?”

Nathan sighs. Mutters a few choice swear words. 

“Gonna live?” Sam watches his brother carefully. He’s still pale.

But Nathan nods. “It’ll hurt like hell for a while, but I’ll make it. Help me up.”

So Sam grabs Nathan’s right arm and pulls him up. Nathan brushes the sand from his clothes and uses his belt to sling his arm. “C’mon,” Nathan says, heading inland. “Time to find a lost pirate civilization.”

[saltysideblog]

❁❁ Daisy ❁❁

❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁

A self indulgent Nice Guys OC

Summary: How they met, part 2.

Part 1 ❁ Part 3 Part 4

A/N: I broke it up into two parts because it was easier for me to write! Enjoy! 🎉

❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁

Healy really had a knack for attracting trouble. Well, seeing as the three men slowly cornering them were most likely after the girl cowering behind him, attracting troublemakers was a more accurate statement. Not that there’s much difference. Either way, he’s in trouble.

He did a quick head count.

One bald, one bearded, one blond. Three. Three men in sleek black suits.

One brunette in kitten heels and one greying old man. That’s two.

They were definitely outnumbered.

Where the hell was March when you needed him?

The bald man unbuttoned his crisp suit jacket. Healy caught a glimpse of the holster underneath.

“Look pal, boss wants to talk to her, no need to make a scene.”

Healy nodded, “I agree with you about that.”

Baldie stepped forward, Healy’s hand on his chest stopping him in his tracks,

“Doesn’t seem like she wants to talk, though.”

“No, I don’t.” she quickly interjected.

Baldie scoffed, “She doesn’t have a choice.”

Healy tutted, “Now, I have to disagree”, he squared his shoulders, betraying his tenseness, despite his casual tone, “see, me, when a woman says no”, he leaned in, “that means no.”

Balling up the front of Baldie’s shirt, Healy violently connected their foreheads, using his free hand to snatch the man’s gun.

Blondie fired first, hitting his own colleague squarely in the back. Healy returned fire, right to Blondie’s knee. He crumpled like a house of cards. Using Baldie as a human shield, Healy slowly moved forward. The girl covered her head as more shots rang out in the cramped service hallway. A bullet whizzed past Healy’s ear, grazing him. Beardie was a better shot than his friend. He raised the gun and click.

“Fuck.”

Dropping Baldie like a rock, Healy hurled the useless hunk of metal, smacking Beardie in the face with a crunch.

He clutched his now bleeding face, giving Healy enough time to knee him in the stomach, dropping him to his knees. Blondie grasped at his pant leg,

“You son of a bitch, this is none of your business…”

Healy’s fingers harshly tugged on his blond locks, his other hand doing the same to Beardie,

“You oughta work on your aim.”

He knocked their heads together like coconuts, letting them fall with a thud.

A waiter came out of the kitchen, looked at the bodies, looked at Healy standing over them and wordlessly backed away, disappearing into the kitchen once more.

Healy gestured, “We gotta go.”

The girl daintily hopped over the unconscious men,

“So much for not making a scene.”

Leading her back through the crowds on the main floor, ducking behind drunken patrons to avoid any of the black clad security staff, Healy kept an eye out for his partner as well.

“-more like a crime scene.”

He hadn’t been paying attention, “What?”

“The scene we just made… it’s a crime scene.”

He kept a hand on her back, urging her towards the exit, “Well, you get what you pay for…”, he answered absentmindedly.

“Oh yeah, how much was that?”

“Hmmm?”, he pushed open the big glass doors, stepping out into the street.

No more stuffy casino air, all cigar smoke and strong perfumes. It made Los Angeles smell like Mount Everest.

“How much did I pay?”, she pointed to his overstuffed shirt pocket.

“How much did you-“, he fumbled with the money, he was still catching his breath, “Lemme see.”

He placed his glasses on the tip of his nose and counted.

“‘Bout five hundred dollars.”

“S’pretty good price.”

He nodded. They spoke over each other,

“D’you need me to walk you home?”

“How much for a nude scene?”

Healy’s cheeks flushed, “What?!”, he shouted a bit louder than he intended.

She held her hands up, shushing him,

“Kidding! It’s a joke! Because I paid for a crime scene?”

He let out an embarrassed chuckle, “Yeah, yeah… right…”

“You’re not my type anyway.”

He put his glasses away and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’m Daisy, by the way. Daisy Streets.”

He shook her hand, “That can’t be your real name.”

“See that’s why you’re not my type.”

“Not gullible enough?”

“Not gullible enough”, she smiled, “and nameless, apparently.”

“I’m Healy. Jackson. Jackson Healy.”

He cursed at himself for being so flustered.

“Thanks for savin’ my skin, Healy-Jackson Jackson-Healy”, she gestured to the wad of cash in his hand, “don’t spend it all in one place.”

She winked and left, just as quickly as she’d arrived.

Healy stood in the street, taking a deep breath and chuckling to himself. Troublemakers…

A figure came crashing out of the bushes, making him jump, which in turn, made whoever’d just fallen on their ass shriek in surprise as well,

“Jesus!”

“Holland!”

Recognizing his partner, Holland chastised from him from his spot on the pavement,

“Where the hell are you when I need you?”

“I could say the same to you!”

“I was looking for my wallet.”

The look in Holland’s eyes screamed: Obviously.

“You lost your wallet?”

Healy needed a drink.

Holland placed both his hands on his hips, looking up at Healy indignantly,

“No I did not lose my wallet, I don’t lose things, I misplace them, except when they’ve been stolen. Like my wallet.”

“Well, how much did you have in there?”

“‘Bout five hundred dollars.”

[voidcanarys]

Blue Lock Fic Recs

I’ve been meaning to make one of these for a while now. I truly cannot state how much I enjoyed these fics so if a few, or even just one, stands out to you, please give it a shot. I’ve split the list into three sections, kaisagi, bachisagi and miscellaneous but I have wayyyy more fics so I’ll probs make at least a part 2, maybe a part 3.

KAISAGI

I Pay the Price, You’re the Answer to the Pain by yasuna

Teen | Completed | 42.8k words | 8/8

Romantic Hate-Flirting | Homophobia In Football | Angst | Character Study | Developing Romance

It's been one kiss. One kiss that didn't mean shit. But captured by the cameras and broadcasted for the entire world to see, it has the potential to end both of their careers right then and there.

Kaiser and Isagi navigating the world of football whilst staring on a reality tv show. The banter between Isagi and Kaiser is so fun and I love the incorporation of real life events and controversies.

Oat Milk (and Other Irredeemable Vices) by @caluette

Teen | Completed | 26.5k words | 3/3

AU - Coffee Shops & Cafés | AU - No Blue Lock | Enemies to Lovers | Getting Together

Yoichi Isagi works at a coffee shop on campus, and likes to believe he has the virtue of being patient with the people he encounters. He does not, however, file Michael Kaiser under "people." Or, the coffee shop au where they hate each other. Until they don't.

So cute. Dramatic musical theatre major Kaiser and fed up minimum wage worker Isagi. Brilliant characterisation. Love the dialogue between Kaiser and Isagi and their snarky-ness.

Kintsukuroi by laylayli

Mature | Completed | 54.3k words | 3/3

Processing Grief | Kaiser-Centric | Mending Relationships | It starts Bad But Gets Better

'“Kaiser,” he starts to say, “I’m sorry if I’m overstepping, but are you really okay?” And he’s not sure, even afterwards, what it is that makes this his breaking point. Whether it’s the fact that he’s so far away from home, feeling like he’s unmoored himself from reality in this surreal, unfamiliar place, or whether he’s just so tired, so defenceless without the fire burning through him and its fumes obscuring the things he does not want to handle. He’s not sure, if it’s because Isagi is the farthest thing from a friend or the closest thing he has to familiarity right now, but he hears himself say, “My father died,” out loud, for the first time since he got the news.' * sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you have been ruined - ocean vuong

Kaiser meeting the Isagi family and learning how to accept help and kindness. Love Kaiser internal dialogue throughout the fic and the constant push and pull between enjoying his time with Isagi and his parents but hating how it reminds him of his own familial relationships, or lack there-of. (Ness and his relationship with Kaiser is also a highlight)

BACHISAGI

Like glass from Sandy Ground by Ethereally & @putsch

Teen | Completed | 7.2k words | 1/1

Aromatic Asexual Isagi Yoichi | Pre-Relationship | Getting Together | Post-Canon

Isagi and Bachira have been best friends for eight years, and pro footballers for six. Isagi knows how Bachira takes his coffee and how many charms are on his phone, is reminded of Bachira when he sees sunflowers or nutmeg in the spice shelf. Bachira can trace every freckle on Isagi’s cheeks and count the moles on his back like constellations in the sky. Isagi and Bachira are not together.

I truly cannot emphasise more how much this fic means to me. I have read it at least 6 times and have cried every. single. time. There’s a specific quote that sends me into tears anytime I think about it (I’m tearing up as I write this). It’s such heartwarming, comforting and beautifully written fic.

Orange Juice by totallyrottentomatoes

Mature | Ongoing | 63.6k words | 5/10

Post-Canon | AU - Olympics | Slow Burn | Unreliable Narrator | Angst with a Happy Ending | Implied/Referenced Homophobia

Isagi Yoichi returns to Japan in preparation for the summer Olympics for the first time in three years, and Meguru finds him again.

The pining is so strong aughhh. Love the incorporation of the original characters. My favouite type of post-canon fic where life gets in the way but the love never leaves.

Sideline Love Story by bogreport

Explicit | Ongoing | 55.6k words | 8/29

AU - No Blue Lock | Most Characters Are Professional Soccer Players | Slow Burn | Feelings Realization | Parenting | Light Angst |

While visiting his family in Japan during the off-season, 25-year-old Bastard München player Isagi "volunteers" to coach his nephew's U-6 team. Enter: the most high-maintenance crew of soccer dads ever to make a scene on the sidelines. Although one of the kids has an older brother who Isagi wouldn't mind getting to know better... Meanwhile Bachira, his arm and his heart both freshly broken, tries to convince himself that while love is fleeting, his monster is forever.

Eeek the kids are so cute in this fic. Isagi being head over heels and not realising it. Bachira developing a crush but hesitating to persue it having just gotten out of a relationship. The author mentions that the “fic's original brainrot form, it was more like a sitcom with an ensemble cast and short silly ‘episodes’ rather than a coherent story” which makes for really fun chapter and a real long slow burn feel.

MISC

Whipper!! by bigdamnher0

Bachira Meguru/Isagi Yoichi/Itoshi Rin

Teen | Ongoing | 15.5k words | 3/6

Bachisagi Are Childhood Friends | Angst and Hurt/Comfort | Climbing As A Metaphor for Self-Actualization or Self-Destruction (Take Your Pick) | Injury | Mild PTSD

Isagi was getting used to the shape of Rin's attention: How he jammed his fingers into Bachira’s back whenever his spine sagged without tension. Barked, “WRONG,” every time they made a move that wasn’t his exact flavor of climbing. Called Isagi’s latest boulder, “fucking lukewarm,” like he was some kind of underpaid undersecretary, delivering him coffee for the day. Still, Rin never failed to hold up his end of the bargain in this tenuous belaytionship: to show them some damn good climbing. The little flame in Isagi’s chest was back. It licked him black and blue. After a near-fatal climbing accident, Rin resolved to never fail again. Isagi swore he'd take the wind out of this pretty boy's sails. And Bachira? All he wanted was a soft landing, just this once. Going up and growing up; cord of threes and all.

Rinbachisagi and bouldering/rock climbing, what more could you want. The way the author writes is so captivating and such an easy read despite all the technical terms used.

I’ll Find my Own Bravado by cygnusknights

Bachira Meguru/Isagi Yoichi/Itoshi Rin

Teen | Completed | 9.6k words | 1/1

Post-Canon | Existential Crisis on a Christmas Cruise | Isagi Yoichi & Itoshi Sae | Isagi-Centric

Meguru and Rin are hooking up. And Isagi… doesn’t hate it, but he’ll certainly have an existential crisis about it on the trio’s Mediterranean Christmas cruise, where he runs into Sae and has a weird holiday not-hookup.

The platonic saesagi is definitely the star of the show. The small Oikawa cameo was also very funny.

