#i love that she hat her bonnet over her arm and not on her head

[theflybitteneye]

WIP ROUND UP!

NOT FOR SALE!

To do:

Fix her hand (oopsie I broke it.)

Finish sewing her bloomers.

Finish sewing her blazer.

Finish her stockings (including a stump cover for her leg.)

Make her wig.

Make a hat (bowler or bonnet? Still undecided.)

Make her shoes (booties? Slippers?)

Make her umbrella gun (inspired by the real life Bulgarian Umbrella.)

Here's my thicc, steampunk, WW1 black-and-white, vaguely Silent-Era cartoon, one armed, one legged prostitute-assasine Smart Doll WIP. If that seems like a dense concept, you need to get on my level of neurodivergency, clearly.

The idea behind her is she's like, this "exotic entertainer" in a vaguely turn-of-the-century WW1 steampunk setting. She officially employed under the ruse of being something like an all-in-one, singer, dancer, conversationalist, "professional company and party attendant for high-powered men and women" escort. Soft, feminine, "silly," and physically disabled, she's actually a highly effective contract killer who gets away with it by acting like a helpless empty headed bimbo who uses people's own mysogyny and people's prejudice against her being obviously disabled and a sex worker to her advantage.

The kind of backstory I had in mind was that she managed to survive a bombing of her hometown when she was little that took both her right limbs and caused severe nerve damage. Due to an error in message decoding, her town was reported to be taken by enemy forces. The monarchy, taken by spurise by this development and panicking due to the geographic advantage of the localtion for attack on the capital, opted to hastily bomb it without any other evidence or confirming how the opposition's army could have taken the town without them knowing until now. They didn't know until after the whole area had been leveled they just blew up their own citizens over a mistake. It left her (pun not intended, but welcomed, ha) fighting to balance chronic pain and addiction to painkillers for the rest of her life, and surviving on sheer spite for authoritarian incompetence. She loves destroying the lives of high powered figures as much as she loves being paid for it. Because her ability to feel pain had been altered so drastically, she can take a hit, stabbing, and even a gunshot like it's nothing so long as it isn't lethal. The extreme sports of "when life gives you lemons." Her go-to weapon is her parasole that fires small poison pellets at close range, that can also be converted into a disguised sniper rifle by swapping out attachments. Her signature trick to things going tits up is letting herself get battered up a bit, than crying on command like a helpless girl. Pitiful as possible. She can hold her own in a brawl, but it's often more effective to let her targets attack her and make a big scene. Have them die slow painful deaths hours later when their organs give out seemingly out of nowhere in the company of witnesses after she's long been "saved" by her handlers. Assault being common for escorts in her line of work, no one thinks the wiser. Even if they do, she's just a "poor, simple, crippled girl" who just got beaten up by a client, how would that make them look if they accused her of fowl play?

I'm not really writing a story persay in mind for this character, it's more so just the fun of character development and narrative through character design, but maybe I'll use the idea somewhere someday. Really I just love that contrast of innocently dangerous, and wanted her to physically embody that. As an animator, obviously, that Silent Era aesthetic is something I'm living for. Osamu Tezuka is post-WW2 obviously, but the vibes I'm kind of going for is if he worked for Fleischer Studios. Blackjack, but make it Out of the Inkwell.

Her eyes are handmade and hand painted out of acrylic, and her body's obviously very heavily moded. I gave her much more generous cleavage, and tried to give her the chubbyiest thighs, tummy and butt I thought I could get away with, but, looking at her I think I might have been able to give her some more pudge. For anyone unfamiliar with the issues with trying to mod base dolls into plus sizes, the joints can pose problems when making it look right. I prefer dolls with more extreme figures and bodies and like the challenge and look of making dolls with different body types and fat distributions, so I'm experimenting more and more with doll "mid-sizifying" I suppose you could call it. Eventually I'd like to get to trying to do a full like, proper "plusizification." Taking a thin doll and trying to put like, an approximate 100 lbs on her if nothing for the joy of the logistics of it alone. It'd be cool to try it with a Smart Doll or Dollfie Dream, something with an interior skeleton. I think that'd be the best results. I think I might as well make body parts to fit over those endo skeletons from scratch, though. I only have Smart dolls at the moment to work off of, but if anyone is interested in commissioning some chubby to full plus-size Smart Doll custom option parts, let me know. I'll happily give you a discount while I'm just experimenting with all this.

Her head is of course also moded. I wanted her to look like she was punched, so her cheek is swelling a bit. She's a Smart Doll Journey if I remember correctly.

Her leg is a mixed media. Fabric, wire, metal, a pen. Those interior skeletons make Smart Dolls fantastic to put robotic limbs on--- extremely easy to attach. I wanted it big and cartoonish, the foot looking like a big heavy oversized metal boot, and also to look like a highly engenieered peg leg instead of a proper prostetic. Vaguely inspired by Hiccup from How To Train Your Dragon's leg, which the suggestion it's spring operated. You know, antiquated but advanced as most fantasy steampunk is.

Her tattoos are all flowers that have some meaning in Victorian flower code. The big one on her chest being an anemone. It represents a warning or notes something as "forsaken." Used to ward off evil spirits, disease, death, and bad luck. So it's kind of an omen of bad shit happening. A protection and a bad sign. Because I'm trash I'm tempted to name her "Anne Amie." "Amie" is the feminine word for "friend." It also sounds both like "anemone" and "an enemy" when run together out loud. That might be a play on words, punny name so loaded it might rip a fabric in the universe, haven't decided yet, but there you go. I might just decided I accept my crimes against the English, French, and flower-based languages. We'll see.

[gamma-gal-24]

9 with gaston👀

9 -- to shut them up.

OOOOH THIS IS SO PERFECT FOR HIM!!!! OKAYOKAY- HERE WE GO!

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

This had been going on for almost two hours *solid* now...

-"And then I said to Lefou- "No thieving bear is stealing MY food and getting away with it!" And so then I"-

   Poor Cherise, patient as she was, hadn't been able to get anything more than a nod in for over an hour. Now, she loved hearing Gaston talk, loved hearing him more than anything!.... But she had things to do today! Goats to feed, pies to bake! She couldn't do anything stuck at the village fountain listening to more of Gaston's daily triumphs, even if she was happy to hear them.

   A squiggly, strained smile seems to have taken permanent residence on her round face. She hoped that he'd sense that she had somewhere to be, that way she wouldn't have to try and interrupt, but any hints she gave went right over his thick head. Darting glances towards her cottage, attempting to stand before being told, "Oh, please, Cherise, sit and let me tell you about how I bested that giant boar!" Things like that.

   Now, she knew Gaston meant no harm. He simply enjoyed talking, and she was fortunate enough to be the one he liked to talk to most! She was so thankful for that.... But she could hear the goats screaming for food from across the villaige square. She was needed.... And he wouldn't shut up.

   Gaston just kept on about bears, hunting, and tavern drama(he called it "disputes" to make it sound more manly and official, but it was just drama among men,) completely oblivious to gentle taps placed on his arm to get his attention.

"Gaston...?" She's too quiet, he can't hear her over the sound of his own laughter. "E-excuse me, Gaston?"

Nothing. He's still chattering away.

Cherise's cheeks go pink, her lips pursed into a line. Her ever so vast patience it nearing it's end. "Gaston?" A little louder this time, but still no luck.

It occurs to her suddenly that this is cause for drastic measures. With a determined huff and a fluff of her skirts, Cherise stands on the side of the fountain, pulls her bonnet from her head to sheild herself and him from nosey passerbys, and takes Gaston by his yellow collar.

Cherise yanks him down to her level, soft lips pressing firmly against his for only a moment before pulling away. She's never been so bold- the whole situation catches Gaston off gaurd; a feat few men have ever accomplished.

Poor Cherise is mortified.

She drops her hat to the ground, her hands flying to cover her mouth and cheeks redder than her suitor's shirt. He's silent... She's only ever seen him silent when he was hunting or brooding in the tavern. Her heart's hammering, her shoulders shaking. Is he upset? Is he angry? Oh gosh, please speak!

Gaston blinks once, then twice, and finally turns to Cherise with a grin.

"Now, Cherise... If you wanted my attention so badly, you need only say something!"

At that she deflates, her shoylders visibly relaxing as she smiles.

Silly, silly man...

[who-is-shades]

raz dnd mini sesh 17.5

parsley yet again in eeby deeby. right in gods own domain lol.

god comes in and takes parsley goddamn. wheatley sighs and starts fixing up his body.

meanwhile eyes emoji the gals get out of bed wink wink anyways now we know what those arms do xD aftersex talk is always awkward lol. senna helps teya get dressed so romantic. zen being casual about it makes teya feel less awkward lol.

we head toward lil brother and hope parsley didnt go back out drinking. zen tells us that parsley is eeby deebyd again wtf. 'do you think its a fairy thing?'

wheatley fixed himself up pog! he has a tail cool! 'hey teya you match now!' we let him know he looks nice. lil bro is no longer drunk but he wants to drink again oh no xD SP is doing wheelies around wheatley going 'dad fixed!'

zen is taking us clothes shopping! fuck yeah! the person that runs this 'shop' is strange apparently. 'velvet and silk' are their names. clothes all over. 'i really dont think this is necessary.' omg android is being dressed lol. 'you cant just go around in just a belt.'

wheatley calls out to him and hes just like ugh its you guys. the other robot is 2 robots in 1! 4 arms, clothes making accessories and a real wig! wheatley wants to try on clothes for the first time ever! their so cool lol.

they measure wheatley as he t-poses lol. they ask what kind of style he wants and he vaguely describes some lolita fashion. android just looks tired. wheatley tries to talk to android and points out that he got fixed up. android is kinda dead right now.

wheatley notices how awkward things are and tries to break the ice. zen speaks up and says the robots are good at making clothes so its ok. teya is excited for what they come up with. wheatley wants it to be soft despite being unable to feel it. teya notices android is side-eyeing wheatley. she asks if everything is ok and he grumbles hes fine and stares ahead.

they come out with a big dress for wheatley! mostly white, bumped up petticoat and lightblue frills on the bottom. hole for the tail. blue frills and black and white lines on the sleeves that go down the shoulders like suspenders.

wheatley is so excited! 'of course he'd love it!' they help him into it hes squealing lol. teya and senna clap as he spins! wheatley asks if we wanted anything. senna says her and teya should pick each others outfits! teya is like 'you trust me?' with her farmers clothes lol.