Despite the Overwhelming Odds, Tomorrow Came by @icarianiscariot

Itoshi Rin & Shidou Ryuusei

Teen | Completed | 19.7k words | 5/5

AU - No Blue Lock | Suicidal Thoughts | Depression | Platonic Relationships | Absent/Neglectful Parents | Angst with a Happy Ending

"Rin," Shidou repeats. "Where are you?" "I'm—" and fuck, it's so embarrassing, isn't it? The Sae in his head sneers at how lukewarm and pathetic this all is. Begging for someone to ask him to live. "Um, I'm at the bay, up on the bridge. "Silence for a few beats, and then he can hear the clink of Shidou's ridiculously oversized keychain, followed by the slam of the door and his car coming to life on the other end of the line. Rin isn't okay, and the only person he can think to turn to is his shitty brother's annoying boyfriend. A fic on platonic bonds, little things that make big differences, learning compassion toward both others and the self, and coming to terms with being alive. More or less.

A certified Blue Lock classic in my opinion. A must-read even!

On a Wire by merulus

Karasu Tabito/Otoya Eita

Teen | Completed | 128.3k words | 22/22

AU - College/University | Getting Together | Panic Attacks | Fluff & Humour | Trans Karasu Tabito

As a junior in college pursuing his passion for soccer while also putting just as much focus into having a solid post-graduation career path, Tabito Karasu honestly thought he wouldn't have enough time for romance. And especially given how his last relationship had ended, he wasn't even sure he would be able to deal with that kind of stress; he wasn't exactly a fan of letting someone in just to get hurt by them. He would rather stay on track to graduating with honors even if it meant being alone. But somehow that goddamned Eita Otoya was able to sneak his way through all of his defenses, painfully securing a place in his heart. They had been both roommates and teammates since the beginning of freshman year, and by now they also had easily solidified themselves as each other's best friend. They recently moved into an on-campus apartment with their other friend Kenyuu Yukimiya, and life was good. Karasu happened to have feelings for Otoya, but he had had this affliction for the better half of two years so it was something he was unfortunately just trying to get used to. He tried to ignore it most of the time since Otoya didn't feel the same; he was straight. Sometimes it really didn't feel that way, though.

Part 2 of a series but it can be read alone (definitely read part 1 if you enjoyed this tho)

[curlygrant44]

u remind me of one of those really big scary dogs but hwen you pet them theyre lik "og8gyg hyes y i love you so much youre so awesome" no matter how awful the person petting them is

I'm not sure how to take this. Are you trying to say that someone awful is giving me attention and I'm just letting them?

*He laughs, but he doesn't sound or look amused.*

Oh...I get it now.

I really wish you'd all stop trying to make Jim into some kind of monster. No matter what the other Jimmys did, this one hasn't done anything wrong.

Trying to make me lose faith in him is what's going to get people hurt. Do you have any idea how fast things can go wrong if you start eroding trust among a crew on a long-haul freighter like this?

Captains with twice my experience have died in mutinies from less. Do you get it now? Your lies could get all of us killed.

Stop fucking with my crew.

[some-little-infamy]

Hear It In Your Voice

(For @mariknickerbocker from @rainbow-nerdss through @911actionforgaza) (Read on AO3)

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" Josh answers the call just like he answers every call, his tone calm and attentive.

"Dispatch, this is Detective Ransone," comes a male voice on the other end of the line. There's background noise of cars driving by and people talking, some yelling, so Josh strains to hear the officer's words. "I'm at the corner of 16th and Olympic Boulevard in Santa Monica, and there's a pedestrian hit by a car in the crosswalk. Driver fled but I managed to see partial plates, Tango-Sierra-One-Three. I'm off-duty, but this guy needs an ambulance."

Josh types as the Detective speaks, listening as they run through the typical rundown of questions they're both all too familiar with.

"There's an ambulance and police car en route to your location. Sargeant Grant says that if you wanted to see her so badly on your day off you should've just stopped in," Josh adds, relaying the message from the responding officer.

Ransone laughs on the other end of the line. "Thank you, dispatch. Tell her I'll keep that in mind next time."

The call ends, and Josh is left with a small smile over the exchange.

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

"9-1-1 what's your emergency?" Josh asks, fingers poised over the keyboard.

"I think someone’s breaking into my house," comes a child's small, shaking voice. "I heard the glass break, but I'm home alone. I'm not supposed to be, but my friend got sick and I had to come home early and-"

"That's okay. You're not in trouble. Can you tell me your name and where you are?" Josh asks, lowering his voice a little.

"Michelle, but everyone calls me Shelly," she explains. "I don't like Michelle."

"Alright, Shelly. And where are you?"

"Home. My mom made me memorize the address in case I ever got lost. It's 1421 Moss Street."

Josh types the address and only gets one hit - a small miracle.

"Dispatch, be I have a break-in and potential robbery in progress at 1421 Moss Street. Caller is a young girl home alone..."

Josh switches his mic back to the 9-1-1 line. "Shelly, how old are you?"

"I'm five," the voice answers. He can tell she's trying to sound braver than she probably feels.

He switches back to the police line. "Caller is a five-year-old girl home alone."

"Dispatch, this is Detective Ransone, I'm about three minutes away from that location and en route."

"Thank you, Officer," Josh says before switching the line back.

"Shelly, what room are you in?" Josh asks her. "And is it somewhere you can find a good hiding spot to stay quiet and out of sight?"

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and Josh imagines her scanning.

"I'm upstairs in my room. I can hide in my closet! I just have to move Suzie's-" she pauses. "Suzie!"

Josh winces at the rise in her voice. "Shelly, I need you to keep your voice low, okay? Whisper."

"I have to go get Suzie! She's downstairs!" Shelly says, and Josh hears the panic in her tone.

"Who is Suzie?" Josh asks, already typing 'possible second child in the home-' when she speaks again.

"My cat! She's my responsibility, Mom and Dad always remind me. I have to go get her!"

Josh hears the sound of footsteps and it takes everything in him not to be the one with the panic in his voice.

"Shelly, please, stay where you are. Go to the closet."

"I will! Right after I get Suzie," Shelly says. "I'll be quiet, I promise," she adds, as if eager to please both Josh and her own need to get to the cat.

Josh flips his radio over. "Be advised, Shelly is currently going downstairs to retrieve her cat. I'm doing my best to convince her not to, but she isn't listening. I repeat, the six-year-old girl is going towards the sound of the break-in."

"45 seconds out," Detective Ransone says, as much a confirmation of his location as a reassurance for Josh. "I'm almost there."

Josh hears a scream on the phone.

"Shelly? SHELLY?"

"GET AWAY FROM SUZIE!" Josh hears the phone drop, hears the sound of Shelly yelling and a cat meowing, and what sounds like a grown man speaking.

"Detective Ransone, I've lost contact. She... I couldn't stop her..."

Josh listens to the radio communications between Ransone and the PD. He hears the sound of a door being burst through, more footsteps, more confusion. There's yelling, the sounds of a fight, and the sound of Shelly screaming. Josh doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he hears Ransone's voice say, "Dispatch, be advised that the suspect is in custody and the girl and her cat are both unharmed."

Josh sighs. The sound of the officer's voice sounds like safety, it sounds like protection and relief. Josh makes a mental note of the name of the officer who made sure Josh didn't go home today with a loss on his mind.

"Thank you," he says, knowing he came dangerously close to letting that call get the best of him.

"Thank you, Detective."

The call disconnects.

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

Josh knows better than to get attached to the voices on the other end of the phone, whether it's the civilians calling in for help or the officers responding to help them. He knows better... but knowing something and doing something aren't the same thing. And feeling something can't be helped at all.

Josh can't help that there are people he gets along with better than others. He can't help that he develops a rapport with some officers more than others. He can't help it when sometimes hearing a particular officer's name brings a small smile to his face, while at the same time, a little extra fear to his heart when the calls take a turn for the worse.

Athena is one of them, in large part due to her connection to May and Maddie. But Detective Ransone is quickly becoming another. He just seems like he means well - like he's willing to do the right thing no matter the cost. And that should be all cops, but it isn't. Josh knows that. But it is Ransone, and that means something, at least to Josh.

---------

Josh knows that serious calls are the whole point of the job. Sure, it's mostly mundane things like someone losing a pet or calling in a fender bender - things that could easily go to a local number if the people calling thought to look it up instead of dialing the only one they know by heart. But every once and a while there's a call that only 9-1-1 could handle - and today, that call comes to Josh.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" Josh asks. Sometimes the greeting is so instinctive that he nearly answers his personal phone with them when he's off work.

The words that come through the phone are so low he has to plug his left ear closed to block out the sounds of the room around him, straining to listen.

"There are men with guns. We're being held hostage. First Bank. Broadway. I can't keep the phone near me so I can't hear anything you say. I don't even know if you can hear me, but I had to try."

Josh hears voices in the background demanding that cell phones be thrown into the center of the room, one at a time. The voices get closer, and then he hears the rustling of the phone that called him being pulled out of a pocket, and then a terrible sound that Josh has to assume is the phone sliding across a floor. Everything is muffled, but still there.

She must've slid the phone face-down, so they didn't see it was on. Josh can still hear - not everything, and not well, but he has ears in the room.

"I need officers at the First Bank on Broadway. There is a potential robbery in progress, an active hostage situation. The caller could only relay minimal information before her phone was taken from her but it is still on. Hostage takers are unaware I can hear inside the room. I advise going in sirens off - as of right now they're unaware any alarm has been raised."

Josh's voice shakes slightly and he curses himself for letting it show. Josh blinks and every time his eyes close he's transported back to when the call center was taken hostage, helpless and weak and--

Josh shakes the thoughts from his head the best he can.

"Dispatch this is Detective Ransone. I'm five minutes out, redirecting now."

"I have very few details, Detective," Josh says. "All I know for certain is that there are more than two men and at least one has a gun. I'm unaware of any demands they may have, how many there are, or... or anything, really. So be safe going in there, okay?"

Josh knows he's crossing a line, but he can't help it. He hates sending officers into situations when he should have the information they need to do their job and he doesn't, even when it's no fault of his own. He didn't get to speak with the caller at all, let alone ask the right questions, or any questions.

"I'll keep listening to what I can and let you know if I get anything helpful," Josh adds, turning his attention back to the open line.

Everything is still muffled, and the sound of footsteps echoing through the floor makes up most of the sound that Josh can hear.

"If I don't.. with access to a vault... right now, I'm.... hurting people."

Words are missing, but Josh makes out enough to get the gist of it.

"Detective Ransone, one of the hostage takers is demanding access to the vault and threatening the hostages if denied."

"I'm here, dispatch. I'm approaching the building to see if I can see in any of the windows-"

Just then, Josh hears the sound of a gunshot echoing in both his line coming through the caller's cell phone and the radio Detective Ransone has on his person. Josh flinches.

"I'm going in," Ransone says.

"Backup is still 5 minutes out, we don't know how many are in there or if they'll-"

"Tell backup I'm going to try and control the situation the best I can before any lives are lost."

"Be careful," Josh says. The words come out before he can stop them. "Detective," he adds, as if the title might make the comment a little less out of place.

The next words Josh hears also echo between the line from Ransone and the phone on the floor of the bank lobby. "I'm coming in! I'm unarmed, and my hands will be up. I just want to talk!"

"Cops? Is that a fucking- WHO CALLED THE POLICE? WE SAID NO COPS!"

Josh tenses.

Backup is still minutes out. Josh silently curses these damn cops who insist on riding without partners.

"Hey hey hey!" That's the sound of Ransone's voice, Josh knows it from the others immediately. "Put the knife down!"

For a second, Josh feels like he forgot how to breathe. It’s all he can do to listen, imagining the scene unfolding, unable to do anything to help.

----

The second Lou feels the knife pressed against his throat he thinks he's going to black out. A noise escapes his mouth that isn't dignified, something closer to a whimper than a squeak. He hates the way his pulse races, his heartbeat jumping up into his throat, the pit of his stomach turning to lead.

"Hey, hey! Put the knife down!" Each word is spoken carefully, not wanting to accidentally push the knife further into his flesh.

The man does not put the knife down, however. He doesn't press any harder, but he keeps it right where it is against Lou's neck. Lou struggles to control his breathing, careful not to swallow too fast or make any jarring motions above the shoulder while he's in this precarious spot.