SP looks up at wheatley and just says 'fashion.' senna holds out some hats form him but they all just fall off. she then shows him a bonnet that looks like a sky. wheatley offers to help lol bro get some clothes. senna and wheatley bring him stuff to try out. he just keeps putting them on together.

now their talking about why not wearing clothes is bad. senna looks at zen and teya for help. senna abandons the topic and distracts herself in a clothes bin. teya is looking for the most awful restrictive clothing for parsley as possible.

senna basically puts teya in eula's clothes from genshin lol. teya loves it and she looks great! wheatley does a cute girly jump with teya lol. the robots are so happy to make these fancy clothes! wheatley tries to put a tophat on android but he tosses it F. he then gives zen a cowboy hat and he accepts it lol.

teya puts senna in a star dress like from the stardance. senna 'appears' completely happy and dows a twirl and you can see the scale! teya asks how it felt and senna says its surprisingly lightweight. senna calls them professionals in every aspect. (senna is just a little self conscious right now she will like it later i promise)

senna asks what android is here to pick up. he says the seamstresses insisted on picking clothes for him. wheatley insists he would look great in anything. zen says we all look nice. he says it brings out sennas scales. 'thank...you...zen...' she distracts herself by telling wheatley an umbrella would work with his outfit but he says it wont work in combat but now hes thinking. teya says maybe a shield? wheatley says he used a spear so maybe.

we curtsy goodbye to android and go find a blacksmith. his name is smith of course. he pounds metal with his fists ala bismuth! shield spear parasol! he says thats too fancy for him to make he needs an artificer, which he is but like better. so we go off to find some!

we go into that huge building from earlier. zen says he doesnt really know them since they stay here and build stuff. balls of pure light and darkness merge. A FUCKING BLACKHOLE WTF. they shut it down fast lol. wheatley makes his offer. individual floating panels on the umbrella that makes a shield projection! it can fold and attach to the pole and a spear comes out the tip! when he throws it the flaps accelerate it! wheatley is enraptured. it runs on batteries so be careful not to run out. dont leave it around organics. (RADIOACTIVE WTF) dont let it go critical lol.

teya steps back a bit lol. wheatley wants to practice with his new fucked up weapon. shooting range oh no. senna leaves to go get a new mace lol. teya wants to wander. zen is like 'wait your not supposed to wander off!' and he goes after teya.

senna goes back to smith and asks if he can make her mace stronger. mace plus 1 pog! she gets directions to the fletcher cause she wants to upgrade her crossbow. names fletcher lol. he throws my crossbow and it explodes fucking hell. crossbow plus 1 pog. time to head back to wheatley.

cutting to zen and teya! shes being a tourist lol. she found the library! split in 2, one is classic one is futuristic. time to research the feywild! teya sits in the uncomfy chair lol. one of the books says the feywilds are always changing so stay on the road.

[cyanidepixistix]

Saoirse's Backstory Pt 1

Summer 3329 GPT

In a decently sized farmhouse on the far outskirts of Eiquora's capital city lived a rather large family of Harengons. The father, Cormac, was working in the fields with his eldest son and daughter.

Cormac pulled the straw hat from his head, careful of his long calico ears, wiping sweat from his forehead and watching Padraig guide the plow while Fianna drove the horse. He heard a shout coming from the house and turned to look. Dark brown and black ears belonging to Padraig and Fianna respectively swiveled towards the house as well.

"Keep working you two, I'll go check" he said, already striding towards the house.

A very pregnant, white-haired Harengon concentrated on the small bonnet she was knitting, trying to get the earholes just right. Pearl glanced up, looking around. Her second and third eldest sons were at the table, noses buried in books while her two youngest kits played on the floor. The house was quiet and calm. Pearl sighed happily for a moment before freezing. She looked over at her kits, counted them, closed her eyes, opened them, then counted again, still coming up short one mischievous daughter.

"Tomas?"

Her lavender-gray-haired son looked up, his violet eyes curious.

"Where's your sister?"

Cormac looked up as well, both boys looking at the spot at the table where Saoirse had been practicing her calligraphy. Tomas looked back at his mother and shrugged.

"I dunno Ma"

Pearl struggles to her feet to begin searching the house for her wayward daughter. Saoirse tended to get into to trouble when left to her own devices. As she came back into the living room, her husband walked in looking concerned.

"What's wrong love?"

Pearl looked at him worried and exasperated.

"Saoirse has wandered off again"

Cormac sighed.

"It's all right, you sit back down and rest, I'll go find the little scamp. She never wanders far."

Cormac gets his wife settled back in her chair, checks on his eldest two out in the field then starts the hunt for his little troublemaker.

---------

In the barn, a rather large lizard was on one of the rafters sunning itself in a patch of sunlight. It was completely unaware of the vibrant violet eyes watching and hunting it.

"The great hero watches the sleeping dragon, waiting for her chance to strike"

A young Harengon girl is perched quietly on a crossbeam in the rafters, whispering to herself, her weapon, a short stick, in hand.

She coils herselfup, bracing her fuzzy footpaws on the beam, ready to pounce when a hand wraps around one her tiny fuzzy feet, pulling her off the crossbeam. She shrieks, the lizard takes off running, disturbed by the noise and movement and Saoirse blinks up at her amused father after she falls into his arms.

She pouts up at him.

"Da, I was gonna slay the dragon"

Cormac chuckles, tucking the wayward kit under his arm as he carries her back to the house.

"A dragon huh? You know, you gave your Ma quite a scare, kit"

Saoirse tucks her ears back, instantly repentant, realizing she'd wandered outside without telling her Ma.

"I made Ma sad? I just got itchy and wanted to go play"

Cormac sighed. Saoirse got 'itchy' as she called it, whenever she built up too much energy and couldn't sit still.

"Well next time, make sure to let your Ma know you're going off to slay dragons, all right Scamp?"

Saoirse nods.

"Okay Da" she chirps.

"That's my girl"

He carries her off to the house, Pearl almost collapsing in relief when he comes through the door, their escapee still tucked under his arm.

Over the next few months, after a few more incidents of Saoirse's, one in particular sending Pearl into early labor, Cormac makes a deal with the local monastery. In exchange for some crops, he signed Saoirse up for some martial arts classes, hoping it would burn the excess energy and teach her some discipline. Saoirse takes to the classes like a duck to water and it keeps her wholly occupied for the next few years.

[steele-soulmate]

Tattooed Wings, CHAPTER 537, Peter Steele & OFC, Soulmate AU

SUMMARY: Mary Claire Bradley meets her soulmate- literally- the famous Peter Steele of metal group Type O Negative. But will obstacles including trauma, stalkers, and toxic family members get in the way of their life?

WARNING: mentions of child rape (nothing graphic) PTSD, milk kink, soft smut, grinding, assault, fingering, hand jobs, blow jobs, 69, P in V sex, blood, noncon rape, violence, death, vandalism, graffiti, attempted kidnapping, break-ins, wild animal attacks, terrorist attack (sabotage) consensual impregnation, bareback, impregnation kink, creampies, terrorist attacks (shootings) hit and run pedestrian accident, precipitous labor, neonatal death, abandoned baby

WORDS: 1253

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

I came to slowly, the obnoxious sound quickly driving me close to insane.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

But such a serine feeling of safety and love was next to me, just a little to my left.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

I wrenched my eyes open, and my eyes saw a truly magnificent sight.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

One Peter Thomas Ratajczyk was wearing only a pair of extremely loose sweatpants and a band for an IV wrapped around his forehead. He was shirtless, cradling three tiny babies across the vast plain of pure manliness.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

They are so beautiful, my love.

“Yes, they are, sweetheart,” he rumbled, leaning over to press a simple kiss to my forehead. “You had everyone scared for a while.”

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

Why?

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“Your blood pressure was through the roof,” he explained as one of the babies, donned in a blue bonnet, green socks and a diaper, let out an adorable yawn, a tube in his nose for easy feedings. “Once I got into the operating theater, you calmed down enough so that the doctor could perform the surgery.”

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

How long have I been asleep?

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“Twenty three hours,” Peter told me after glancing at the clock. “Isabelle took the kids home last night and they’re all waiting out in the waiting room for you to be awake and give them the okay to come in.”

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

Yeah. Okay. They can come in now.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“Yeah?” he chuckled, swiping his phone from the table and dashing off a quick text message.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

Laughter and cheers sounded out from the hallway before a band of inflatable dinosaurs erupted into the room, giggling and making dinosaur noises alike.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

Peter and I both erupted into laughter at the return of the inflatable dinos, little girl parading up to me.

“Mama Wen Wen?” she meeped, dancing on her tiptoes as she held her arms up. “Uppie up ups?”

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

I couldn’t stop laughing as a nurse popped her head into the room, cackling at the sight of the cluster of tyrannosaurus rexes, who had apparently terrorized the hospital. She came over and unzipped little girl before lifting her up onto the bed next to me.

“Baa bee?” she asked excitedly, wriggling as Peter expertly handed over of one the little boys, keeping the other two babies on this chest. “Baa bee?”

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“Bitty and Katie went with the triplets to where the doctors weighed them and cleaned them up,” Peter explained in a soft voice. “I stayed with you while the doctors stitched you up and transferred you to this room.”

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“Hello wittle baby,” she hummed, gasping with delight when I helped her to cradle her newborn baby brother.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“Mommy?” Baby Tommy toddled over, being helped out of his inflatable dinosaur costume and lifted up onto my other side. Peter handed the nurse the baby in the pink hat, who she brought over for the chubby little man to hold. “Mommy, Baa bee Joojoo is pwetti!”

I smiled as Elizabeth and Katie both helped each other out of their costumes before Peter handed them the third baby.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“Hey Isabelle,” I greeted her, realizing how dry my throat felt. “How are things?”

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“Things are really good,” she told me with a gentle hum. “Katie did laundry last night and Elizabeth got in touch with most of the family. Jackie is in the waiting room with food.”

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“My love?” I then remembered my husband’s own medical plight. “What happened with your vasectomy surgery? I sensed that something went wrong, did that instigate the triplets’ birth?”

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“I suffered a nasty allergic reaction to the anesthesia used,” he explained. “The surgery wasn’t performed after all, and I’m to heal for at least a full month before the doctor attempts performing the manly snips again.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“Hey sweetheart, can you look at me, please?” he asked me, coming around to take a seat on the side of my bed, dragging an IV pole dripping fluid into my arm. “You are a whirlwind of emotions right now, and that is perfectly normal. You just had a traumatic procedure done on you, and now your body is playing catch up from before you got pregnant with three remarkable babies.”

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

My lower lip tremored for a brief moment before my eyes were overflowing with fat, jibbly emotional tears.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“Don’t cry, Mama Wen Wen.” Bless little girl and her caring personality. “Need tissue?”

Over to the side of me, Baby Tommy was singing to Baby Jojo, just a continuous loop of words as the little brunette baby stared at her big brother with her mother’s blue eyes. The baby that little girl was cradling had my brilliant red curls and his father’s hazel blue eyes.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

“Sweetheart.” I turned my attention to Peter, who was holding out a box of cheaply made tissues for me to blow my nose with. “Baby Mattie was born first, then came Baby Teddy, and finally, Baby Jojo. She has a mild form of Spina Bifida called occulta. The doctor told me that surgery would not be needed, and that she is a perfectly healthy little lady.”

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

Wah… wah… wah… sniggled Baby Teddy before erupting into a sudden WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH…

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH… screamed Baby Mattie, both babies screaming their heads off as Baby Jojo slept on as only an extremely sleepy little baby could do.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

The babies continued to scream as a new nurse popped her head into the room, smiling at the girls getting bottles of mommy milk ready to be devoured. Elizabeth popped her bottle onto my husband’s travel sized bottle warmer while Katie fitted a bottle with a bag of mommy milk.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

I smiled as a sudden rush of pure, raw exhaustion settled over my mind, and so I sat back, relaxed and closed my eyes.

BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…

TAGLISTS ARE OPEN/ ASK BOX IS OPEN/ REQUESTS ARE OPEN/ PLOT BUNNIES ARE WELCOMED

If you liked this, then please consider buying me a coffee HERE It only costs $3!!!

PETER STEELE TAGLIST

@rock-a-noodle

@ch3rry-c01a

[itismissswann]

@neverhangd || continued from here

The prison cell is a fucking joke, concrete and walls and nothing more. Prison’s always been a liminal, timeless space, where days last years and vice versa. The single bed pushed up against the third wall is meant to mock, not be taken seriously, and it shows the key to reading the rest of the cell. It’s just sloppy, really: they’re stupid enough to arm smart prisoners even as they goad them into escape or worse, taunting them with walls trying too hard to look impenetrable to actually be so. The stench of sewage is admittedly enough to clench the gut without trouble, but behold: no hole, no bucket, and no rotting mound of shit in a corner. This isn’t a staying cell; it’s a holding cell.

And the only thing it’ll be holding come morning will be a broken bed frame.

“The powder room,” Anne responds flatly. The point isn’t to convince, just divert. There’s no telling what the blonde waif across from her was doing in the treasure room and it almost doesn’t matter besides. Anne has a busted lip and a streak of blood (not hers) on her shirt, a growing bump on the back of her head proof of being carried and dropped into here with all the care due to a madcap hellion. She hadn’t thought twice about swinging the scepter into the guard’s face and hasn’t thought twice about it since except to lick her teeth and laugh. He’d be off solid foods for a while once he woke up.

Pale sea glass eyes cut to the other woman, threatening and keen, sharp. Without her hat and coat—and a pistol, and with her tits covered up—Anne is both striking and strangely difficult to place. Taller than most men and with long fiery hair and those near-colorless green-tinted eyes, Anne stands out…but almost never, without those affects, as “the pirate queen” (what dross) Anne Bonny. Dressed as she was now in a stolen dress and bonnet, she looked even less herself.

After a moment of searching, apparently satisfied with what she (didn’t) find, Anne put an old plan back into action.

“Ye lookin forward t’yer stay here, or might I interest ye in cuttin the visit short? I’ll cut with or without ye, but as ye botched my last escape ye’ll be spendin this one helpful or asleep. Yer call.”

Elizabeth couldn't help but fight back an amused smile when she answered her question flatly. Clearly she had no intention of sharing any information about why she was here. She rose from the edge of the bed, approaching the fierce looking girl. Her footsteps echoed sharply around the dark room, sounding overly loud in her own ears. The stench of wet wood, vermin and humid air entering her nostrils as she did. “And how do you intent to escape this prison?” The pirate king asked, curiosity flaring in her eyes. "I'm positive these prisons were built to keep anything from getting out." Elizabeth wondered if she was the kind of young woman that women loved to hate. She still had the exuberance of youth, she was tall, her muscle definition was perfect and she walked with the confidence of someone a decade older. She was just flawless in her bone structure, her skin was like silk over glass and she radiated an intelligent beauty. Without doubt, she was the kind of girl you didn't want as an enemy. "I do not intend to spend my time here, growing old gracefully, if that's what you mean" Elizabeth continued, watching her search for something eagerly. It was rare to meet a girl that didn't act like a damsel in distress and took matters into her own hands. Anne had the impression of extreme intelligence and extreme determination, a combination that awed and intimidated her. "But I'm all ears, how do you intent to escape?"

[rosesutherlandwrites]

La Grisette de 1830 —Rue du Faubourg du Temple at Canal St Martin

Ain’t she lovely? I came back for a better picture of her than the old one especially for @pilferingapples who I know will appreciate this fine example of a topknot in the wild.

[slashingdisneypasta]

Cruella De Vil x Lesbian!Reader || Drabble

Plot: Cruella selects you to go with her to Paris for Fashion Week over Alonzo. (*cough* Devil wears Prada AU)

Warnings: Boss/Employee relationship (Well, intentions for one) and Cruella being a liiiitle horny.

It takes you a moment for the information to settle in your brain, but oh when it does- you have a million trillion questions bubbling up into your mouth. They’re on the tip of your tongue! "... - I'm sorry- Ms De Vil!- " You start, but find that once you’ve come back down to reality- Cruella has already moved on, leaving you and poor Alonzo by her Panther; Rain spitting on the bonnet, his head, and your hood. "Oh, hell."

Sighing, you pull the hood of your coat more securely over your head in determination- and rush obediently after her, weaving between the other people on their commutes to work, the pigeons bouncing around for scraps, and street performers that stand between where Cruella parks her car and the building you work in with her.

Quickly you catch up to her, which is a feat you've spent probably too-much-time training for and learning how to do, admittedly - a feat Alonzo is still a grade or two behind in, as he struggles in the crowds behind you, -. Clutching the strap of your oh so precious bag full of work stuff tight, you struggle to catch your breath. "Um- Cruella! I- I'm sorry, you want me to go with you for Fashion week? For Paris??"

Alonzo may not be as competent as you but he has been with Cruella far longer- he's done this before! He knows the in’s-and-out’s of Fashion Week and you just... don't. You really don't. You would genuinely be like a fish out of water. The whole idea is concerning, to you. He should go, instead! Surely Cruella realises this-

"That's what I said! Keep up, Lovely, you know I don't relish repeating myself." She reaches the door first, of course, and the door man - Patrick, who you smile at as you pass and who tips his cute little uniform hat back at you, - opens it wide for the both of you. Alonzo only just manages to slip in before the door clips him on the backside.

"Yes... yeah, I know.” Then you take a deep breath, and you continue- “But see, I don't think I can- "

"You don't think you can what, dear?" Cruella suddenly stops, right by the front desk. You manage to halt as well, just in time so that you don’t run directly into her- but just like Alonzo and the front door, you still get a face full of fur when she whips round; Her polar bear coat brushing your nose and threatening to make you sneeze. As you look up at her still, fighting back the violent bodily response to fur up the nose, she gives you a stern look back as your co-worker finally catches up to the two of you, finding his spot at your side.

Black painted talons rest at her hip as Cruella stares down at you, raising her perfect brows- waiting impatiently for you to respond.

As always, you feel half intimidated by her looking at you and half aroused. It has made for an interesting job experience- but not a bad one. You're a helpless lesbian… not a useless one, and that's why Cruella already favours you.

More then you realise.

"... Well... Paris. I just don't think I'm ready." You insist, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, uncomfortable under her heavy, disorienting gaze. "Alonzo is great!- "

Good grief, the sheer exasperation and disgust painted across her face as she deeply rolls those terrifying eyes, is almost overwhelming. "Ugh. Alonzo, is an imbecile."

You gape, looking between her and Alonzo, whose only reaction to this, is to look pathetically at the ground for a moment. You put a hand to his arm, to comfort him, but Cruella clicks her fingers in front of your face to steal your attention back. Your response is an immediate one, blinking and surprised. Oh- Goodness- Yes?

"... Darling," Cruella's shoulders drop once your attention is on her again, performing for you. She makes a frowny face with her mouth and her eyes as a talon-like nail now coming up to the soft skin underneath your chin; Guiding you to crane your neck as you look up at her. She opens her mouth to speak, before her eyes and face snap a few inches to the side and land sharply, on Alonzo. "Go fetch me a coffee." She spits, not taking her hand away from you at all, so you just stand there quite still and straighter than necessary, trying not to breath too heavily. "Now."

Alonzo takes off like that coffee is a glass of water and he's just recently been air lifted from a desert- where he's been dying for the last 12 hours. You genuinely feel a gust of wind actually blow at you as he rushes off, like in the cartoons. Wow, you think in surprise.

But then it’s just you and Cruella in the foyer, so your attention isn’t on your co-worker for long. Other people are around, of course, but no one questions Cruella. If she doesn't speak to them first, they'll avoid her like the plague- and if she wants to stand in the middle of the crowded foyer, then they’ll simply give her space.

Its really quite impressive.

"Now, Y/N," She uses your name and it sounds like a threat off her tongue. You feel small in front of her, and wait with bated breath for her next words, watching her face transform back into one of abject, fake sadness. Like one of those over-the-top mask’s used in old theatre plays. "... Darling. I need you there... Fashion week is a very stressful time for me," Her voice transforms into something sickly sweet, talking to you like you're simple... but at the same time, treasured. "And I will require my favourite person to be there with me and relieve any tension I might develop... okay?"

"... Right. But Cruella, I don't really know how I'd do that- "

The nail scrapes off of you, leaving a trail of tingles behind on your skin. She winks. "Oh I think you'll figure it out."

Then she turns around and heads off again like the tropical storm of a woman she is, to work.

And you're expected to follow her- which you do.

[wistfulcynic]

all that I am led me to you (2/3)

For ten years, Mary Allamby Bonnet has barely given any thought to her "late" husband Stede. She's been far too busy enjoying her life as his wealthy widow. Until the night that Stede appears at her door, badly wounded, in the arms of the most feared pirate in history.

Until that moment Mary had never truly believed the Wanted posters that claimed Stede as a "known associate" of Blackbeard's. Yet here he is, in her home, less the legendary pirate captain than simply Stede's Ed, a man terrified of losing the love of his life. He won't, though. Not if Mary has anything to say about it.

Or, Mary and Ed nurse Stede back to health and in doing so form a friendship.

AO3 | Tumblr 

Chapter Two: (CW for brief, non-explicit allusions to child sexual abuse)

Doug rose very early most mornings. The students at his art school now numbered in the dozens and came from all around to study under his tutelage, so he liked to get an early start on his busy days. When Mary, who had returned to bed in the small hours after checking on her fugitive patient, woke again, Doug had long since departed, his pillow still rumpled from his head but cold to her touch. 

Mary sighed. She’d hoped to have a chance to tell Doug about the pirates currently camped in her studio before he left for the school, but it seemed he’d opted to let her sleep rather than wake her to say goodbye, a gesture she would greatly appreciate on any other day. Now the revelation of Stede’s dramatic return to their lives would have to wait at least until that evening. She only hoped that Doug wouldn’t be hurt by her decision not to wake him the night before. And that Stede would be lucid enough by the time Doug returned that he could explain the situation himself. 

Alas, when Mary arrived at the studio, she found Ed awake and hovering over Stede’s bedside, holding an empty teacup in one hand and radiating anxiety. 

“He’s feverish, I think,” he said, the minute he caught sight of Mary. “His face feels warm. I gave him the calabash you left, but it doesn’t seem to be—” 

“How long ago? For the calabash?” 

“Uh”—Ed glanced up at the sun, just visible through the window—“thirteen minutes.” 

“You likely wouldn’t see any improvement before now, then,” said Mary. “Especially as that was brewed hours ago. It loses its potency quite quickly. Give it another ten minutes or so and if there’s no improvement I’ll brew a fresh cup. In the meantime, we need to change the dressing on his wound.” 

She sent Ed to the kitchen to mix the poultice, to keep his mind and hands occupied and him out of her hair while she removed Stede’s bandage and examined the wound. It did appear slightly inflamed, though nothing too concerning. There was no supperation that she could detect. 

She swabbed it again nevertheless, just to be safe, and when Ed returned with the poultice packed it carefully and re-wrapped it with another length of clean linen. Then she pressed the back of her hand to Stede’s forehead. 

“He does seem a bit warm still, but not so much that we need to worry,” she informed a wild-eyed Ed. “He’s doing well, all things considered. Don’t panic just yet.” 

Ed visibly grappled with himself for a moment as his fear and worry for Stede warred with the iron-clad strength of will that had made him the terror of the seas. “It’s—hard not to,” he said. 

Mary nodded. “It’s never easy to watch the people we love suffer.” 

Ed turned to her with a smile, grateful and slightly wry. “Yeah,” he agreed, “that it isn’t.” 

“To be honest, I’m a bit surprised,” Mary said, before she could think better of it. “I’d have thought this would be old hat for you by now, living as you do. Is this really the first time Stede’s been wounded?”  

Ed appeared surprised by her question, then he grinned. “No,” he replied, “it isn’t. Not even close. The very first time I met Stede was right after he’d been stabbed in the gut. And then hanged.” 

“Hanged!” Mary exclaimed, as though that were somehow more alarming than a stabbing. She supposed it was the nature of the thing. 