"It's just me. I'm unarmed. I just want to talk," Lou repeats. "No one has to get hurt here - not me, not you, and not any of these innocent civilians." Every word is slow and even, although he feels anything but steady.

"I don't believe you," the man says. Lou can't take in much - the men have masks over their noses and mouths. They're speaking in tones forced lower than their usual speaking voices, though he doesn't know if they were doing that before his arrival or not.

"I have no reason to lie - no reason to walk myself into a room of armed men - other than to help these people," Lou insists.

He keeps his eyes and ears peeled, reading the people around him the best he can despite the way his fear clouds his senses. He won't find himself unaware again, he won't make the wrong judgment call about someone twice. He can’t afford to.

There are no sirens in the distance. Whether that's because they're still following the directive to come in silently to catch the hostage takers by surprise, or because they simply aren't here yet... He doesn't allow his mind to consider the option that they aren't coming, because he knows they are. This isn't like before. He's going to be okay. At the very least there will be witnesses this time. There are people who know who he is and where he is.

He hates that it's a thought that even crosses his mind, especially because seconds later he hears the sirens in the distance.

"You said you were alone!" The man with the knife practically growls, his voice low, the threat behind his words clear.

"I am! Right now. Judging from the volume of those sirens you guys have approximately five minutes to leave before there are enough cops outside to cover every possible exit to this place," Lou says. "If I were you, I'd hurry."

There's a moment of hesitation, the silence hanging heavy in the air.

"You said this would be quick and easy. I'm not up for a standoff, man," says one of the others. He starts to make his way toward the door slowly at first, then at a run at the increasingly loud sound of the approaching sirens. After one caves it isn't long until the others follow. Lou feels the knife against his neck press hard enough to draw blood, wondering if it's resting against the scar that's already there before the armed man gives a quick sigh of frustration and takes off after the others.

Lou feels tears spring up in his eyes, tears of relief, tears of the panic and fear he did his best to push down and ignore finally able to wash over him in waves despite his safety. He allows himself a moment of unsteadiness before he wipes them away with the side of his sleeve and puts his mask back on.

"Is anyone hurt?" he asks, turning around.

"You let them get away!" A man from behind the counter points out, confused and indignant. "They took my wallet!"

"Oh, I'm sure they didn't get far," Lou says, smiling slightly. "I may have lied about the sirens."

Lou glances out the glass panes of the front door to see exactly what he hoped to witness- the suspects, nearly to the end of the road, are being pinned down by cops who were already here and waiting with their sirens off. Protocol. The sirens they heard were likely just another cop on their way to another call at the perfect time for him.

No one admits to being injured, so Lou takes up his walkie again.

"Dispatch this is Detective Ransone. No injuries to report and I believe all suspects are currently being detained outside. We're clear for backup and medical to come in."

It'd be hours before Lou leaves the scene, but he takes a back seat while the others work. His mind is too unfocused and too lost in his thoughts to remain focused during statements.

When he tries to sleep that night it comes late, restless, and plagued with nightmares that leave him jolting awake in a cold sweat.

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

There isn't much Josh can do after Detective Ransone goes inside. He directs backup to the best spots around the entrances and exits of the bank, advises on potential alleys or streets they may cut through if they run, and keeps his ears peeled for anything else he may hear through the woman's cell phone.

He listens to Lou's voice and hears the change that he's certain no one else in the room will notice… but Josh notices. He notices, and he tries not to think too hard about the way his chest tightens at the sound.

That night Josh goes to a Victim Support Group meeting. It isn't his first, and he knows it won't be his last, but while the other times were helpful to varying degrees he always felt like he was doing it just to be safe, to have a place to talk when he wanted to, not that he needed to. Tonight is different. This is the first time he's felt like he needs to be here. His mind's been on overdrive since the call earlier, unable to shake the memories of his hostage situation from work. It's been a while since he thought about it with this much detail, or since the memory of his past fear took over his senses the way it had today.

He's still shaky, if he's honest, when he goes into the meeting that night to talk. He's just as unsettled when he goes back three days later. It’s the first time he's gone to two meetings back-to-back since his very first ones.

Josh is no stranger to the group. He talks to some of the others before the meeting, grabbing the stereotypical cup of terrible coffee in a white styrofoam cup while asking about Chad's oldest who is going off to college this year, or Ginny's husband's cancer. Josh has been a pretty frequent face since his attacks, sometimes just coming here to listen and remember that he isn't alone in the way he's feeling.

When the meeting starts Josh doesn't speak first because there's a new face in the group and Victor, the group leader, asks if he'd like to introduce himself and say why he's here.

"I'm, uh... Lou."

Josh's eyes widen. He knows that voice immediately. It's strange hearing it clearly and not through the static of the comms, but it's undeniable. Lou Ransone.

"My name's Lou," Lou says, sounding like he's never been asked to talk about himself before. "I'm not much of a talker, but my Captain suggested... I got into a bit of a situation at work the other day, and it... it messed me up. It got in my head, and I guess I just... I don't know. I'm not good at talking. I won't tell this stuff to anyone, and I'm not sure I'll talk much here, but... I wanted to be here, at least. Is that okay, for now?"

"Of course it is, Lou. Welcome. You can share as much or as little as you'd like at any point," Victor informs Lou.

Josh wrestles with the idea of telling Lou who he is, wondering if Lou would make the same connection as Josh did the second Josh opens his mouth.

Josh decides that he'll just talk. No need to put Lou on the spot in front of all these people. If Lou wants to, they can talk later.

"Hey everyone. Most of you know me, but I'm Josh. Long story short, I started coming here after I was attacked on a date, and then my attackers proceeded to hold the call center I work at hostage with the badge they stole from me," Josh begins. "Recently, I was working a hostage call and it brought me right back to when I was curled up on the ground of my own hostage experience. I couldn't shake the fear, I couldn't stop reliving my own experience every time I heard a raised voice or a whimpering victim over the line. I keep telling myself I should be over it, but that sort of thing... it stays with you. And you have days when you don't think about it at all, and you have days you can think about it and let it go, but... it's so easy to let something like that take over your life. I've been looking over my shoulder again. I canceled a date I had set up for tomorrow. It sucks. It fucking sucks, but I always feel better talking about it here. So thanks, I guess, for putting up with me so often," he adds, mostly joking, with a small laugh to punctuate his last sentence.

As Josh speaks he looks around the group, but his gaze keeps returning to Lou. Josh can see the realization dawn on him slowly at first, then all at once when Josh explains the call he took for work. Josh offers him a small half-smile of acknowledgment when they lock eyes.

"You know we don't 'put up' with you, Josh," Victor says, shaking his head in amusement. "And we appreciate you sharing. Who's next?"

Josh chimes in a bit to react to the stories of others, but Lou doesn't speak for the rest of the meeting. Josh half-expects him to bolt the second the group dismisses for the night, but he doesn't. Lou lingers and makes his way toward Josh.

"You're the dispatcher from my hostage call," Lou says. It isn’t a question.

“I am,” Josh confirms. “Nice to meet you in person, Detective Ransone. I wish it was under better circumstances, but…”

“Please, just call me Lou,” Lou says.

“Alright, Lou,” Josh says, testing the name out on his tongue.

“Listen, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone you saw me here,” Lou says. “It’s just… all of this…” he trails off, struggling to find the words.

“I get it,” Josh says. “No one knows I still go to these either.”

“Really?” Lou asks, eyebrow raised. “You seem so comfortable with all of this.”

“I am when I’m here,” Josh admits. “It’s why I come. Everyone else seemed to move on so easily, and I just… didn’t.” He doesn’t know why he keeps it a secret - they all got counseling, and they were all given the same resources. He saw a co-worker or two here at the beginning, even if he’s the only one still going. Maybe he’s embarrassed to be the only one bothered by it, even if it was more personal to him than anyone else so it makes sense that he’s still affected.

“My Captain is the only one who knows I’m here. Him and you, I guess,” Lou admits.

“Well, your secret’s safe with me,” Josh promises. “It’s a good group. Good people. I think you’ll like it if you stick around.”

“I don’t know…” Lou says. “I’m not a very open person. I don’t know if I can just tell a room full of strangers how it feels to have a knife pulled on me again after-” Lou cuts off abruptly as if catching himself about to be vulnerable and thinking better of it.

“Or you could start by just talking to me, maybe? Over drinks?” Josh asks. He doesn’t know where the sudden rush of boldness comes from, but he embraces it in the moment. “Or maybe just better coffee than this stuff? You don’t even have to talk about the call. We can just… talk.”

Lou considers the offer, then nods once. “Yeah. I can do that,” he says. “I think I’d like that, actually.”

They understand each other, to some extent. They know each other, maybe not in person, but through situations that create a stronger bond than simply hanging out. They get each other on a level deeper than surface coworker interactions…

Josh isn’t sure if Lou’s agreeing because he needs someone to talk to, or because he feels the same connection that Josh does. Either way, this is the start of something new, and it’s a road that Josh is eager to follow and see where it leads.

[ravenclawshermione]

DC Fanfic - Thorne: Origin

Since I'll be posting a new Calla-centric fic on Thursday 9/3, I wanted to share my existing works for her leading up to then! ^-^

She's been such a fun character to write, and this fic is where everything starts for her. The story of her return to Gotham, gaining her powers, and her very first team up with the Red Hood.

“My name is Rebecca Johnson, I’m calling in regards to Iris Carr. Is this Calla?”

The air was suddenly still, every impossibly loud noise falling away to silence. It had been a few weeks since I’d last spoken to my grandma, but she’d sounded fine. She’d been fine. Sure, she was getting a bit older, but… I glanced down the hallway to the picture of the two of us in her garden, back when I was still just a kid. I thought we would have more time. Thought I’d go back, someday.

“This is Calla,” I said numbly, “How… How did it happen?”

“I’m so sorry,” her voice was still strained, but there was a kindness in it that cut like a knife, “If it’s any comfort, it was in her sleep. The doctor said that it was fast and painless.”

I couldn’t find the words to say. It all felt like some horrible dream.

“I know that this is a little sudden, but she left very explicit instructions that you were to be contacted immediately. She’s left you everything, including her house. It’ll be a bit before we can get everything settled, but she… She wanted me to purchase you a plane ticket. She gave me the money for it months ago. Obviously, you don’t have to-”

“I���ll come. When’s the next flight out?”

“There’s one that leaves in about an hour, I know that’s probably too soon but there’s another at six twenty-five, I can get that all set for you.”

“Book the one in an hour,” I said.

After over a decade of avoiding my past, I was finally going back to Gotham.

[antilocaprine]

for the kiss prompts, frenrey, 36, pls?

(Kiss Prompt List)

Once I thought about this prompt in context of @melonsharks' Pirate!AU, I absolutely had to do it. This was supposed to end shortly after the kiss, with only a brief reference to what happens after, but then I wanted to write the cool climactic scene, and then I realized that the part after the kiss had taken up way more space than the part before the kiss. Ah well. Sometimes it's like that.

(Also, a savvy reader may recognize elements of the climax from a Redwall book, though I'll be danged if I can remember which one. I read all of them multiple times as a kid, so just trust me on this. It was a very cool scene.)

36: ...to give up control.

Gordon comes to flat on his back, and he must have only been knocked silly for a moment, because particles of wood and dust are still falling through the new hole in the deck that he’s staring up at. Through the gap, he can see a section of the mast and the sails, tattered at one corner where a cannonball took out a rope and tore the edge loose, sending the cloth fluttering in the breeze.

Overhead, there are pounding footsteps and shouts, but Gordon can’t focus enough to think about that right now - he’s too busy trying to pull air into his deflated lungs. His hook scrapes the planking he’s laying on, but he hasn’t got enough strength yet to haul himself upright. He can’t catch his breath - why can’t he catch his breath?

“Great shot, Bubby!” Coomer bellows from somewhere on the deck above, and Gordon relaxes slightly. He hadn’t realized he was still tensed up, and that movement allows air into his shocked lungs in a painful, burning rush. He wheezes a few breaths in, then kicks his elbows back and manages to push himself up far enough to see that there’s a spar of wood punched through his right calf.

“Where’s the captain?” Tommy’s voice yells, sounding more distant than Coomer’s.

“He’s right - oh. Oh, dear.” Coomer’s voice gets closer, and then his head is silhouetted poking over the edge of the new hole in the deck. “Ah! Hello, Gordon!”

“Is - how is he?” Tommy shouts. “Is he okay?”

“Now, Gordon, I wouldn’t suggest that,” Coomer says, and Gordon looks up from trying to yank the wood out of his leg and waves at him. He still can’t catch his breath enough to shout.

A cannonball whistles overhead, and Coomer’s head vanishes as another half-dozen gunshots ring out. The hole in the planks is partially obscured by smoke, and Gordon tries to set his left leg and pull himself off the spear of wood. It looks like he fell on a pallet of crated supplies which broke under the combined weight of his body and ten feet of deck, and part of the pallet is what’s currently playing peekaboo with Gordon’s leg muscles. Since the pallets are secured to the floor of the hold to keep their weight from shifting, this means that Gordon is effectively stuck like a bug on a pin.

Joshua collected butterflies like that, Gordon remembers, and the thought is enough to drive another gasp of air from his lungs. Joshua never killed any of the insects, but any time he found dead ones, he picked them up and brought them home cradled in the cup of his hands to add to the little box of wings beneath his bed…

“oh, shit,” a voice says, and Gordon’s head snaps up to see Benrey leaning over the hole in the deck, outlined in smoke and the fading light of sunset.

“Where’s your gun?” Gordon rasps, the words tearing at his throat. “You have to - fight back -”

“yeah, sure, right,” Benrey says, and hops down into the hold.

It’s an eight foot drop if it’s an inch, but the former stowaway doesn’t even seem to notice the impact. They’re immediately hurrying over to Gordon, peering critically at the impaled leg.

“clumsy lil boy, ain’t’cha?”

“Shut up,” Gordon hisses, hauling one of his pistols free. “Shut the fuck up - take this, and get -”

“nope, i gotta - you really fucked up big time,” Benrey says.

“It was a direct shot!” Gordon snaps.

“not direct enough to, uh, t’hit you, though.”

“Benrey,” Gordon barks. “Are there boarders?”

“uhhhh,” Benrey tips their head back and looks straight up. “no. they’re not, uh - not close enough yet.”

“I have to get back up there, then, to make sure they stay that way.” Gordon tries again to set his heel against the floor of the hold, but his boot slips in a mix of blood and what might be whiskey. What a waste.

“that’s probably - hey, you shouldn’t do that!” Benrey’s tone is alarmed enough that Gordon stops and looks at them. They’ve got both hands outstretched, one hovering a foot above Gordon’s pinned leg, and the other at shoulder level, like they’re going to push Gordon back to the deck - or like they’re monitoring another wound.

Gordon glances over and blinks, genuinely surprised to see a six-inch splinter of wood protruding from the meat of his upper chest. Maybe there are multiple reasons why it was so hard to catch his breath after the fall.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and sees Benrey nodding out of the corner of his eye.

Another shot whistles overhead, and Gordon curses again. “I’m the captain,” he says, probably nonsensically. “I have to - no one else can steer the ship.”

“i can - i could do that?” Benrey’s face is smeared with soot and sweat, but their dark headband is still tightly secured over their serious gaze. “i was, uhhhh first mate. first - first mate Benrey? maybe, uh - best mate Benrey?”

Gordon’s spectacles are chipped at one corner, but he still resettles them to stare blankly at Benrey. “...What?”

“i know how to steer the ship,” Benrey says patiently.

“No,” Gordon replies, and tries to haul his leg off the wooden spar again.

“no - wait, don’t -”

Something hits the railing on deck with a splintering crack, sending shards of wood spinning down through the hole in the planks. Gordon flings an arm up to protect his head, and Benrey ducks over Gordon’s legs as wood patters across their back.

Overhead, there’s a brief silence, then Bubby’s voice shouts “YOU MISSED!” This time, Gordon can hear faint voices yelling replies.

“Shit, they’re getting closer.”

“yeah, so - y’gotta let me help.” Benrey sits up and shakes the loose debris from their shoulders, keeping one hand extended to prevent anything from falling onto the wound in Gordon’s leg. Benrey does that a lot - Gordon will turn around and they’ll be standing there, one hand out like Gordon’s a fire and Benrey’s trying to warm up. He’ll admit it’s made him twitchy around the former stowaway, even after he cleared his residual resentment for having missed Benrey smuggling themself aboard. Even if they got Tommy’s help, he still should have noticed.

Sunkist gives a roaring bark, and there are several splashes like bodies falling into the ocean. Sunkist would never attack any of the crew, so that must mean the fucking Navy ship has finally closed the distance and has either sent a dinghy, or tossed lines over to attempt a boarding.

Gordon looks at Benrey. “Tommy said you got him out of Port Royal on a hijacked dinghy. Is that true?”

Benrey shrugs. “yeah, i guess.”

“This isn’t a dinghy. Can you actually take the helm of a ship this big?”

“yeah, i guess,” Benrey says again, which isn’t the most reassuring thing to hear.

Above them, the clatter of grappling hooks filters through the smoky hole in the deck. “Damn it,” Gordon hisses. “I wouldn’t - I don’t even know where to go, besides ‘away’.”

“i do,” Benrey says, and checks the splinter in Gordon’s shoulder in a businesslike manner. They swipe some of Gordon’s mane of hair out of the way to look at his back, then make a muffled sound. “uh…that’s probably fine.”

“What does - fuck it, I don’t care,” Gordon growls, and loops his hook around Benrey’s shoulder to tug them close. “We have to get away from these fucking bootboys, yeah? Just - get us away.”

“uh-huh,” Benrey says faintly, face flushed and eyes very wide. And Gordon’s been holding back a little, because he’s listened to Benrey’s singing at night and watched them play with Tommy and Sunkist and listened to them pester Bubby until he shows them how to pack blasting powders into explosives, and he’s not blind, okay? He’s seen Benrey watching him back.

Lines creak horribly as the wind catches the sail at a bad angle and the ship lists. Gordon huffs out a curse and feels his own breath reflected back at him from Benrey’s proximity. He reaches up and unclasps his locket, tugging it free and slinging it over Benrey’s head, pressing their lips together as he does to keep Benrey from noticing the complicated motion his fingers make to lock the clasp. He can’t lose the locket - it’s far too important, for far too many reasons.

Benrey presses back immediately, one hand cupping Gordon’s good shoulder, the other braced on the floor as they return the kiss with enthusiasm. Gordon pulls back and swallows, then tucks a finger under the locket and picks it up, letting it roll over his fingers to display the heavy back of the case. He flicks the tiny tab that’s hidden near the hinge, and a length of metal slides out with a soft click.

“whuh…that’s a key,” Benrey says, their eyes nearly crossed to focus on the locket. Gordon clicks the tab again and the tiny key folds back into the pendant.

“When you get to the wheel, there’s a slot on the back of the king spoke, where it meets the barrel of the helm.” Gordon lets the locket fall to thump against Benrey’s chest. “Fit the key into that slot and it’ll unlock the wheel.”

“sneaky,” Benrey says appreciatively.

“Cautious,” Gordon replies. “Coomer’s idea. We stole her once. Didn’t want anyone stealing her back.”

Benrey nods and rises to their feet. The shadow of their headband makes their eyes look like tiny pinpricks of reflected light in the darkness of the hold, and for a moment Gordon wonders if he’s made a mistake - but only a moment. Benrey has proved time and again that they’re on the same side as Gordon’s crew, even though they’ve been annoying as hell along the way.

“m’gonna go - do that. with this.” Benrey gestures at the locket, and Gordon realizes with a spike of delight that they’re flustered. That’s hilarious.

“Benrey?” Gordon reaches out and tugs on the trailing end of the sash that’s tied around Benrey’s waist, unable to reach anything higher.

“yeah? huh?”

Gordon smirks up at them and slaps his loaded pistol into their empty palm. “Fuck ‘em up.” 

Benrey’s mouth curls up in a feral grin, their teeth gleaming red in the glow of a sudden explosion from the deck. “on it, boss,” they say, then pause, and carefully add, “captain.”

“Finally,” Gordon snorts. “Knew I could get that out of you eventually.”

“more where that came from,” Benrey says, and then makes a standing leap for the edge of the splintered hole in the deck before Gordon can parse what the hell they meant by that.

In a surprisingly short amount of time, the chaos on deck seems to subside. Gordon can hear water rushing against the hull, so he knows they’re moving, but he’s surprised they managed to fight off the Navy sailors that quickly - unless none of them made it onboard in the first place. Sunkist’s immense head peering over the railing has certainly repelled boarders before, so perhaps it worked again.

Gordon hears footsteps trotting across the wooden planks behind him, but before he has to worry about drawing his other pistol, he hears Coomer’s cheerful voice. “Ah! Hello, Gordon! I see you’re still in a sticky situation!”

With his help, Gordon is able to prise his leg off the spar of wood without tearing too much more muscle, and they make their unsteady way through the hold, Gordon leaning on Coomer, to reach the actual stairs up to the deck. There is debris on the steps, too - the battle left quite a mess, and Gordon winces as his good foot slips on a piece of wood and almost goes out from under him. Coomer catches his weight without appearing to notice, which Gordon is grateful for.

“I’m not sure where young Bipple is taking us, but those dastardly bootboys are having trouble keeping up,” Coomer says as they reach the level of the deck, “and that’s all I care about. Bubby was almost out of bombs!”

“Bite your tongue,” Bubby snaps, holed up near the forecastle and hurriedly pouring dark powder through a paper funnel into a small container tucked between his knees. “I’m never out of bombs.”

“Good to hear,” Gordon rasps, and Bubby glances up sharply, eying the dust on his clothes, the bandage on his leg, and the spear of wood still sticking out of his shoulder, secured tightly with cloth padding. (Coomer had decided it was doing better to block the potential bleeding where it was, but Gordon was hating the fact that it left him with minimal use of his good arm.)

“All right, captain?” Bubby asks cautiously.

“Just fine,” Gordon replies, “as long as these bootboys stay back. Any casualties?”

“Not on our side,” Coomer says brightly, and Gordon leaves it at that.

They make their way across the deck, skirting the edge of the large hole Gordon was thrown through, and head for the quarterdeck. At the helm, Benrey is outlined in an eerie glow. Gordon blinks. The Navy ship is too far back to be casting that light, and anyway, it’s the wrong color, shining a sickly blue that makes Benrey’s skin look wan and washed out. They resemble nothing so much as a corpse, and Gordon stumbles to a halt, staring up at them as they shift the wheel slightly, sending the ship a few degrees to starboard.

“Is…that…?” Gordon starts, and at his shoulder, Coomer nods.

“St. Elmo’s fire,” he says quietly. “None of us have been able to talk to them since they took the helm. But they had the key, so…I assume that was your doing?”

“Yeah,” Gordon says, distracted. “I…gave it to them. Are we - do we trust -”

“Cap’n Freeman, you’re okay!” Tommy appears from behind the mast, and Gordon blinks.

“Do you know where Benrey’s taking us?”

“Oh, I, um…no,” Tommy says, reaching out to scratch Sunkist’s ears as the enormous dog wiggles around some rigging to reach his side. “But we’re in a, um, some kind of current, because they’ve got more sails but they, um, it looks like they can’t catch us.”

Gordon’s gaze follows his pointing finger. The Navy ship does, in fact, have a full set of sails up and belled out in the breeze, visible by lantern light even from this distance. Since Gordon’s ship has at least one damaged sail and is a smaller vessel to boot, there’s no way they should be running ahead of the heavier Navy ship. And yet, here they are.

Gordon looks up at Benrey again, who doesn’t seem to know that anyone else is nearby. “I’m going up,” he decides. “I’ll talk to them.”

“Gordon, I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” Coomer says. Tommy, usually Benrey’s primary advocate, stays conspicuously silent.

Gordon shrugs, then winces when the splinter of wood in his shoulder bites into his flesh at the movement. “Someone has to do it, and I gave them the key. I’ll go alone,” he adds, pulling away from Coomer before he can protest.