“Yep,” Ed confirmed. “Long story. Point is, that gut wound nearly did for him. More than once I thought he wouldn’t make it. He did, though. Pulled right through. Since then, I’ve seen him stabbed more times than I can count, and slashed up, and nearly drowned. Shot too, though less badly than this. I never lost it any of those times, though. Not like this. Never felt so… I don’t know. Helpless before.” 

“He was probably awake then,” Mary observed. “Also, you had a long time between when he was shot and when you got here. A long time to watch him bleed and fade and to feel helpless to save him. And considering he’s still not entirely out of the woods, I’d say it’s normal to be afraid.” 

“I guess I just don’t handle fear well.” Ed sat heavily down in his chair and ran a hand over his beard. “Went years, decades really, never feeling it at all. Didn’t care enough about anything to mind losing it, I guess.”

Until he met Stede. Mary kept her expression neutral but internally she marvelled. Imagine anyone loving Stede Bonnet enough that just the prospect of losing him sent them spiralling. Mary, for one, absolutely could not fathom it.

Perhaps that was unkind. She had let go of most of her resentment of Stede when he’d died the second time. No—earlier even than that. When his confession about Ed had made her realise that the failure of their marriage was down to nothing that she had done or even that he had done. They could never have been fulfilled with each other—it was fundamentally impossible. And Mary had discovered that it was hard to resent a man who had been suffering in his way as much as she had in hers, especially once he’d left her with all the tools she needed to build herself the kind of life she’d always wanted. 

At least, that’s what Mary had told herself. It was possible though that a leetle tiny bit of that resentment may still remain, buried deeply but unmistakably there.  

“Let’s have some brunch,” she said to Ed. “You need to eat.” 

“I couldn’t leave—” he began, predictably.

“He’ll be fine here for an hour,” she interrupted firmly. “It doesn’t do him any good for you to hover over him, worrying. Let him sleep.” She felt Stede’s forehead again. “His temperature seems better already and when we’ve eaten we’ll brew him some more calabash. Come on, Ed, you need to keep up your own strength. You’ve had a rough time of it.” 

Ed placed his own hand on Stede’s forehead. “He does seem better,” he conceded. “And I could definitely eat.” 

“Come on, then,” said Mary. “What do you fancy?” 

Eagerness lit in Ed’s eyes. “Got any marmalade?” 

-

“Oh, yeah, this is the good stuff,” he sighed some time later, after polishing off a plate of eggs and ham and three cups of tea so sugary she nearly gagged watching him drink it, and then settling in to a slice of bread liberally slathered with the best marmalade Mary had on hand. “We don’t have it so often anymore. Gotta raid the bloody Spanish for it, and sometimes they haven’t even got any. Friend of ours makes his own out of Florida oranges and it’s good, not saying it isn’t, but this Spanish stuff is the bees’ knackers.” 

“I suppose it is nice.” Mary had never given marmalade that much thought. 

“This marmalade, it was the first thing Stede and I ate together,” mused Ed. “Up in the crow’s nest of the Revenge, at sunrise. He woke me up and gave me some and God, I knew then—I couldn’t admit it to myself but I knew I was a goner. Never stood a bloody chance against him.” 

Mary watched his face closely as he replayed the memory, worried he might lose himself in his fear again, but after a moment he met her eyes with a smile, this one thoughtful with a touch of shrewd. “Can I ask you something?” he inquired. 

“Sure,” said Mary.

“How do you know my name?” 

“Ah.” Mary returned his smile. “Stede told me. When he came back here, the last time. Just after I tried to kill him.” 

Ed blinked in astonishment. “You tried to kill him?” 

“Well, I say tried, it wasn’t much of an attempt.” Even as she demurred, Mary couldn’t help feeling a bit smug. It wasn’t every day that a respectable widow could shock a notorious pirate with the tale of her murderous intent, after all. “I was honestly going to. But then I found I couldn’t. And then he woke up.” 

“You tried to kill him in his sleep.” Ed chuckled. “Bloody hell. You’re just full of surprises, Widow Bonnet.” 

Mary had never thought of herself as being particularly surprising, and found the notion of it pleased her immensely. Equally pleasing was the discovery that she’d read Ed correctly—he didn’t seem especially bothered to hear that she’d once meant to kill the man he loved. “Anyway,” she continued, “Stede woke up and we had a talk. Finally talked through everything we needed to. And he told me he was in love with a man named Ed.”

Mary could still remember, so clearly, the emotions of that moment. Comprehension. Compassion. Soaring relief, for both of them. A weight lifted from their shoulders then, at last, a way out of the mess they were in. 

“So did you know that I was Blackbeard, then?” 

“No, not then. Stede just said ‘Ed’. But years later I saw a Wanted poster for him, which called him a ‘known associate of Blackbeard’s,’ and I remembered that your real name was Edward, and well.” She gave a little shrug. “The dots weren’t hard to connect.” 

“You knew who I was and still you let me into your house, just like that. To save the man who made you miserable for years.” Ed shook his head. “Fascinating,” he muttered, then continued in a louder voice, “You know, I think you’re right. In different circumstances, you and Stede would have been friends. Great friends.” He paused, and Mary would swear his eyes actually twinkled. “Shame you had to fuck it up by marrying each other.” 

“Yeah,” she agreed, as laughter bubbled up inside her. “That really buggered everything, didn’t it?” 

Ed’s answering chuckle grew into a belly laugh as Mary tipped her head back and let the mirth just flow out of her. Soon they both were roaring, laughing until their bellies ached with it and tears rolled down their cheeks. It felt good to laugh, cathartic. It swept away the final, clinging dregs of Mary’s resentment against Stede, and when she met Ed’s eyes again she felt like the two of them had formed a connection. A friendship, even. Or the seeds of one, at least. 

On impulse, she reached out and placed her hand on his. “Have you had enough to eat?” she asked. “If so, we should brew up some more calabash and go check on Stede.” 

Ed stared for a moment at her hand on his, then placed his other one on top of hers and gave it a squeeze. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m good. Thanks. I—just thanks.” 

“You’re very welcome,” said Mary.

-

Stede was still asleep when they returned to the studio, and less warm to the touch than he had been. Relief was plain to see in Ed’s eyes as he settled down to wake Stede just enough that he could drink the fresh calabash. This he did with barely a protest, then fell immediately back to sleep. 

“Does he need more mimosa?” asked Ed, frowning down at him. “The pain—”

“I think for now it’s best to let him sleep,” said Mary. “That’s the best way to heal. We’ll see how he feels when he wakes up.” 

“Er—okay, if you think so.” Ed settled back into what Mary now thought of as his chair and put his feet up on the crate. There he remained, unmoving, for several minutes, absently stroking his beard as he watched Stede sleep. 

“I might do some painting,” Mary informed him. “Do you want me to get you a book or something?” 

“No thanks, I don’t think I could concentrate on one,” Ed replied. “I’m not much of a reader, though I like stories. Stede reads to me, mostly, and I tell him stories.” 

“Will you tell me some?” Mary asked. She was convinced it wouldn’t be good for Ed to do nothing all day but sit and brood at Stede’s bedside. He was clearly a man inclined to get lost in his own head unless he had some task to accomplish, some external thing to focus on. 

He looked taken aback by her request, but quickly recovered. “Sure, if you want,” he said. “What kind of story?” 

“Just anything you’d like to tell me. The kind you would normally tell Stede.” 

“Yeah, some of those I’m not sure you’d care to hear,” said Ed wryly. 

“Oh, you think they’re too much for my delicate, lady-like ears?” Mary scoffed. “Try me.” 

“You asked for it,” said Ed, then launched into a tale about himself as a lad, in his first year at sea. How he and his mate Jack had followed their captain, Hornigold, into a brothel, not knowing what one was, and once inside were mistaken for employees. 

“Turns out we were precisely the sort that their clientele most enjoyed,” remarked Ed, observing Mary closely with another twinkle in his eye. 

Mary was rather shocked, she had to admit it, and more than a little horrified by the flippant way he told the tale. She supposed many years had passed since it happened, but still. 

“How old were you?” she asked. 

“Fourteen.” 

“Goodness.” Mary took a moment to absorb that, then said: “Well. Go on, then. How did you escape?”

“Who says we escaped?” 

“Did you not escape!” Mary spun around to face him, eyes wide and paintbrush dangling limply from her fingers. 

Ed had the grace to look the very slightest bit contrite. “No, we did,” he said. “Sorry, I shouldn’t mess with you like that. We did escape. It was the first fuckery I ever pulled, actually. We were being led away to the back rooms by these two men but I managed to get close to Jack, close enough to whisper to him that he should cry out Edwina, no! when I gave him the signal. Then I tripped on the stairs—that was the signal—and Jack played his role like a star. The man dropped me like I was on fire. Thought I was a girl, you see, pretending to be a boy. Nothing I said after that could convince him otherwise, though I put on a show of pretending. Couldn’t give in too easy, y’know?”

“No,” said Mary faintly. “I suppose not.” 

“So the man kicked me aside and said he was going to find himself a ‘real lad,’ to which I replied ‘Well, Jaqueline, we tried,’ then Jack’s bloke dropped him too. They were furious, shouting at the brothel madam for trying to scam them, and in all the confusion me and Jack slipped away and made it back to the ship. Hornigold knew it was us, of course—that bastard always knew everything—and he thrashed us good the next day.” Ed huffed a little chuckle as he shook his head, then his expression grew solemn. “But I’ll tell you, Mary, I’d’ve taken a hundred thrashings over one night with those men. They had the emptiest eyes I’ve ever seen. Worse than my dad’s, or Hornigold’s, or any number of vicious bastards I’ve met in my years at sea. Ice cold and dead flat. Not human.” He paused again and Mary tried to imagine it, imagine him, young and vulnerable, protecting himself and his friend with his wits and clever trickery. She found that it wasn’t difficult. What a remarkable person he was.

“So yeah.” Ed gave himself a little shake. “Jack and I buggered each other real quick after that, first chance we got, so’s if we ever found ourselves in a situation like it again at least we’d know what we were in for.” The smile he offered Mary was faintly abashed. “Er, sorry if I—” 

“Don’t be,” Mary heard herself saying. “I did ask you for a story. And that is… well, it’s certainly a story.” 

“They aren’t all like that,” said Ed. “Let me tell you about the time Stede and I accidentally captured a Dutch merchant fleet.” 

Mary nodded eagerly. “Yes, please, tell me that one.” 

Ed launched into the story and Mary listened, laughed and gasped and commented in all the right places, but her mind still lingered on what he’d revealed of himself in that first, tragic tale. It broke her heart to think about the horrors he’d faced at such a young age, and she doubted that was anything like the worst of it. Thank goodness he’d found Stede, late in life to be sure, but still early enough for them to have years together to be happy and in love. She understood much better now the origins of Ed’s fierce devotion, and why his fear of losing Stede was so desperate and so raw.  

She really, really wanted to hug him. 

They passed the afternoon pleasantly, with Mary painting and Ed telling stories, and Stede sleeping peacefully without visible signs of distress. Mary noted that the sound of Ed’s voice seemed to soothe him, that he only shifted on the chaise when Ed stopped talking, to reflect or to sip more of the tea Mary brought him. For his part, Ed often touched Stede in ways that appeared unconscious—stroking his cheek or running fingers through his hair, or just holding his hand, which he once did for over an hour, their fingers twined together and Ed’s thumb moving in a gentle sweep across Stede’s knuckles. 