The staircase up to the helm has a banister, and Gordon leans on it as hard as he can as he limps his way up the steps. The air begins to feel charged as he nears Benrey, and he can see little sparks of blue light flickering curious fingers out from Benrey’s shoulders, from their clothes, from their hair. The entire wheel is glowing from this side, Gordon notes, and decides it’s probably best not to touch anything.

“Benrey,” he says from the top of the stairs, his hand still on the railing and his hook looped over a rope to keep him steady.

Benrey’s lips are moving, but they’re silent, staring straight ahead, eerie blue light dancing across their features. Gordon doesn’t know what to do. He’s only seen St. Elmo’s fire once before, on the rigging of a sinking ship during a thunderstorm, and they’ve all heard the stories of what it means. The fact that it hasn’t spread to the sails is immaterial - its presence says that one way or another, they’re all doomed.

At a loss, Gordon takes an unsteady step closer and raises his voice. “Benrey?”

That gets a reaction. Benrey turns their head slowly, like they’re underwater, their hair fluttering against the wind above their headband. Their eyebrows gradually come down as they make eye contact with Gordon, and when they open their mouth to speak, the words sound like they’re coming from very far away.

“oh…hey…you’re up. cool,” Benrey says, and starts to turn back to face the wheel. Behind them, the Navy ship fires a single shot - they must have dragged one of the guns around to face forward. Maybe Bubby’s taunting struck a nerve. The shot whistles harmlessly through the night and splashes down well aft of the ship’s stern. Benrey frowns again.

“s’not very…nice,” they say quietly, and Gordon watches a line of bright blue lightning flicker from their shoulder over the railing. He turns and sees it streaking across the water until it reaches the place the cannonball splashed down, where it leaps from the dark sea and follows an arc back toward the Navy ship, as if it’s tracing the shot’s path in reverse.

When it lands, there’s the distant sound of an explosion, and several screams. Benrey smirks, and doesn’t look back.

“What the fuck is going on?” Gordon rasps, dust and smoke still thick in his throat and feeling thicker. This is - this is magic, or religion, or something, and he’s not prepared for it today. Tonight. Whatever.

“don’t worry about it,” Benrey says, and their voice sounds clearer, though they still face forward, both hands on the wheel. Gordon’s locket gleams bright gold on their chest, somehow untouched by the blue-violet glow of the St. Elmo’s fire that wreathes the rest of Benrey’s body.

“Where are we going?” Gordon asks unsteadily.

Benrey’s lips curl up in a smile, their teeth gleaming and sharp. “a trap,” they reply, and raise one hand to point, blue lightning flickering around their wrist and fingers like playful snakes.

Gordon turns to look, squinting his eyes to see through the ambient glow. Far ahead, but getting closer, there is a shadow on the water, what looks like a hole sunk into the sea…

His mouth goes dry. “Is that a maelstrom?”

“...dunno what that is,” Benrey says after a moment. “s’a whirlpool, though.”

“That’s what a maelstrom is, man.” Mesmerized, Gordon steps forward and his leg gives out, sending him crashing toward the railing in front of the helm. He forgets that it’s currently flickering with blue light and reaches out to catch himself, jarring his shoulder and his leg in the act and gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.

Benrey makes an unhappy noise, but Gordon can’t look at him yet - he’s too busy staring at the flickers of blue-violet light that are dancing across his knuckles on the railing. It doesn’t feel like anything, which is a surprise - but this close, he can hear a faint crackling, like a distant fire burning hot pine logs. He stumbles away anyway, and feels Benrey’s hand in the small of his back when he does.

“sorry,” Benrey mumbles, pushing him gently back toward the stair railing. “might wanna…hold on.”

A single thread of blue light stays anchored to Gordon when Benrey pulls their hand away to return it to the wheel and Gordon stares as it flickers around the curve of his hook, the other end jumping between Benrey’s shoulder and their forearm. It looks like a bolt of lightning in miniature, jagged and jolting, but it still doesn’t hurt.

“TOMMY!” Benrey bellows, and Gordon twitches. “HANG ON TO SOMETHING!”

“Aye aye!” Tommy yelps from below, and Gordon can hear him shouting it up to Coomer and Bubby. Benrey does something with the wheel and reaches up - and finally, several fingers of blue light dart up to dance through the rigging and skip along the sails. The ship slows, and Gordon can hear startled shouts from the Navy vessel.

“Benrey, you can’t run us into that,” Gordon says. “It’ll - maelstroms aren’t big enough to eat a ship, but it could tear the hull apart and put us in the water anyway, and that’s basically the same fucking thing.”

“this one’s big enough,” Benrey says, then adds “i made sure of it.”

What? Gordon stares at them. “What? What does that mean?”

Benrey shrugs. “means i made sure of it,” they say, then send the wheel into a rattling spin. The rudder creaks and the ship lists hard to port just as they reach the edge of the vortex’s current.

Gordon looks over the railing at it, and abruptly realizes that what he was looking at was an actual hole in the ocean, still quite distant. He’s never seen a maelstrom this big, and certainly not one in the middle of the sea, with no land to knock about strange currents that might build something like this.

“Holy hell,” he whispers as the hull shudders and settles into the groove of the spinning current, slingshotting them around the edge of the vortex. 

“something like that,” Benrey mutters, and behind them, the Navy ship charges forward in pursuit.

“We’ve got them now!” A posh voice cries. Gordon glances over his shoulder to see that the Navy vessel has closed much of the distance between them. Sailors holding lanterns lean out over their railings, but they seem cautious about firing another shot, and Gordon notices several arms pointing up at the blue glow dancing through his rigging.

“Benrey?” Gordon asks slowly. “What’s the light?”

“it’s, uh…helping,” Benrey says, their voice sounding distant again. “don’t mess with it.”

“How the fuck would I do that?” Gordon starts, then has to slam his hook into the banister as the ship abruptly lists hard to starboard. “What - did we just hit something?”

“no. s’fine. don’t worry about it,” Benrey says quickly. The black hole of the maelstrom’s mouth is getting closer, frothing white water at the edge marked by moonlight and the mix of lantern light and violet witchlight before it drops away into darkness.

“Benrey?” Tommy’s voice quavers from somewhere on the quarterdeck. “We’re getting awfully close…”

“it’s fine!” Benrey calls down. “don’t - it’s okay!”

“Okay!” Tommy replies, and Gordon can hear the relieved smile in his voice. Just like that, huh? But Tommy’s always been trusting. Gordon is less so.

“If you wreck my ship I’ll - I’ll drown you,” he says, which is probably rude in the situation, but tempers are high.

“like t’see you try,” Benrey mutters, then spins the wheel again as the Navy ship pulls broadside across the mouth of the vortex. 

“Oh, shit - TAKE COVER!” Gordon bellows, but it’s too late - he already sees the flashes of light from the Navy guns going off. Fuck, have they even reloaded their own guns? Bubby and Coomer probably took care of that, but -

Gordon’s train of thought screams to a halt, then cataclysmically derails. There is…something…rising out of the black maw of the maelstrom, and it’s caught the cannonballs and flung them back  somehow. He can’t exactly tell how, because the…thing…is as dark as the mouth of the vortex itself, and he can only see it where it blocks the light from the Navy ship. Even then, his mind struggles to perceive what he’s looking at - is it some sort of curtain? A feral whale? Is it a serpent? Is it Scylla herself, rising from the depths of Charybdis to hunt for human blood?

“don’t worry about it,” Benrey says sharply, and the wheel clacks as it spins in its housing and their bowsprit swings away from the whirlpool.

Somehow, the current lets them go. It should be impossible, but the sea clears ahead of them, and Gordon’s pretty sure he sees flickers of green and blue lights along the edges of the still water, like the reflection of lanterns lining an avenue.

“Did they miss again?” Bubby’s voice comes from below, and Gordon realizes with a start that, because he told them to take cover, none of them saw the thing that rose from the maelstrom.

“Oh dear,” Coomer says softly, and Gordon spins to look back beyond the stern just in time to see the lights on the Navy ship go dark one by one, the mast tilting as the vessel begins to drop prow-first into the vortex. The rush of the current seems muted, and the Navy ship is quiet and dark as it slips out of sight beneath the waves with a faint rush of cracking wood and creaking ropes.

Gordon breathes very carefully for a few moments, thinking hard. There’s still witchlight dancing around Benrey, but the flickers of blue that had leapt so energetically into the rigging and sails have returned to the helm and seem rather subdued, as if they’re dogs expecting a scolding. Gordon watches one dart close to his hook before it appears to think better of it and lunges back to Benrey, instead.

Gordon shakes his head. St. Elmo’s fire doesn’t think anything. It’s not alive. No one knows what it is, but they know it’s not that. Although...Gordon thought he knew that maelstroms couldn’t get big enough to destroy a sloop, let alone a Navy man-o-war, yet he just saw it happen in front of him. And he’s starting to rethink his initial dismissal of Benrey’s statement that they aren’t human in light of this…well, light. And everything else, of course.

The thread of blue connecting him to Benrey jitters as Gordon steps toward them. They take a step back, but keep one hand on the wheel, looking worried.

“are we, uh…was that okay?”

“That was brilliant, Benrey!” Coomer shouts from the staircase. Gordon swings around to glare at him, and he hurries back down the stairs with a chortle.

“are we…okay?” This sounds even more hesitant.

Gordon steps up next to them and sets his hand on a spoke opposite to the one Benrey’s holding. Their gaze flicks down, then back up to Gordon’s face, and they swallow. Slowly, Gordon reaches out with his now completely glowing hook and gently taps Benrey’s chest. There’s a bzzt like static discharge, and their hair stands on end for a moment before flopping back into its usual messy sprawl above their headband. Most of the unearthly glow around them goes dark, leaving only a few flickers of light across their shoulders like a glowing stole.

“That was pretty brilliant,” Gordon concedes. “But uh…maybe some warning, next time? I don’t know what the fuck I just saw, but I think -”

“oh shit, you weren’t supposed to see that,” Benrey interrupts.

“What did I see?” Gordon asks stiffly.

“uhh…”

“Do not say -”

“don’t worry about it?”

“You fucking -” Gordon lashes the wheel with a practiced sweep of his hand and lunges after Benrey, who takes off, cackling their way down the stairs. Tommy catches them on the quarterdeck, because Gordon can’t move very fast right now and his crew is nothing if not fair. Bubby and Coomer smack Benrey cheerfully on the back, and Tommy squeezes them so tightly that they squeak as Gordon makes his way down the steps toward them. Flickers of blue-violet light dance through the rigging, keeping pace with him as he goes, and he decides that if things like coral can be alive, then maybe light can, too. Especially light that knows better than to touch his locket. He smiles as Coomer steps up to reach for the dressing on his shoulder, now that they finally have time to breathe.

Gordon watches his locket bounce on Benrey’s chest as they laugh at Sunkist pushing Tommy over and sending all three of them sprawling across the deck. Perhaps there will be time for other things, too, if he allows himself that chance. He thinks of Benrey’s eager mouth on his, and figures that maybe he could try that again, to start with. They’ll have to see where it goes from there, afterward. But they’ve got time.

*   *   *

Far behind them and getting farther, where shortly before, a maelstrom devoured a ship whole, moonlight shines on smooth, dark water, broken only by the eddies of natural currents. Nothing lies lurking beneath the waves. If anyone came looking for a sunken Navy ship, they would never find it. The only evidence of strangeness is faint sparkles of green and blue light refracting off the surface of the sea - or maybe it’s just the reflected light of stars, silent and watchful in the vault of the midnight sky.

[reservoirreputation]

Dimples, Chapter Eight

Epilogue

One Year Later

Freddy repeats his daily ritual.

It’s a beautiful, mild day. A little cloud cover, sun regularly peaking out to say hi. Warm breeze. He cycles to the usual, sleepy convenience store. His stomping grounds are quiet, local, away from the highly touristy areas. These parts of the islands aren’t as well-cared for, as anyone who lives in a travel-destination or big city or coastal town etc. will attest to. The local government only cares about the pretty parts. It’s hard to believe that that is the case here, too, because all of Hawaii is gorgeous. Areas like this are where most of the locals live, as well.

Freddy and Larry initially kept their heads down. Found an inexpensive rental, made payments on time, didn’t wreck the property. It was a low bar to meet, but in keeping their noses clean, they make it. They buy local groceries, eat better and healthier than ever, even left smoking for once a week. Drinking is cut down, only one beverage a night. There’s so little stress in their lives, they don’t need such distractions.