Many of the stories he told were of pirating adventures but even more were about the life he’d lived over the past decade. The quieter, domestic existence he had with Stede. These stories had an element of contentment to them that the others lacked; they weren’t told to titillate or to terrify, they were simple homely anecdotes of a happy life. As she listened, Mary found herself taking up a fresh canvas, washing it in delicate shades of blue and sandy brown then sketching on the outline of a wooden hut with palms behind it, an image drawn from Ed’s tales through her mind and out the tip of her paintbrush. She could picture it all so clearly—the beach, the hut, the swaying trees. The two men on the porch, sharing a drink or a pipe, or a nap together in their hammock. 

Eventually her eyes and arm began to tire and Ed’s enthusiasm for tale-spinning to wane, and she was about to suggest that they take a break and have something to eat when Stede gave a deep groan and opened his eyes. 

“Ed?” he croaked, and Ed was instantly out of the chair and crouched by his side. Mary heard a loud crack as he went down and winced, thinking of the knee brace he’d not worn all day. 

Ed did not appear to notice any pain; his attention was fixed on Stede. “I’m here, love,” he said. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like I’ve been shot,” said Stede. Ed gave a relieved chuckle. 

“You seem lucid, at least,” he observed. 

“Well, that’s a relief. How long have I been out?” 

“You’ve been asleep for almost a full day.” 

“Asleep?” 

“Yeah.” Ed stroked his cheek. “You weren’t delirious for long. Mary sorted you out.” 

“Mary?” Stede, for the first time since he’d opened them, took his eyes from Ed’s face and scanned the room. His gaze landed on Mary who, for lack of any more elegant options, gave him a little wave. 

“Hiya, Stede. Glad you’re alive.” 

“Mary,” Stede repeated. “You—you did let us in.” 

“Of course I did. I couldn’t let you die. Not for real, anyway.” 

“Oh good,” Stede nodded and gave her a weak smile. “That’s good. I’m grateful.” 

“We both are.” Now that Stede was awake and talking, Ed’s face wore a beaming smile. Relief and joy shone from him. 

“Do you mind if I check your wound, Stede?” Mary asked. “It’s been a while.” 

“Yes, please do. It hurts like a sonofabitch.” 

Mary took only a moment to blink in surprise at hearing such a turn of phrase from him—he’s been living with Ed for ten years, woman, and you’ve heard the way he talks—then briskly unwrapped Stede’s bandage and inspected the wound. The skin was still raw and red but the wound had closed and the skin begun the process of knitting itself back together. There were no signs of suppuration. Mary gave Ed a reassuring nod. 

“It looks good,” she said. “Should heal quickly now, if you look after it properly. I can put on some ointment to dull the pain before we wrap you back up again. 

“I’d appreciate that,” said Stede. “Thank you.” 

Mary went to the kitchen to mix up the ointment and a new poultice, and when she returned to the studio Ed and Stede were kissing. She stopped dead in her tracks and turned her back on them so fast she made herself dizzy, though still not quickly enough to miss noticing the way they held each other—Ed’s arm supporting Stede’s back, his other hand cradling his face. Stede’s arm—the uninjured one—curled around Ed’s waist, holding him as tightly as he was likely able in his weakened state. Even a glimpse of them was more than enough to convey the depth of tenderness and intimacy they shared—and the heat that simmered beneath it. Mary found herself feeling rather flushed. 

“I thought I’d lost you,” she heard Ed say, gruffly. “I thought you were gone, Stede, I thought—” 

“Shhh,” said Stede softly. “I’m here. I’m still here, my love, and I’m not going anywhere. It’d take a great deal more than one measly bullet to get me away from you. Three bullets, minimum, and even that would be a stretch.” 

Ed chuckled, but when he spoke again his voice still quavered. “Don’t joke about it,” he said. “You don’t know what it was like to watch you fading away, barely conscious and talking nonsense, having to haul you bodily through a goddamn jungle in a downpour, not knowing where I was going or what kind of reception I’d get even if I—” His words were cut off and Mary recognised the sound of renewed kissing. It went on for several excruciatingly long minutes, during which she debated somewhat frantically what to do. 

Then Ed said: “Thank fuck for Mary is all I’ll say,” and Stede inquired: “What did she actually do to heal me?” and Mary figured that was the best cue she was going to get. 

“Oh, just a little light witchcraft,” she replied, breezing into the studio with her arms full of potions and a length of clean linen trailing behind her like a banner. “Things I picked up from the other widows. Old medicine, you know. Traditional.” 

“Right,” said Stede, “well that’s good, then,” and Mary marvelled yet again. The Stede she’d been married to would never have been so blasé about traditional medicine, and would have insisted on a ‘proper doctor’ being called. He’d changed so much, she knew that from Ed’s tales. But it still jarred to witness those changes firsthand. 

Stede sat obediently, gritting his teeth against the pain as she swabbed his wound and dabbed on some pain-relieving ointment, then followed that up by packing it again with the poultice and wrapping it up in linen. 

“There,” she said in satisfaction. “How does that feel?” 

“Better.” Stede looked at her with surprise and a touch of admiration that made her feel more smug than it probably should. “It really does feel much better. Thank you.” 

Mary nodded. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any pain relievers you can take internally that won’t put you to sleep. We can give you more mimosa when you need to rest again, but now what do you say we have some dinner? Cook’s nearly done preparing it, and I don’t know about you but I’m famished.” 

“I could eat,” said Ed, and Stede agreed. 

“I don’t know if I can handle much but something would be greatly appreciated,” he said. 

“She has some of that good marmalade,” Ed informed him. Stede pulled a face. 

“Maybe later,” he said. “Perhaps for now just some broth and a little bread—” 

“Cook is heating up some oxtail as we speak,” said Mary. “Ed and I will have a roast.” 

Ed’s eyes lit up and he gave an eager nod. Stede smiled indulgently at him. “That sounds excellent,” he said. “Thank you, Mary.” 

Mary and Ed helped Stede to the dining room where the three of them settled in and after a slightly awkward five minutes or so relaxed in each other’s company and began to genuinely enjoy themselves. This altered Stede turned out to be someone Mary could talk to much more easily than she ever could his former self, and Ed, free now from the fear and anxiety that had been weighing him down, finally convinced that his love was truly out of danger, was the life and soul of the evening—funny, charming, and sparkling with charisma. Mary watched him in mild awe. It was easy to see how this man could command the loyalty of pirate crews and the respect even of his enemies. It was easy to see why Stede would fall so hard that he’d be willing to give up everything he owned to be with him. Mary had honestly thought Stede both foolish and foolhardy, to do such a thing. But now she understood. 

They were just finishing up dessert when a knock sounded at the door. 

“That’s odd,” said Mary. “I’m not expecting anyone. Doug’s at the school until late tonight, and of course he wouldn’t knock.” The knock came again, louder and more insistent. “I suppose I’d better see who it is,” she said. 

When she opened the door all the ease and comfort of the pleasant evening fell away, evaporated into the air like mist beneath the morning sun. The governor of Barbados stood just outside her door, with a naval admiral at his side and a group of armed Marines behind them. 

“Widow Bonnet,” said the governor in that oleaginous manner of his that had always made Mary’s skin crawl. “Good evening. May we come in?”

Mary gripped the doorknob tightly but the expression on her face remained cool. “What is this about?” she asked. 

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Just a few minor inquiries we believe you can assist us with.” The governor’s smile made Mary’s stomach churn. “Regarding a pair of fugitive pirates.”  

[emperor-palpaminty]

Bruh I am SOFT can I have Western Tech with Fluff prompt 20?

DOCTOR VICTOR TRECH THE THIRD HAS MY HEART, bless you anon, especially this prompt? i’m melting

Also I had to changhe names again, Shaeeah isn’t a very “western” name, Suu became “Sue”, and Jek is close enough I think so he’s good!

And for those of you who don't know the AMAZING creator of this AU @hellothere-generalangsty has started that Tech was GOING TO PROPOSE but the woman turned him down. Ouch. Naturally I will use this to make myself sad.

Prompt 20: “My, oh my. You’re such a beautiful creature.”

Tech rolled up his sleeves, tying off the stitch. “There.” He slowly clipped the string and set his needle in the sanitization bowl. “You’re all set.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Mrs. Laquwane smiled, her thick hair being tugged at by her son, Jek. “Are you feeling better, Shay?”

The girl nodded, glancing down at the puckered wound. "Will I get better?"

"Of course you will." Tech smiled gently, watching as Jek admired his sister's wound. "Ah, don't touch it, Jek." Sue tossed her son a frown, before turning back to Tech. "Here." He handed her a small jar, tapping on the lid. "Apply that to the cleaned surface every night. If you need more, let me know. I'll drop by next week to examine the stitches."

Sue smiled, pushing one of her thick braids over her shoulders. "Thank you, Tech."

“Of course, Mrs. Laquwane.” Tech smiled politely, nodding, as Shay grabbed her bonnet, examining the stitched in her arm again. “You have brave children.”

Jek tugged on his mother’s second braid, eyes gleaming in their sly, childish way. “Can I get stitches too?”

“Oh, heavens, I hope not.” Sue sighed as Tech chuckled, shaking his head slightly, waving politely as the trio left. He leaned on the doorway, chest swelling with pride- another long day of good work was done. A grin that only emerged when he felt like he had a genuine job well done fought its way onto his face as he ducked back into his office.

Tech slowly rolled up his things. He tugged the curtains shut and picked up his bag, sighing softly as he plunked his hat onto his head. Tech tucked his key into his pocket, shutting the door as he slowly began the trek home - just a few streets away.

It was only beginning to darken when he reached the inn. He nodded to Cid and tugged the watch from his pocket. He swelled with pride, examining the elaborate design on the clasp and the cover of the face. The time stated it was only now past six-fifteen, and he was late.

Cid frowned, puffing on her cigar. "You're late."

He offered a small smile, taking the little stack of mail she offered him. "I understand that."

She chuckled, tucking the cigar into her mouth. "Need some company? I bet one of the girls would-"

"No, I am quite alright." Tech spoke quickly, face flushing. "Thank you." Her laughter followed him up the stairs.

He unlocked his room, walking in, pausing briefly to light the oil lamp. The flame caught, and he blew out the match gently. He dropped the medical bag on his bed, sinking into the mattress with a soft creak. 

He turned over envelopes, skimming the names on them. Some were letters from family, a letter from one of his Universities (probably inviting him to lecture), and one was...

The light spilled on the cream envelope, dripping like blood. The name alone made his throat dry. Miss Sawyer, he swallowed, fingers trembling. He opened the letter, shakily.

His face was warm, eyes unbearably hot reading the words- palaces of paragraphs, telling Victor how wonderful life was and how it wasn't the same without him. She had told him he wasn't enough when he had gotten on one knee. That being a doctor's wife was not suitable for a woman of her stature- and here she was, months later, pouring an arsenic-laced honeyed apology into a leaf of paper.

Tech stood, abandoning the letter on his bed. He took no time to try and tug his overcoat back on, or button his waistcoat- he just flew down the stairs, past Cid, tears blearing his eyes, throat chapped as he tore towards the stables.

It was about twenty minutes into the ride when he knew where he was going, horse slowly manuvering up the red hills, caked with rocks. He closed his eyes and leaned his head on the mane of the horse, inhaling its scent of alfalfa and leather. The horse knickered softly, pausing in it's canter as a dog barked.

Tech glanced up, pushing a hand in his sweat-slicked hair. The door to the house was thrown open, warm light pouring out into the falling night, and the herbalist ran out, a bulky jacket thrown on over her coat. She ran towards him, not walked, ran, her hair loose instead of pulled into a bun or braids. Her eyes shone even in the darkness as Tech climbed off the horse. "Doc, what-"

No words came from him. He reached out, collapsing against her, leaning down aw(wardky and pressing his face into her shoulder, every shaky breath inhaling the old smell of her jacket- smoke, pipe smoke, and vanilla. He clutched her, his breathing hitching.