Freddy’s daily trips to the store are two-fold; grab something they’ve run out of, which is occasional, to grabbing that morning’s paper, somewhat for himself, mostly to leave with having purchased something. The more the locals see them, and associate them with good, frequent business, and a smile or two, the better.

He smiles at the clerk, whose name he doesn’t know, and the clerk doesn’t know Freddy’s, which is same-old, same-old. He says a bright and cheery hello to an older woman, whose car Larry fixed up, last week. She asks what kind of cookies the man likes, intentions clear. Freddy says oatmeal, and she’s beaming.

He grabs the paper, money ready. “Keep the change.” On his bike, heading home.

Larry’s making breakfast burritos when Freddy walks in. The tortillas are warming over the griddle, veggies cooked and set aside, scrambled eggs nearly done. “Anything new?” he asks.

Freddy gives him a quick peck on the cheek. “About to look, myself.”

Larry turns his head for a proper kiss. Freddy grins, obliging.

Freddy sits down at their little kitchen table, opens the paper, goes right for the classifieds. He scans the page carefully. It’s been months since the last message, which was not unusual. There was no set schedule, so he just needed to keep a close eye on things. He spots it, towards the bottom right of the paper.

“Got ‘im.” he reads, “‘Violet sends regards to Creamsicle. All is well. Be in touch, soon.’”

Larry chuckles, setting the pan aside, “Where the hell does he come up with stuff like that?”

“No clue, Mr. Banner.”

Larry is leaning over, looking at the message for himself, “You think he’s coming to visit?”

“Who knows. It’s not like we have to do much to tidy up, around here.” Freddy says, referring to their distinct lack of personal belongings. It wasn’t unusual for people to move from the mainland with so little; it was lighter, cheaper, and you normally made a good chunk of change selling off your stuff, all going towards the move. Freddy looks up, “Don’t you want him to come over?”

Larry considers, “I’ll tolerate him.” he smirks, leans over and kisses Freddy’s forehead.

THE END

{Previous chapter}

https://www.tumblr.com/reservoirreputation/757458764122259456/dimples-chapter-seven?source=share

[soulsbetrayed]

//starter call feat. durga? do expect a good bit of nonsense from a tired forty something year old

[thejadecount]

So like Cup’s Sep! Leo would totally be jealous of the other Leos right?

TMNT AU Competition Masterpost

Because don’t get me wrong a lot (if not all) of the other Rise Leos in the comp had it rough but DAMN many of them still joke around (even though a lot could be acting to cover trauma and shit) and smile a lot while he’s always being serious.

Now Cup recently just said her Sep Leo acted serious for a long time and didn’t start joking and being witty until he got super comfortable so he’s almost like the opposite, the antithesis (am I using that correctly?) of the Leos (at least the Rise ones). Instead of joking less as he gets more comfortable opening up to his brothers it’s the exact opposite.

Anyways, I feel like before understanding that a lot of the other Leos went through a lot of stuff, he’d be at least somewhat pissed off. Here he’s been Two, working for the Foot Clan under the influence of a memory-distorting drug and magic his entire life while some only recently got traumatized (B.E.A.S.T., DFTM, etc).

Of course I have no say on how he ACTUALLY would feel (bc I don’t control the AU duh) but least to say he’d be somewhat irritated by them, kinda a lot like the Future Leos.

I can almost imagine a scene where his older brother Raph or even heck a Future Leo like OMO talks to him about it. The large complex all the AUs are housing at are big. There’s a rooftop. Sep! Leo is sitting on the edge and looking out to the night sky like the main character Edgelord™️ he thinks he is. Earlier he had gotten an earful of the other Leos and snapped, maybe insulting one or heck even punching them. He ran away up to rooftop in defense before he could hear it from Raph. However said Raph (or maybe a Future Leo or screw it they both run into each other going up to talk to him and decide to talk to him together) comes up anyway. Eventually after some back-and-forth and arguing Sep! Leo snaps, saying that it isn’t fair. They get to be all carefree and joking and blah blah blah and he’s stuck here all fucked up by the Shredder and Kitsune.

More talking. Soon enough Sep! Leo gets it that the other versions of him didn’t have a such a great rock-and-roll life either. A lot of them are actually using said jokes to hide the self-esteem issues and the trauma. Of course it isn’t his fault that he didn’t know that, but he also shouldn’t have been so brash to assume that he was the only one who had a lot of trashy, dumpster-fire stuff happen to him. He couldn’t try to compare their trauma and say he had it better or worse. But they all definitely had it at some point.

And through that it’s what makes him realize that’s what makes them all Leos, whether they like it or not: they get shit thrown at them, and they take it. They take it, and that’s it.

In that way, the other Leos are actually the most likely to understand him, huh?

[captainofmybigwetdream]

The Hate That You Carry

She was scared of him. And who could blame her? Worst thing was, he knew the look on her face, had seen that look countless times before. On his mother’s face. On Lenny's face. Had even felt it on his own face. Every time his father had taken out his anger on them.

Part 3 of Always One Bad Day Away (Part 2 of the series Billy Butcher - A Prequel)

Word count: ~5k

Rating: Mature

A/N: It's me again! Feedback is always greatly appreciated ;D

Tag list: @amethystpagan

"You know you really didn’t have to do all this, right? There’s no need to impress me.” 

Becca entwined their fingers as they left the restaurant, happily smiling up at Billy. Her cheeks had a pink tinge to them, but it was only partly due to the wine she’d had. 

“Whatever do you mean?” Billy smirked back cheekily.

“Well, we don’t usually go out like this. And you know I don’t need fancy dates, either.”

“Oh, but this is a special occasion, innit? One-year anniversary and all?”

“One-year… What? Billy, that’s not for another six days,” she laughed softly and tilted her head in question. 

“No, it’s not.”

“No, I’m pretty sure we had our first date on the 7th of September. We rented that stupid action flick, got Chinese take-out, and spent the night not watching it.” 

Keep Reading on AO3

[fic-ive-read]

Link To The Fic

[sortofanobsession]

Death is in the Details - Our Flag Means Death (Post Season 1 fic) Part 5

 (Ao3) Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 6

Summary: The search for the not-so-dead Gentleman Pirate continues. Izzy Hands still can't know. Stede and Oluwande have a chat about their search for Blackbeard. Jim and Frenchie finally get a solid lead.

(Spoilers of you haven’t watched the full season)

Author’s Note: Sorry this took so long. I have been avoiding the trailer for the new season because I wanted to finish this. The last chapter is almost done. Enjoy!

wordcount: 1k+

Warnings: Mentions of violence, threats, anger, resentment, doubt and depression. Typical Pirate stuff.

Chapter 5: Secret Hunt

"The fuck took you so-"

A blade flew past Izzy Hands' face and into the wood behind him. 

"Ask that one more time, and I'll have Jim here feed you your own tongue," Blackbeard stated. 

"You're fucking late," Hands asserts. 

"I'm the fucking captain!" Blackbeard snaps. "My time is the only time! Fucking mind your place."

Blackbeard storms towards his cabin, only stopping to give orders. He sends them towards a popular seaway that wasn't far from what little they knew of Stede's possible whereabouts. Any questions were met with malicious answers that boil down to "BECAUSE I'M THE FUCKING CAPTAIN!"

The crew had heard rumors that the Revenge was seen in waters it wouldn't usually be. Rumors that Blackbeard was more vicious and unhinged than ever. And that hadn't sat well with Stede Bonnet. So they kept going. Following every lead they had. To hear that Blackbeard had been seen with a silent and lithe bladesman and a sharp-witted pirate with an affinity for music in his company, more so than his first mate, gave Stede some hope that the Ed he knew was still there. He hoped that meant that Jim and Frenchie were more than okay. That they had not only Ed's trust but his protection and vice versa. That the people he was trying so desperately to reach were still together. He had to keep trying. If he failed, then what was the point of making things right? Sure, most of his crew was alive and on a ship because he found them. He doesn't have their death on his conscience. He'd made things right for his family and most of his crew to some extent. But he would never sleep well again if he didn't fix the biggest thing he broke. Ed Teach. He hadn't meant to break the man known as Blackbeard, but he had. And that was just not something he could live with. If he could fix the remaining wrongs with his crew in the process, he would. But Ed was his priority. He wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. 

"What are we going to do about Izzy Hands?" Oluwande asked. "Word is he is still his first mate."

"Best bet," Stede says, "don't let him get to you or kill you. Worst, kill him first."

"Not very helpful," Wee John points out.

"Well, keep an extra blade on you," Stede says. "Like Jim would. Or something for a fight. If Izzy Hands wants a fight, well, he'll finally get one. That better?"

That seemed to raise their spirits a bit. The idea of them actually possibly being prepared for Hands' treachery was good in their book. And even having the upper hand because Hands thinks they are dead. The element of surprise was on their side. 

"You know if everyone thinks you're dead, then so does Ed, right?" Olu points out when it was just he and Stede. "I know he thinks we are."

"I know," Stede says in a forlorn tone. "But we will fix it."

"And if he kills you?" Olu asks. "Blackbeard, that is."

"If that's what he wants, then so be it," Stede says.

"You wouldn't put up a fight at all, would you?"

"Fight Ed? Don't think I could if I wanted to."

"And you don't want to, do you?"

"Not a bit, no," Stede said with more conviction than Olu had seen from the Gentleman Pirate. That wasn't saying much since Olu hadn't ever thought Stede Bonnet was much before, not like this. 

"So your plan is to just keep going until we find Blackbeard, as we have since we got here," Olu says, gesturing to the ship they are on. 

"Correct," Stede nods. 

"Fight the crew of the Revenge, the same crew that was more than willing to kill all of us."

"If we have to, and I'll deal with Izzy Hands," Stede insists.

"You, you're going to kill Izzy Hands yourself?" Olu sounds skeptical at best.

"Well, he betrayed Ed, turned me over to the crown, and left you all for dead. Yes, if it needs to be done. I'll do it."

"Technically, Blackbeard ordered it," Olu points out.

"And that's on me, it seems," Stede says. 

"Nah, that was all him."

"I appreciate your loyalty, my good friend, but Ed's actions come from my betrayal."

"But you didn't actually betray him. Izzy Hands did. And look what happened."

"Yes, but he doesn't know that. Ed thinks I left him to go home to my wife and died. Can you blame him?"

"He left us for dead, so, uh, YES! YES, I CAN!" Olu snaps. "HE KILLED LUCIUS!

"Alright, that's fair," Stede laments. "And that does pain me. Lucius was my friend. He was a very good scribe. And he is gone because of me. I can't undo that."

"You really aren't going to admit he is a right bastard and made his own choices and chose to murder your friends," Olu says with a sigh. 

"I'm sorry, Oluwande, I truly am, and I'm trying to-"

"Yeah, yeah, you are trying to make things right. We all get it. But this might be one giant suicide mission. Because that ruthless bastard has lived up to his name. And his first mate wants your head on a spike and will gleefully watch Blackbeard gut you before you can utter a fancy apology."

"Colorful image, but fair." Stede agrees. "I'm not afraid of them."

"You should be!" Olu reiterates. 

"Probably, but I'm not. Izzy Hands cannot do much worse than he already has. And Ed, well, if Ed wants me dead, then I'd already be dead."

"He already thinks you are," Olu reminds him. The man felt like they were talking in circles again. 

"Exactly, maybe he'll be happy to see me," Stede says hopefully.

"Or he'll see it as another betrayal."

"Maybe, won't know until we find them. So keep up the good work." Stede says with finality. Olu shakes his head but goes to check on the rest of the crew. This could get them all killed but what do they have to lose? Their friends were still there. Jim was still there. They were already left for dead. They might as well get some revenge like real pirates. 

Frenchie and Jim continue to collect what information they can glean from the few ships they pillage as they secretly continue the search for their friends. Weeks go by until while raiding an English Merchant vessel, Frenchie and Jim hear a man lament about them being the second pirates to raid them and that they didn't have shit, so Blackbeard would probably just slaughter them all. But what really caught the pair's attention was when the man mentioned a key feature of the pirate's ship.

"What kind of pirate flag has a stupid full on it? Useless creatures," the man had said. Frenchie looks at Jim. Without hesitation, Jim grabs the man by his collar and drags him to Blackbeard. Luckily, or by Blackbeard's command, they didn't know or really care. Izzy Hands was angrily overseeing the lackluster hold and offloading what might still have value. Blackbeard had been watching the chaos from the top deck. The captain raises a brow as Jim kicks the man's knees, so he kneels before Ed. Jim nods at Frenchie as they keep a knife to the sailor's neck. 

"This man may know something about a certain ship we have been looking for," Frenchie says. 

Blackbeard narrows his intimidating glare at the man on his knees. 

"Speak now, or I will remove the skin from your bones while you beg for death," the Kraken threatens. 

And the man starts babbling and begging about things Ed couldn't care a bit about, and it was trying his patience. Blackbeard's blade digs into the man's shoulder with an angry growl. 

"You might want to tell him about the ship with the bird on the flag, the one you mentioned before," Frenchie tells him. 

And the man does. He tells them about how they were raided days before by a pirate ship with a blonde man who was asking questions about recent attacks. Ed's attacks. Something twists in the pirate captain's chest as the man describes Stede almost exactly as Ed remembered him. Almost. Again, he was described as less of a gentleman, but it was still undeniable. If this man was talking about this, the others might try and use this info for mercy. If Izzy found out that Stede and possibly the crew were alive, bad things could happen. He couldn't risk it. Ed pulled away to come up with a plan as Frenchie asked questions about the rest of the pirate crew. Frenchie genuinely grinned when the man talked of what was very clearly his mates. Jim even seemed a bit uplifted. 

"Kill them all," Ed orders.

"What?" Frenchie asks. 

"Izzy can't know any of this," Ed says. "We have what we need, even which way they went, this stays with us, which means…"

"Dead men can't betray you," Jim says.

"Exactly," Ed says. He mentally pulls back on the Blackbeard persona, runs the man through with his sword, and has the two throw him overboard before he leaves to dispatch as many of the merchant crew as he gave the word to slaughter everyone. Frenchie looks a bit unsure as he looks at Jim.

"Fucking bastard isn't wrong," Jim acknowledges. 

"We did tell him to keep up the act," Frenchie says. 

"Burn and sink her!" Blackbeard commands. A few pirates cheer. 

As soon as the Revenge is some distance from the burning vessel, Blackbeard orders them after the commandeered ship he was after. When Izzy asks him why, Ed tells him that there was something valuable on that ship that was taken from the ship they just sank. And Ed wanted it. That seemed to satisfy Izzy. Izzy sets the crew to work as Ed retires to his cabin. He sneaks into the secret room that still holds some reminders of Stede, and Ed laughs. He laughed because this was insane. He had found a real lead. He could find Stede now. He looks at himself in the mirror and scrubs at his khol-covered face. A few years fall as he scrubs harder. He might actually see Stede. Not long ago, he had thought he would never get this chance. But what was he going to do when he did see him? He would demand answers. But something twisted inside him again. What would he do if he didn't like Stede's answers? What if Stede didn't-

No, he would deal with it when he found them.

[not-your-chosen]

@sah1x1s gets a vampire for the soap because they’re both from Scotland!!!

———

It was… a formative time, being in LA for those eight or so years. Being something beyond normal for about two. Things were muddled back then, when she was first getting her bearings as a vampire. Thea made it better, but that was short lived. The grief of having a lover gone so quick still carried heavy in her body, in the way she walked on the cobbles of her hometown.

Turning right to get under the awning of the pub She used to frequent -if anything to just eat scrummy pub food while everyone about her age and older were drinking.- shaking off her umbrella and shrugging off the hood of the hoodie tucked under her coat. She foolishly didn’t expect the barmaid to be the same lady from her childhood but as soon as she walks in she was under her suspicious glare. “Saoirse?” The bar lady asks as she makes her way to the bar. “Saoirse McCallum!”

Saoirse is near tackled, a pitiful ‘oh’ knocked out of her by the hug. “Good to see ye, lass I’m sure you’re mother would say you’re a sight for sore eyes! She hasn’t heard a word from you in…”

“Eight years.” She answers as she’s ushered to the bar.

“Eight years, fuckin hell… she must think you’re dead by now!”

“Nearly.”

Looking over on her right she looks about the patrons, thankful that the bar was relatively quiet. Only afew patrons here and there, scanning the crowd she stops.

Oh no.

He’s… stunning, she can’t take her eyes away for more than afew minutes. This had happened with Theadosia too. The bastard that gave her this daylight disease seemingly passed down the trait of obsession. Beautiful people, beautiful works of art, architecture, music, even in her own experience, a very pretty Belgian shepherd could flip this switch making it near impossible to step away from a beautiful sight.

Then she recognized him too.

“MacTavish!” She calls, watching him turn. “You’re a right big cunt now, I guess that’s what you get when you join the SAS.”

[savebatsfromscratch]

We beat a hasty retreat from his lair. (Curtains fanfiction.)

Summary:

Harv gets accused of killing Jessica, but the information provided seemed to point to a different villain in the room.

Notes:

Yeah yeah, this is the basic thing to do. The detective is the villain!!!1! How cringe!1!! I get him though. Also these designs don’t look like the “official” actors, don’t worry about it. This possessed me. I was trying to write Pokemon fic and this happened. (Song title from Unpack Your Adjectives, Schoolhouse Rock.) Cws: Canon typical disrespect of dead people, Different Killer, Police Corruption, Past Murder, Murder Investigation, Homophobia, swearing Words: 2,039

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54855373

Harv peaked into the door, watching as Cioffi sorted through papers at the desk that had been set up for him at the start of his investigation. The large man, his hair a wild mane of brown that did not fit his distinguished title, had been all but buried in the new proof that Niki had scrounged up for him. Harv, still not noticed, frowned. He couldn't help but think that Cioffi's behavior around Niki was somewhat suspicious, and even if he hadn't already thought that thought, the bored look in the detective's eyes would have been enough for him.

Despite calling Harv down to be questioned, Cioffi was paying absolutely zero attention to him. He had been called down rather personally, mind you, for whatever reason the questioning downstairs with the other officer, Harv had forgotten her name, had not done the trick. But if it was the case that he had been suspicious for whatever reason, why was Cioffi so unfocused on the world around him? He seemed all but entirely unbothered by the violence that he was currently standing knee deep in.

If Harv was a detective, he might have found that suspicious.

Harv knocked quietly on the open door, causing Cioffi to jump in surprise and frantically reach towards his holster. He quickly spotted Harv, but not before the actor was half convinced that he was already shot.

“Oh my apologies my dear boy!” Cioffi called, his face having snapped back to troubled detective mode, “I got wrapped up in these letters, I can't quite seem to decipher them, please do come in!”

Harv nervously slid into the room, so lost in a sudden rush of terror that he was almost wishing that Randy was there with him. Being an actor, Harv was usually good at hiding his fear, but this time seemed to be shaping out to be an exception. His hands were shaking, thin fingers twitching like twigs in the breeze, and it was all he could do to hope that Cioffi hadn't been paying too much attention.

“Uh,” he said, slowly sitting down in a chair across from Cioffi's desk when the detective motioned for him to do so. (He made sure to hide his hands at his sides.) “Why was I called down here, detective? Just out of pure curiosity,”

He didn't want to say the words on the tip of his tongue. Did Cioffi think that he did it? Harv was pretty sure he was sweating bullets (ironic, considering the circumstances). He couldn't have!

“Well, Harv,” said Cioffi, sighing like this was more disappointing that it was important, “I've uncovered significant evidence that you were off the stage for a portion of Jessica's final moments... in the spotlight, shall I say,“

Harv had no clue how that could be important, wasn't the fact that they had all been on stage what made them suspects? He held tightly to the seat of his hair, stabilizing his shaking hands to the best of his ability.

But if that did point to his guilt, he had no way to refute it, had HAD been off the stage during bows, right as Jessica had collapsed. He had been ordered to throw a bouquet to her, missing his chance to get himself credit for his performance in favor of the actress's already inflated ego. Did that make him a larger suspect than most?

”I notice you've been quiet Harv,“ Cioffi said, his voice a deadly calm that was completely unlike the theater nerd that Harv had seen the man present himself as, ”do you have anything to say to that information?“ He clicked a pen in a way that was almost threatening, and Harv felt a shiver run the entire length of his body. He wondered if he looked pathetic.

”No,“ Harv quickly said, voice shaking like he had just gotten through with a painful run of Thattaway, ”I was just wondering why that was important,“ Cioffi raised an eyebrow and Harv quickly corrected, ”you told us that only someone on stage could have killed Jessica, right?“

Cioffi just stared at him, as if contemplating the best way to lie.

Harv swallowed. ”...right?“

A few more seconds ticked past, neither man moving. (Though Harv was pretty sure that he was the only one struggling to read his opponent.) Somehow, in this office, Cioffi seemed much more threatening.

”Well Harv,“ said Cioffi, placing his pen down onto his documents, ”I have gained sufficient evidence that the murdered may have been someplace in the crowd, and with your history I'm sure that you can see why that makes you a suspect,“

Terror thrown out the window, that comment was mildly offensive, considering Harv had never even contemplated making Jessica late to rehearsal by popping her tires or spilling a drink on her dress or anything like that. Okay. Maybe he had contemplated that, a little bit, but sure never as far as murder!

And besides, where had Cioffi even gotten his evidence? Harv glanced down at the papers, but they were the exact same death threats he had been reading on stage the other day, surely nothing new could have been gained from that!

“What history?” Harv whispered, almost numb, "I promise that I didn't kill her, I swear it,” -before they were even out of his mouth, Harv was already regretting his next words, but somehow they slipped out anyway- “on my life,”

Cioffi chuckled, and the barrel of his gun shone in the light of the office. “That's a heavy statement in a situation like this, do you really mean it?”

“I didn't kill her,”

“Oh?” Cioffi leaned a little closer on the desk, his teeth sparkling like a wild animal's as he stared into Harv's eyes. “I've heard lots of stories about you, you're rather untrustworthy, if they are to be believed,”

Harv felt frozen in his chair as Cioffi leaned back and smiled. Who had said he was untrustworthy? 

“Are you wondering who gave me that little tidbit of information?” Cioffi asked, back to smiling calmly, as if this was all some sort of show to him, “I bet I would be if I was in your shoes,”

Harv bit his lip in some sort of effort to suppress a whine or terror. (It didn't work, of course.) He did wonder, but what he really wanted to know was why Cioffi was so convinced he had killed a girl that he could hardly care less about. It wasn't that he wanted this show to keep going, and Cioffi knew that, so why would he kill the problem with it?

“Or maybe you're wondering what other evidence I have against you,” Cioffi said, his cheerful smile twisting into an awful smirk when he saw the look on Harv's face. (How had he read his mind so perfectly?) “You are, aren't you,”

It wasn't a question, but Harv answered anyway.

Or, at least his face did, anyway.

”Well,” Cioffi began, getting the same look in his eye that Aaron used to when he thought of a good way to push the plot along (if Harv had been the detective, he might have thought that was suspicious), “Everyone in this show has reason to have killed Jessica, and you are no exception,”

Harv had already known that, so he let Cioffi continue, even if the detective had paused as if waiting for a retort. ...or applause.

“However...” he continued, sounding almost offended for a split second, “in the light of recent information, there are questions to be asked about people off the stage-,” he still refused to specify what the proof could possibly have been, “-and as far as we know, you were the only member of the cast who was off of the stage during bows,”

Harv sank down slightly, thin arms now shaking just as his hands had been. He had never felt this direct of a feeling of terror before, but he didn't even try to move. He knew that if he left, he might as well have killed Jessica and every other murder in the past month.

“And before you ask about Sasha and his musicians, none of them could have done it because they were actually doing something important at the time of Jessica's collapse,” Cioffi said, sounding pleased with himself again.

Harv bristled, the wavy hair that had flopped into his eyes shaken out of place when he said up straight again. He didn't want to throw people under the bus, but if Cioffi was going to start it, there were lots of other people who had also been absent from the stage at that moment. ”What about Jenny?“ he pointed out, ”I'm not saying she did it, but she had complete control of the stage, and she wasn't there either!“

”The stage manager?“ Cioffi paused as if to think about it, but the pause was short lived, “ I don't think so, she knows too much, she would have found a different time to do if it had been her,”

Harv couldn't help but think that Cioffi sounded oddly like he was making all of this up as he went along. As if he knew much more than he was actually letting on, even more than a detective should know.