She was secure, safe. He needed only her.

The herbalist only paused for a moment before closing her arms around him, vocalizing no objections. They stood together, the light at her back, and he steadily found his shakey feet on the steady ground of her.

Tenderly, she tugged away. "Let's go inside." She said, gently. "I have some tea, and a fire." Her lips pressed into a smile, and she nodded in encouragement, leading him to the warmth of her house, her home.

___

The couch was comfortable, Tech found, curled up, with the Herbalist handing him a cup of tea. He took a small sip, mumbling his thanks as she plopped down next to him, the heavy coat still on her shoulders. She watched him, eyes softened in the glow of the fire. "You've been crying."

He drew in a sharp breathe and started into the tea, the water bruising with leaves and their colors and he nodded. "Yes," He managed. He blinked to help bring some comfort to his dry eyes.

She crossed her legs, watching him. "You wanna talk about it?"

Tech glanced up from the cup, eyes scanning her face. "No," The doctor rasped. "I don't."

"Mm," She hummed, standing softly. Tech stared up at her as she moved, lowering her cup. "I can leave you alone-"

"No." Tech moved quicker than he could think, moving to her, crashing to his knees and grasping the skirt of her nightgown. "I can't be alone," His words were short of air, shallow. "Not again, not again."

He didn't want to look up. He just wanted to keep his face in her nightgown skirts, holding them- holding her- and forget what he had been running from. Hell, he had forgotten, the moment he saw her riding up to his stagecoach, like an angel of battle, and the only thing stirring in him was an overwhelming sense of her.

She moved her hands in his hair, shushing his cries. "Victor," She said, and the way she said it broke him. That concern, that love-

Quietly, she slid to her knees, too, and hugged him to her. "I'll stay, I'll stay with you. Or you can come sleep with me again." A rack happened in her lungs and she shook her head quickly. "Like last time. When I put my head in your lap-"

Tech picked his head up and kissed her, fingers winding in her coat. Her words were cut short by his kiss, the fire, the need in it. She hummed and pressed her hands in his hair, tugging him closer, tighter, and Tech felt like the fire- warm, hot, needy, comforting- his lust and his love were an oxymoron within themselves.

She pressed herself away, chest rising and falling against Tech's as her fingers brushed down to his waistcoat. Her eyes darted to his own, and she licked her lips, the delectible tongue peeking out from the supple fresh-kissed lips.

Tech ran his hand down the side of her face, the warmth exploding in his heart. "My, oh my," He sighed. Her skin was rosy, flushed from the kiss, cheeks the tint of rose-hips. "You're such a beautiful creature."

She sighed, leaning into him as he tugged her close, surrendering to his kisses.

Tech was done running for his past- he had found his future, here, in his arms.

[percival-c-mcleach]

Haunted Not By Ghosts- a McLeach fic.

The atmosphere was as heavy and thick as smog, stuck in time. The house, the barn and the ramshackle sheds were worn down from years of neglect, the barn having been particularly hard hit by time, half of its body rotted and given way to mushrooms.

The house's exterior had once been blue, now stripped almost completely to its wood and brick, with speckles of paint the only indication of what it might had been. The windows were cracked, rusted with dust. Weeds had forced themselves up between the boards of the porch, nearly obscuring the wood. Hidden among the vegetation was a dog bowl, a bright firetruck red that had now faded to a dull pink in the blistering sun, the faintest of childish block writing had faded too much to be read.

Taking a shaky breath, McLeach surveyed his childhood home. For forty years, it had laid abandoned, but it felt just as forboding now as it did back then, if not worse. Anxiety roiled in the man's stomach as he forced himself up the sunken steps, feeling the wood groan beneath him.

Joanna followed her master's footsteps almost exactly, not trusting the structural integrity of the building. She watched as McLeach hesitated with the doorknob, as if it would suddenly come to life and bite him. He gave a gentle twist of the knob- no luck.

"Aw hell.." McLeach huffed, twisting the knob harder. He jiggled the door, but the ancient wood refused to give. He crouched to examine the old doggie door-one he used as his personal entrance to the house-but he was now too old and too round for such an endeavor. Joanna looked between him and the door, noticing his pointed look. She shook her head hurriedly-no way would she be able to fit through there, and she was not looking to get splinters in her sides. Letting loose a curse, McLeach kicked the door-and it popped open nearly effortlessly. Quickly shaking off his surprise, he shouldered the heavy oak the rest of the way open, coughing as a wave of musty air washed over them both.

Once natural sunlight fell over the place, McLeach felt his breath catch in his throat- sans a thick coating of dust, the hallway looked almost exactly as he remembered it being. It was as if the other three McLeaches hadn't left the house; most of the decor still hung in place, with the addition of cobwebs. The coat rack still held his father's old bag, four pairs of slippers lined up beneath the side table, waiting for owners who would never return.

The house felt haunted. Not in the way most people came to think of haunted houses, brimming with ghosts; haunted in the sense that you could feel everything that had happened in this place. The anxiety only grew stronger, the further the pair ventured in. The carpet had faded from direct sunlight, but the patches in the shade of the furniture still remained its dark green color. Dust rose in clouds as man and lizard ventured carefully down the hall, with Joanna trying her best to hold in her coughing.

The family portrait was still there, hanging above a boarded-up fireplace. McLeach didn't blame anyone for leaving it, it wasn't something you'd want to have in your house. The sepia-colored photograph was dust-covered, but the man could still feel the cold, hard glare of his father through it. He raised his hand to wipe away the dust. The first to emerge was his mother. Thin-faced and tired, with her dark hair pulled up in an untidy bun. In one arm she cradled the newly-born Casey in his thick wool blanket, the other dangled down, gently squeezing the hand of a seven-year-old Percival. He had been small back then, missing two of his front teeth and a head full of hair like his mother's, dark and messy. Rubbing away the rest of the dust, Mr. McLeach soon followed. Towering over his wife and children, not even the shadow from the brim of his hat could have hid the starkness of his unnaturally light eyes. His large hand had a rough grip on Percival's shoulder then, the man grimaced at the memory. He couldn't bring himself to look longer at his father than was necessary. Even in photographs, he seemed to be glaring directly at his eldest.

Feeling claws on his leg, McLeach glanced down to see Joanna attempting to raise herself higher, she wanted a view too. He scooped her up as one would a toddler, though with some difficulty given her hefty weight. "Ay, you know who that is?" McLeach smiled, pointing to his mother. Joanna tilted her head quizzically- the human woman looked very distinctively familiar, even though she knew they had never met. "That's your namesake," McLeach continued, "My mama, Joanna. I promised that I'd name my firstborn daughter after her...and well, you count, I guess." Joanna wasn't able to understand just how important that was, but she felt it was very, very important. She waggled her tail happily, inching her snout closer to the frame. She clearly recognized the young Percival, and let out a rasp that sounded much like a wheezing laugh. "Go ahead, you looked weird when you were a kid too." McLeach rolled his eyes. His arms had started to ache, and he set her back down. He continued down the hall, and froze for a brief moment when he came to the wall opposite the sitting room's entrance. Beneath a framed picture of Casey with his model airplane, a round hole was at shoulder-height, the impact having shredded and burnt the faded yellow wallpaper. "..Damn idiot didn't bother to get it fixed after I left, eh?" He scoffed, "You see this, Joanna? You can tell I didn't get my marksmanship from Pops. He couldn't hit the broad-side of a barn." A slightly alarmed chirrup arose from Joanna's throat as she realized what that hole was, but McLeach didn't seem bothered by it. He breezed past the bullet-hole and past the sitting room, after taking a quick glance inside and finding that the armchair and couch were overrun with a brackish mold.

The kitchen was small, and had once been cozy. The kitchen window had broken, and one of his mother's prized climbing rosebushes had wormed its way in, leaving a layer of generations of rotting petals over the linoleum. Nevertheless, the rosebush itself was thriving, its creamy white petals shining in the golden sunlight. Reaching out to touch, McLeach couldn't help but to pluck one of the roses off, holding it in his palm. He had forgotten how silky-soft the petals felt, and how sweet it smelled; he closed his eyes and inhaled, feeling a sharp pang in his middle. A sharp pang of an emotion he couldn't quite describe. It was happiness and sadness rolled into one, and it left an ache. The smell reminded him of sitting outside with his mother, tending to the rosebushes together; if a blossom had just fallen, his mother would pluck apart the petals and keep them in a jar, preserved in the icebox until she got around to making soap and hand-cream. McLeach opened his eyes. The strange emotion only grew. He dropped the rose onto the floor, to join the rest of the fallen flowers.

Joanna had gotten braver, and went ahead of the poacher. She still felt intimidated by the house; she seen that her owner was as well. It was odd, to see him so on edge in a place that was so familiar to him. Maybe if she showed she was brave, he'd feel better. Crawling up a set of stairs, she gazed down the dim hallway. Four doors, only one of them was left ajar. Curiosity got the better of her, and the goanna went to take a peek.

The bedroom looked as if its occupant had left in a hurry. She could still see old toys and picture books on the shelves, a small, rickety wooden bed with moth-eaten blankets neatly made, with a shapeless lump that at one point had been a teddy bear sitting atop the covers. The walls were wallpapered, though it was difficult to tell what color they had been, for it was now all a dull grey. The posters on the walls were faded yellow, with vague shapes of rubberhose cartoon characters etched onto them.

Hearing McLeach wheeze his way to the top of the stairs, Joanna looked over her shoulder, and sat outside the door until McLeach could join her. He leant in the doorway of his old bedroom, soaking in the scene. After what seemed like minutes, he finally walked into the room, slow and quiet.

The thing of interest for McLeach were the picture albums on one of his shelves. The ones left exposed to the sun were faded-but maybe these were saved. He grabbed on and flipped it open, feeling a large lump rise in his throat when he seen that they were untouched. Smelled a little mildewy, but were still visible. He choked down the lump, flipping through each page slowly, wanting to savor every picture. His baby brother in his bassinet, wearing a goofy-looking baby bonnet. Flip. Their old dog, Blueberry, sleeping on the rug in the sitting room, a chewbone lolling out of his mouth. Flip. A photo of his parents on their wedding day, both looking much younger and happier than he had ever remembered them seeing; Mr. McLeach had looked kinder then, gazing at his bride with all the love and adoration that a husband was supposed to have for his life partner. Flip. His childhood friend, Ruby, sitting with the nine-year-old Percy on the river's rocks, holding baby ducklings. Flip. Flip. Flip.

These were happy memories; why did his heart ache so much looking at them? He shouldn't feel like this, looking back on what were the happier years of his life. Flip. Flip.

Percival's heart sank to the bottom of his stomach.

Of course there had to be pictures of Mr. Wells in here; back then, the McLeaches considered him as good as family. A tall, scrawny, unassuming man with shoulder-length brown hair, who had kindly and selflessly looked after Joanna and the boys while Mr. McLeach was away in the army- a second father figure, the reliant one, one who wouldn't yell and scream at the smallest of slights. After spending the summer with Mr. Wells as a boy, Percival wished he had stayed home. At least his father didn't play mind games with him, and when he hurt him, it was out of rage, and not premeditated. Not passed off as accidents that were all Percival's own fault. Not passed off as something he deserved, for something he couldn't even recall doing. The picture seemed so innocent. Just a kindly man with the boy he called his honorary son, on the back of a old mule at the fair. Percival knew better; he knew that under his child self's sweater was a nasty deep bruise, a bruise that hurt for weeks. Mr. Wells had claimed it had been an accident, that he hadn't meant to swing the shovel so hard into him. It was Percival's fault, for sneaking up on him like that.

'You'll be hurting for a while, Percy..' He could still hear that soft voice, too soft to note any real remorse, 'You frightened me something awful...I guess we learned our lesson on sneaking up on people, didn't we?'

We. As if it was a lesson they both learnt. As if it wasn't just one of the many thinly-veiled excuses used to hurt him. As if he didn't do worse, as if he did not permanently scar him physically and mentally. As if he didn't one day stop giving his excuses, once Percival had gotten too old to fall for them. As if it was the both of them having a knife held to the soft skin of their throat. As if it were the both of them who had to endure a full day and night in the skinning shed, surrounded by the dead, staring eyes of hogs. As if it were the both of them who had to endure nightmares, long after the torment had stopped.

It had always been 'We'. Never a 'I'm sorry.' It was always 'You.'

He had been brave only once. Brave enough to go to his father for help. How foolish of Percival to believe that his father would have stood up for his son. He never did such a thing before. The entire ordeal had been Percival's fault-his fault for being too stubborn, too much of a brat. If he had behaved better, Wells wouldn't have resorted to harsher punishments-it had been his fault he was treated so poorly.

For once, Percival stood up for himself.

Mrs. McLeach had tried to deescalate the fight. Mr. McLeach found himself with a broken nose, as Percival helped Joanna off the floor and out of the room. He only heard the safety click off before he had dove down the hall, sprinting from the door and into the night. "DON'T YOU EVER COME HOME!" For forty years he stayed away.

The strangled scream had terrified Joanna spitless. The goanna had been nosing around underneath McLeach's old bed, when her master emitted a sound so animalistic, that for a moment she feared that a big-cat had been hiding somewhere in the room. She immediately balled herself against the corner as the photo album was flung into the desk hard enough to shatter the frail wooden handle. The lump was back in McLeach's throat again, tighter and more painful than before, forcing tears to swell and blur his vision. His breathing came in ragged gasps, trying to keep the deep pain in his middle from winning. He crouched where he had stood, clenching his hands so tight that he felt as though they may break. He shouldn't be getting upset over this. He shouldn't be getting this upset over a goddamn picture.

It had been forty years. Why does it still hurt so bad? Why does it still feel so fresh?

The sudden warm weight crawling onto his lap tore him back into the present. Joanna scrambled as far up on him as she could. Percival hugged her as tight as he could, until his heart rate slowed back to normal, until he could breathe without choking. "Thanks." His voice was barely more than a croak. He took his bandana to dry his eyes with, "I'm sorry..I just.." he couldn't explain what had happened. Joanna understood though. She gently headbutted his shoulder, before slithering off of him and towards the photo album, picking it up in her jaws. McLeach took it from her, holding it in his lap. He'd tear out the pictures he wanted to keep, and leave the rest to rot in this forsaken house. The sun had just started to set as they made their way back to the truck, parked in the barren field next to the rotting barn. McLeach didn't even bother to give the house one last look before they drove off. Maybe now hadn't been the right time to come back. Maybe there never would be a 'right time.' Eventually, something had to be done about the place. Maybe he'd torch that haunted house to the ground. A house haunted, not by ghosts.

[frostsoldier]

A Certain Step

No warnings, just fluff except one line of Bucky's injury, but not detailed. Bucky x Reader Regency AU. 4,882 words.

A/N: This is a repost of something I wrote in 2017. Since then I lost most of my work, but was able to find this one and clean it up a bit. I also updated it to use fewer physical descriptions of the reader. Thanks @shreddedparchment ​for encouraging me to repost. Enjoy!

“Y/N! Y/N wake up, child! Captain and Mrs. Wentworth's ball is tonight and we must get ready! Don’t laze about!”

Y/N Y/L/N sat up in bed, ignoring the dizziness that came from moving too quickly. Her mother was right, she had overslept already and needed to prepare.

She pulled on her slip and, as she combed through her closet, thought about how she would like to present herself that evening. As the only daughter of a local gentleman – who earned enough in his mercantile ventures for his wife and child to live comfortably, but not enough for them to attend balls as regularly as their neighbors – she owned few dresses that would be presentable at a captain’s ball. Hiring a coach and horses, purchasing new dresses, and stocking up on ribbons – for who can forget ribbons – add up quickly.

Y/N was certainly considered beautiful, but without a large dowry she was in no danger of wicked men trying to snatch a fortune. She was lucky enough that, whomever she was to marry, her parents encouraged her to marry them for love, as they did.

She decided on a white muslin dress with her favorite lilac ribbon tied around the high, empire waistline. The muslin base was overlaid with a sheer covering with white stars she embroidered herself. She styled her hair up on her head, dotted it with wild forget-me-nots, and allowed some of the locks to escape and frame her face. Her mother came into her room, adjusted her hair to fall more evenly, and nodded in approval at her reflection.

"There. Aren't you lovely? Now, we have a little time before we must leave. Why don't you work on your bonnet you were trimming? Though, I think you and I both know you’re more likely to read that novel you keep going on about!"

"Yes, mother."

Y/N made her way to the parlor to read the latest novel she purchased in town. Her mother was right, she’d rather read than trim the hat she got stuck on three days ago and has refused to touch since.

Too soon it was time to go. She clambered into the small coach along with her mother and father with assistance from the coachman. As the wheels clattered down the dirt roads, her mother couldn't help but gush over the possibilities of the evening. Her father pretended to watch the countryside pass out the window, but Y/N knew he was listening to his wife's excitement. He had a small smile that he hid behind his hand while resting his elbow on the sill.

Her parents loved each other like no other couple she knew; the term wedded bliss seemed to be made for them. She was animated and cheerful, he was reserved and coy; together the two of them could be mischievous if they put their minds to it, which they often did.

She only hoped to have a love like theirs one day, but due to her small dowry she knew there was the possibility that she would marry a local, small-minded land owner who wouldn't encourage reading or dancing.

If there were three things in life she loved, it was reading, laughing, and dancing. No matter the tune or dance, she was a natural. The rises and falls of the music always moved her feet, whether it was a quadrille, a reel, or the slowly dying minuet, she loved all dance. Most young gentlemen that caught her eye were avid dancers.

The coach slowly pulled up to the hall as her family piled out. Her parents greeted the Wentworths, Mrs. Wentworth commenting on how lovely she looked this evening while Captain Wentworth and Mr. Y/L/N promising a drink together later.

As she walked through the doors the familiar feeling of awe and anticipation washed over her. The first dance was already starting on the wooden floors of the wide room. Chaperones were standing and sitting on the sides of the hall, some watching their charges more carefully than others. Men were flowing in and out of the card room, laughing and drinking along to the music. The musicians were in a balcony above the head of the room and several lines of dancers flowed down to the bottom. Young folks chatted and flirted at the ends of the sets while making sure they were ready to hop into the fray when the dance reached them. One young lady was so lost in observing her partner’s uniform that she started to balance when the rest of her set went to moulinet. She rushed to join back in, but the damage was done, and Y/N could see how embarrassed the young woman was.

Her mother came up next to her and entwined their arms as they walked through the room.

“There are many young people here tonight, especially with both the militia and Captain Wentworth’s men in town,” her mother said. “What do you think, has anyone caught your eye yet?”

“Mother! We’ve only just arrived!”

“You can’t blame me for asking, dear. You are my only child and I want nothing more for you than to be swept off your feet in a suitable match.”

“And what do you consider suitable for me, mother?”

“Well,” she started, glancing around the room at the gentlemen. “To start he must be handsome enough to tempt you, but kind and gentle. He must be well-read and – a definite requirement – he must enjoy dancing as you do.”

“I don’t know if anyone enjoys dancing as much as I do,” Y/N said, her mood faltering slightly.

“To be fond of dancing is a certain step toward falling in love, my dear," her mother confided in her. "Why, your father and I met in a ball just like this when I was your age and someday there will be a young gentleman who will love you just as much as he loves me. Who knows; maybe a suitor will make himself known tonight?"

She winked and turned back toward the room to view the ladies in their finery and the gentlemen viewing the ladies as well. Y/N laughed, shook her head, and returned to gazing about the room.

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

As they spoke, two gentlemen entered the assembly. The first to enter was blond with sweeping shoulders and dressed in the scarlet regimentals of the militia. His black boots clicked against the floor as he strutted into the room.

Following him in, the second had long, chocolate hair tied low by his neck and a clean-shaved, sharp jaw. He was dressed in the blue regulations of the Navy and the white lapels of a Lieutenant. His shoulders and arms strained against the sleeves of his embroidered blue coat, which he wore unbuttoned with his white linen shirt and neckcloth showing through. His expansive legs were covered by breeches and stockings, his black leather boots polished as to reflect the lights of the chandeliers above.

“Captain Rogers! Lieutenant Barnes! So glad you both could make it, gentlemen,” Captain Wentworth exclaimed as he approached the two newcomers.

“Thank you for inviting us,” Captain Rogers, the blond gentleman, responded. He gave a short bow to his Naval counterpart.

“Lieutenant Barnes, it’s good to see you out and about again. How’s your arm treating you?”

“As well as it can be, considering,” the lieutenant said in a slightly gruff voice. “I’m just glad to still be here, sir.”

“No need to ‘sir’ me here, we’re not on the Sophie now!”

Lt. Barnes smiled, knowing his former captain will always be his leader, “Sorry, force of habit.”

“No matter,” Captain Wentworth shrugged and gestured to the room. “Please, enjoy yourselves! Anne planned this evening for all to enjoy themselves.”

Captain Rogers and Lt. Barnes made their way through the room, chatting and admiring the general splendor.

It was then that Lt. Barnes heard the most beautiful sound: a laugh rising above the music and chatter. He searched about himself, looking for the source.

He soon found her, her head shaking side to side and loose strands of her Y/H/C locks moving with the motion. Her perfect lips were still curved in the aftermath of her laughter.

As she raised her head to gaze around the room, her Y/E/C eyes caught his stormy blue ones. They stared at each other in shock and the room seemed to lose all sound for a moment until she remembered herself and averted her eyes with heat rising to her cheeks.

He turned back to his friend, who had been admiring a brunette with soft curls from a distance.

“Rogers, do you know who that woman is?” Lt. Barnes said, clasping his friend on the shoulder to bring his attention in the direction of the beautiful creature.

The captain forced his eyes from his prospective partner for the evening and followed his friend’s gaze. He saw the young lady and didn’t recognize her at first, but saw the older woman she was with and inferred her identity.

“Why, that’s Miss Y/N Y/L/N! I’ve known her longer than I’ve known you. We grew up down the lane from one another!”

‘Y/N…’ Lt. Barnes thought, ‘A lovely name for an even lovelier girl. She looks like a doll…’

He shook his head and asked Captain Rogers to describe her.

“Well, she’s accomplished. She can embroider anything, makes hats and pillows, plays the piano forte, not a strong singer, mind you.” He looked back at his friend, and knew exactly what answer he was looking for. “She’s smart and witty too; a bit shy, but when she dances, she really opens up and enjoys herself.”

Lt. Barnes nodded and turned away from Y/N, walking toward the other side of the room. Captain Rogers was left standing in place, wondering what he said to upset his companion.

In truth, he had said everything right. Lt. Barnes may grow to like that girl, maybe even love her if he dared to hope. Only if.