“What else then,” Harv managed, throat dry, “what makes me more likely than her?”

“Like I said,” Cioffi said, grinning, “you're untrustworthy,”

Harv stared at him. What was he talking about?

Cioffi frowned, thinking. “Though I guess I got that from someone untrustworthy as well,” he shrugged, now talking fully to himself, ”maybe they're both good suspects then,“

Again, Harv couldn't help but think that Cioffi was acting awfully calm if he really thought that Harv had killed someone. And what did he mean by someone untrustworthy? His informant had been untrustworthy? Why had he listened if he didn't trust them?

This last question ended up voice itself, much to both of their surprise.

”I don't trust you gays,“ Cioffi said, waving his hand like this was completely normal to say, ”Always planning something,“

”Excuse me?!“ Harv started, terror both masked and kicked up to eleven, ”What did you say to me?!“

”Don't bother hiding it,“ Cioffi said, looking surprised, almost as if he thought Harv was offended by being called gay instead of by what he really was reacting to, ”That I have absolute proof of,“

Harv stared at him, vision tinged red with a sudden rage. What kind of thing was that to say to someone? What did that have to do with a murder investigation? How had Cioffi even found out about that?

Cioffi smiled at him, calm, but now visibly hateful, ”You probably don't need my help figuring out who told me you were untrustworthy, then,“ he sneered, ”unless there's multiple people you've been picking from, that would check out,“

Harv's mouth fell open. His hands stopped shaking.

He couldn't believe he was hearing this.

What the fuck?

But despite the mess that his mind was quickly turning into, he had heard Cioffi's words. And he had been right on one thing, he didn't need the detective's help.

Harv felt mildly ill.

Surely Randy hadn't actually/thought Harv would have killed Jessica?

They sat in utter silence for a few seconds, but soon Cioffi's sneer had faded back into a cheerful smile. ”However,“ he said, drawing Harv's attention back to him, ”I am willing to make a deal with you, a deal to keep all of this private,“

Harv stared in numb silence, and Cioffi's smile twisted wider, almost reaching the brown mane of hair that framed his face.

“As long as you don't mess up this show, I'll let you go,”

Harv was in too much shock to register how corrupt of a statement that had been if Cioffi really believed he was the killer. If he had been in any mind to think, he would have even thought it was a little suspicious.

“And you are dismissed Mr. Fremont,”

It was a command.

And Harv listened.

He stood stiffly, swept out of his chair, and walked shakily towards the door.

It was only once he was outside of the office that he began running.

Notes:

Come ON guys. Cioffi is the PERFECT murder! He killed the person who was getting his favorite show bad reviews, and framed the person who was actually giving those reviews! The cast already doesn’t like him, so they wouldn’t question it! He killed Jenny the stage manager because she knew too much, and he was able to tell that the It’s A Business lady killed her husband because he certainly didn’t do that part! Doesn’t anyone hear me???? Also, if anyone knows what show I saw, you do NOT.

[gloomwitchwrites]

You introduce your husband as your "boyfriend" to annoy them.

Anon! This prompt has me screaming! I really enjoyed writing for this one because it's such a fun idea. Sure, our 141 boys might be a little mad that they aren't being called by their proper title, but you know they'll just love punishing you for it.

I went a little different with this one. Instead of introductions, I made it so that reader is constantly referring to them as "boyfriend" in public settings. Depending on the situation, introductions wouldn't make sense if it was with friends, family, or coworkers because they would likely already know that they're "husband" and not "boyfriend." So i changed it up a bit in that way!

Some of these fall into spicy territory without being descriptive.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, non-descriptive mentions of sex, fade to black, brief dirty talk

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon shakes his head and you roll your eyes.

“We can ask someone for help,” you suggest, scanning the massive wall of televisions.

Simon grunts and crosses his arms. “No.”

Sometimes Simon’s stubbornness is cute—even sexy—but right now you’re just annoyed with him. It makes you want to stir up trouble, to cause a little chaos just for the fun of it. Pouting, you turn, eyes narrowing to find an associate of the electronics store. When you spot one near the HDMI cables, you take off, not caring if Simon follows.

“Excuse me.”

The man’s head perks up. “How can I help you?”

You gesture behind you, your hand smacking into Simon’s chest. “My boyfriend—”

“Boyfriend?” growls Simon, but you ignore him.

“—can’t decide on a television.”

Simon is not your boyfriend. He’s your husband. But he’s being stubborn, not making a decision, and you want out of this store.

Shifting, you place one hand on Simon’s large bicep, grinning like you haven’t done anything at all. Simon’s hand immediately grabs your ass, squeezing hard. A warning. One that you ignore.

“I can help with that,” replies the associate. You glance at the man’s nametag. Jim.

“Thank you so much, Jim.” You lean against Simon, giving Jim your best smile. “Getting this guy to commit to anything is so hard sometimes, ya know?”

Jim makes a noncommittal noise as he walks toward the wall of televisions. You start to follow but Simon’s hold on your ass tightens, keeping you pressed against him. Simon leans down, his lips brushing against your ear.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

You elbow Simon in the side but it’s not hard. He lets go, keeping close to you as the two of you follow Jim over to the televisions. Standing back, you watch with glee as Simon is forced to talk to Jim. You stay out of it, but notice Simon’s gaze switching to you every so often.

You already know what he’s thinking. He’ll likely want to punish you, and sometimes those punishments are so sweet.

Once Simon selects something and the two of you are at the car, there is no safety net. Simon shuts the trunk and then you’re pressed against the car, your body trapped between it and Simon’s massive form.

“Boyfriend?” he accuses.

You shrug. “What do you mean?”

The growl in Simon’s throat comes out a groan. “Get in the car.” He lightly slaps your ass as you open the passenger door.

As you start to slide in, Simon’s hand returns, this time slipping under your skirt to find your thin, lace underwear. He tugs sharply, ripping the fabric.

“Simon!”

He stuffs the underwear into his pocket. “You don’t need these.” You feel your face growing hot.

Simon shuts your car door and walks around the driver’s side, hopping in. He reaches out, placing one large hand on your bare thigh. It roams upward, squeezing, sending a shiver of lust up your body to make your head spin. “When we get home, I’m fucking that boyfriend nonsense right out of you.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“I’m so sorry, but this isn’t what my boyfriend ordered.”

Kyle frowns and glances up from his phone’s screen. That’s your voice he hears, but the term of address isn’t right.

Boyfriend. Not husband, as it fucking should be.

Kyle glances in your direction but you’re not looking at him. You’re smiling sweetly at the barista behind the counter.

“It should be hot. Not iced. I might have messed up. I’m so sorry. I can pay for another.” You raise your hands in a placating gesture but the barista doesn’t appear fazed at all.

“No biggie. Keep that one. Won’t take me more than a minute or two.”

“Thank you so much.” You glance at Kyle, and your smirk tells him all he needs to know.

You’re being a tease. You’re doing this on purpose. The drink order is wrong, and you’re using this as an excuse to poke at him.

Kyle locks his phone and casually slides it into his pocket. Do you think you’re going to annoy him by doing this? Maybe. The little smirk on your face tells him that’s entirely what you have in mind.

But the joke is on you. Doesn’t matter if you refer to him as “boyfriend,” because all it’ll earn you is a punishment.

As the barista slides the new drink across the counter to you, you thank them profusely. “Thank you so much. My boyfriend will really appreciate it.”

The barista only nods and turns back to the espresso machine.

As you approach with the coffee, Kyle gentle removes the drink from your grasp.

“Boyfriend?” he asks, amused.

You shake your head like you have no idea what he’s on about. “What?”

Kyle laughs and snags the other drink from your hand. With shock on your face, he strides up to the counter. “Can you set these aside for us? Be right back.”

They only nod and continue working. Kyle snags your wrist and drags you to the little hallway that curves out around. There are a few private corners in there, and the hallway itself opens up into the nearby bookstore.

Kyle checks the handle on the unisex bathroom. Finding it unlocked, he draws you inside.

“Kyle,” you hiss, but he’s not having any of it.

Kyle engages the lock and presses you up against the door.

“You owe me an apology,” he says.

“For what?” Kyle tuts, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. “Get on your knees,” he murmurs, undoing his belt buckle with the other hand. “Apologize with that gorgeous mouth of yours.”

John Price

John leans back in his chair, agitation irritating his spine.

House hunting isn’t something he’s particularly excited about. He is happy that it’s with you, his wife, but the tediousness of it all is exhausting to him. John would rather have you select a few places to tour and then be done with it all. Money isn’t the issue. He just wants you to find a place you like and the two of you can go from there.

He’d live in a tent if that’s what you want.

“My boyfriend isn’t all that picky.”

Boyfriend? John is tugged from his inner musings by your voice and that term of address. Boyfriend. Why the fuck would you call him that? John isn’t your boyfriend. He’s your goddamn husband.

You reach out, planting a hand on his thigh. You squeeze softly as you always do when you’re trying to reassure him, but John frowns down at it, and then looks up at you. You’re not looking at him. You’re staring at the realtor, completely ignoring him.

John licks his lips, considering whether to correct you or not, or leaving it up to a simple mistake, but you do it again.

This time, John didn’t mishear you.

Your hand squeezes his thigh again and Price rests his hand over yours. His fingers enclose your palm and he holds firm. You glance at him and John shoots you his best warning look. You don’t even react. Don’t event blink.

No. He’s going to correct you. He is absolutely fucking correcting you.

The realtor pivots the computer monitor. “I think any boyfriend would agree that these are excellent selections.”

That’s fucking it.

Price shoots up from his seat, keeping a tight grip on your hand. “I need to speak with my—” John pauses, swallowing down his annoyance. “Girlfriend. Privately.”

The realtor shrugs, smiling, but John is already turning around, dragging you out the door. Outside, the stuffy, summer air does nothing to soothe his annoyance.

“Boyfriend? Fucking boyfriend?” John crosses his arms over his chest, looming over you.

You shrug. “What’s the problem?”

“Behave yourself,” he says, lowering his voice.

“Or what?” you ask in mock innocence.

So, this is what you want. John understands the moment the words leave your mouth. You’re fucking teasing him. Fine. He’ll make you learn.

“We are gonna go back in, thank the kind woman for her time, and then we’re leaving.”

“No. I want to stay.”

John leans in but he notices the way you glance away from him and back, clearly flustered. “Good girls don’t play games.”

“Funny,” you reply, head tilting slightly. “That as my boyfriend you have any authority over me.”

John pivots, blocking the view of the front door from you. “I will bend you over that bench so fast, wife.”

“You won’t,” you stammer.

John arches an eyebrow and you visibly swallow. “Want to test me?”

You pout, and then playfully shove him in the chest. “You’re terrible.”

As you turn for the door, John grabs your waist pulling you close. “You started it.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“My boyfriend and I are redesigning our bathroom.”

Johnny’s attention splits. The associate showing him floor tiles is a distant thing. He might be talking about the newest ones on the market, but Johnny is no longer interested.

Did he just hear you right? Did you just call him boyfriend?

“That’s wonderful,” comes a reply, and Johnny notes an older woman talking to you near the laminate flooring that mimics wood. “Where is he?”

“Over there,” you wave at him, a smug smile on your face.

Boyfriend? Johnny is your fucking husband.

“Sir?” prompts the hardware store associate. “What do you think of these?”

Johnny grunts. “Fine. We’ll come back.” He waves the man off and starts for you even as you continuously refer to him as your boyfriend.

You’re doing it on purpose. You’re doing it to annoy him.

And it’s fucking working.

Johnny saddles up beside you, snaking his arm around your waist, pulling you taut against him.

“This is the boyfriend,” you begin, smiling.

“Husband,” corrects Johnny, flashing the same devious grin. He holds up his left hand, showing off the simple gold band. “Happily married to this one.”

The older woman’s eyes round.

“She likes to joke,” continues Johnny. “Come on, love. Better get home.”

Johnny easily guides you away. He leans down, whispering. “You little terror.”

“Bite me,” you reply.

“Oh. I will. Everywhere. When we get home.”

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