While he has had the opportunity of winning prizes in his Naval career, it hasn’t left him unscarred mentally or physically and it weighed on his mind in the ballroom.

He has killed hundreds of men in the heat of battle. Fathers, husbands, sons, all of them had families they would never return to all in the name of the king and to prevent the tyrant Bonaparte from taking England into his clutches. He knew that if he didn’t do it, someone else would have to, or more English men might have died. It weighed so heavily on his mind some days that sleep eluded him for fear of the nightmares.

No woman deserved to share her marriage bed with a man half in agony.

Physically he was healthy – years of working on a ship has made him strong – but a life on a man of war has its risks. One of the largest causes of injuries on a ship was the shrapnel: pieces of wood that splinter due to cannonballs flying through the ship’s side.

It was one such exchange of cannon fire that caused his injury Captain Wentworth inquired about. He was below deck, assisting a gun crew after a midshipman had been struck, when a cannonball passed just to his left through an already weakened portion of the hull. The shrapnel ripped through his coat and shirt altogether.

The result was a devastating injury to most of his left arm, which remained covered in scars from his wrist up to his shoulder. He remained self-conscious of them long after the wound had healed, and they still bothered him sometimes, especially when it rained.

No woman deserved to be on the arm of a man who couldn’t even stand that arm himself.

As he continued to circle the room, he noticed Y/N again, this time helping a poor young lady off the floor after she was knocked over by a clumsy boy running through the hall. Concern splayed across on her face and her kindness radiated enough to reach him in his dark moment. As the young lady thanked her and went back to her party, Y/N looked up and their eyes met again. He bowed his head and she gave the slightest of a curtsy, the limit of what interaction they could have without being properly introduced.

As she turned back to, who he assumed was her mother, he decided to try to be worthy of her kindness, at least as an acquaintance and even if his heart yearned for more.

He wove through the crowds back toward Captain Rogers. When he met with him, Lt. Barnes leaned close to his ear.

“My friend, would you please introduce me to Miss Y/L/N? I find that I’ve been caught in staring when I cannot look away and am afraid she may think poorly of me before she even knows my name.”

The captain gave a wide, toothy smile at his friend, who was already enthralled with Y/N again.

“Of course. Shall we?”

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

Y/N first saw the young Naval officer when their eyes met after her mother’s cheeky remark. She observed that she was not the only young lady in the room who appreciated his appearance. He, however, didn’t seem to notice them as he appeared to be distracted in his own thoughts. She kept an eye on him to make sure he would be alright. She didn’t know why she felt a yearning to comfort him; it might have been the storms she saw in those eyes.

Suddenly there was a commotion next to her and a young woman was on the floor. She quickly reached down and offered a hand in assistance. After being assured the woman was alright, she turned her attention back to the crowd and found the Naval officer already looking at her. He nodded to her and she ducked a quick curtsy to him; unsure what compelled her to interact with him.

He returned to who she assumed to be his friend, a militia man whose back was to her. All she could see was his close-cut blond hair and his regimentals. The Naval officer said something and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She averted her gaze before seeing who he was talking to and turned back to her mother. Mr. Y/L/N had long left for the card room and Mrs. Y/L/N tried to tell Y/N about how she just saw Mr. and Mrs. Bertram and their daughter.

She forced herself to pay attention to the conversation at hand once more, though some piece of her remained with the bewitching officer.

Her mother was soon distracted from discussing Miss Bertram’s dress by a familiar face approaching them.

"Captain Rogers!" Her mother exclaimed, curtseying as he bowed. "Why, we haven't seen you since the regiment left for Meryton!"

"Well, Mrs. (Y/L/N), the regiment has returned, and at the height of the season too! Did you know that Mr. Knightly and his family arrived not five minutes ago, and we should be expecting Colonel Brandon’s family as well…”

Lt. Barnes and Y/N looked on in the conversation, occasionally glancing at the other when they thought they were not being observed. Finally, Lt. Barnes politely cleared his throat at his friend.

"Oh, my apologies!" Captain Rogers made a slight bow toward him. "Mrs. Y/L/N, Miss Y/L/N, may I introduce Lieutenant James Barnes, my old school mate. Lt. Barnes, this is Mrs. Y/L/N, who was practically a second mother in my youth, and Miss Y/N Y/L/N just as much of a sister to me.”

The ladies curtsied and Lt. Barnes bowed to the women.

“It’s wonderful to meet both of you, though it is shameful that Captain Rogers here,” he said turning to his friend, “hadn’t told me about you before.” He glanced at Y/N at this remark, who lowered her eyes, but had a hint of a smile.

“I certainly have!” the captain said looking comically aghast. “Do not listen to him, Mrs. Y/L/N, I spoke often and fondly of your family while at school.”

“Not to worry, Captain Rogers, I will only cry a little at being forgotten,” Mrs. Y/L/N feigned dabbing at tears. “You had more important things to focus on, like getting into trouble at school, or so I’ve heard.”

“Me, never! A bit of mischief is all.”

“Come now, Captain,” Lt. Barnes said, “I had to get you out of more than one scuffle as I recall.”

“I was only 10! After you enlisted in the Navy, though I did have to rethink my opponents.”

“Who knows how you would have ended up if you hadn’t!” Lt. Barnes said, wagging his finger at his friend as if he was still a school boy. Y/N tried to stifle a laugh when she imagined the bickering the two got into as children. Lt. Barnes, however, heard the small noise and smiled at her.

“And what kinds of mischief did you incur as a little Miss Y/L/N?”

She scoffed slightly at the accusation, “I was nothing but well-behaved I’ll have you know, Lieutenant!”

“Oh, come now, my dear,” her mother interjected. “Why I remember one time you convinced the poor captain here that if he stared long enough at the bark of a tree in the center of town, he could see the outline of a grand ship!”

Y/N blanched, “Mother!”

Lt. Barnes let out a barking laugh which turned into harsh false coughs upon seeing his friend’s warning glare.

“Ahem, yes, well it seems we are all guilty of some infractions of propriety in our youth.” He leaned toward Y/N as if it were a great secret. “I once tricked the captain into thinking it was good luck if he caught up to a fleeing cat and gave it goat’s milk.”

Captain Rogers groaned at the memory.

“I ended up with hoof-shaped bruises, scratches on my hands, and tears in my new clothes. My mother was furious with me!”

Y/N could not suppress her laughter this time, and Lt. Barnes beamed at the sound.

The captain looked between the two, as did her mother. Both arched their brows and then glanced at each other. Captain Rogers cleared his throat and everyone turned to him.

“Well, if we’re done poking fun at my childhood,” he said, “I believe I saw Miss Carter earlier and I must greet her and her cousin. Mrs. Y/L/N, Miss Y/L/N.”

As he departed, Lt. Barnes was left in the company of the women and a silence fell among them. Mrs. Y/L/N said that she believed she saw an old acquaintance too and would like to greet them, but didn’t say who it was. Y/N was about to offer to come with her, but Lt. Barnes interjected.

“Well, Mrs. Y/L/N, if you would not mind,” he said glancing at Y/N, “I would like to ask Miss Y/L/N if she is free for the next dance.”

Y/N, shocked into silence, didn’t say anything at first until her mother not-so-discreetly nudged her arm and she came to her senses.

“I’d be delighted, Lt. Barnes.”

He smiled and offered his hand to lead her to the line of couples preparing to dance.

With the first few notes he bowed and she dipped low in a curtsy, glancing up as she rose and noticing he was looking at her. He smiled as the dance began at the top of the set, where her attention shifted to a few couples away. Y/N watched with a keen eye and smiled as she recognized the figures.

"This is one of my favorites, Lt. Barnes," she said, trying to keep her poise as the dance progressed toward them.

"And why would that be, Miss Y/L/N? Is it the figure when the lady leads through, allowing your figure to appear even more to the greatest advantage? Or perhaps is it the proximity to your partner leading the line of four down the hall?"

She looked at him in amusement for such a speech, especially his barely hidden compliment of her figure. She decided then to risk impropriety and make such a compliment herself.

"No sir, I enjoy this dance as it allows one to test the talents of one's partner," she said, noticing the dance was about to approach them. She had to act fast. "But I must agree with you, sir, that it puts both parties of the couple in a fine light."

When the tune looped again, they reached for each other with their right hands and started to turn. She could feel his warm hand lightly gripping hers through his glove, the strength hidden by long fingers. All too quickly they had to let go, but turned back by the left hand.

As they turned, she looked into his eyes, the irises matching the stormy seas he has sailed for many years, though she didn’t know what troubled him.

"When did you first join the Navy, Lt. Barnes? Were you a small gunner boy running about the deck like a monkey?"

"I was a young gentleman, only about 12, but I learned quickly," he said, seeming to shake off his distraction and remember something funny as they crossed by each other.

"Something other than the dance amusing you Lieutenant?"

He smiled again, as he walked in front of him back to her side and he to his.

"No, I was just thinking of someone you remind me of from when I first joined."

They crossed again and met in the middle of a line, leading down the hall. As they advanced and retreated she gave him a playful glare out of the corner of her eye.

"No one too roguish I hope?"

"No, no, not at all. A most principled fellow, but imaginative," he said as they crossed up and met in their progressed place, starting the dance again.

"Imaginative? You think such of me, Lt. Barnes?"

"Well the second question you asked of me was if I ran about like a monkey! I'm sure you pictured a mop-haired young lad climbing where he shouldn't and getting into trouble!"

"Well knowing Captain Rogers, and knowing that you're friends with him, it wouldn't surprise me in the least if you had a similar penchant for mischief at that age."

She could swear that he smirked at her comment, but the dance required them to turn away from each other at the last second, so she couldn't be quite sure.

"No, actually, it was your dear friend who caused the most mischief. I came to his rescue many times."

Y/N giggled and Lt. Barnes thought it was the sweetest sound he has ever heard.

"Now that I don't doubt at all. He once managed to get one of my family's poor chickens stuck in a tree. It took hours to coax it down. Clearly from your story earlier, he has a way with animals."

He laughed heartily, earning a few glances from the couples around them and making him duck his head bashfully as they casted to place.

Y/N smiled at the now easy-going man and the dance continued for the better part of 15 minutes. They discussed more about his career and found they had a common enjoyment of novels.

As the tune ended, they both honored each other again and prepared for the next piece of their set, which turned out to be his favorite, The Physical Snob. As this particular dance didn't allow for easy conversation due to the fast movements, he instead enjoyed how energetic Y/N was with her dancing and watched her skip around with the other ladies.

They continued to talk at the bottom of the set while waiting to rejoin. After the tune ended, they gave their bow and curtsy and would have continued together, however propriety required that the other be shared among the eligible dancers in the room.

He attempted to come back to Y/N for another two dances later in the evening, however she was already requested by Captain Rogers, who gave his friend an apologetic look before starting to lead the young woman to the sets.

Lt. Barnes leaned down close to her ear before she followed and in a whisper asked if she would be so kind as to save the next two for him. She blushed and with a coy smile said that she would.

The evening ended with the Boulanger, danced into the early hours of the morning with the sun rising above the grove. As the guests started lining up to bid their hosts goodnight, Lt. Barnes and Captain Rogers stood beside Y/N, her mother, and her father once more.

"My dear Captain Rogers," Mrs. Y/L/N started, "we will have to have you for a family dinner, at least three courses!"

The Captain bowed to her, stating that he would be honored to join the Y/L/N family for dinner, while his friend’s gaze caught Y/N's out of the corner of his eye and she saw that barely hidden smirk again.

As her mother and father gushed over the ball with the Wentworths, Captain Rogers made himself scarce as to allow his two friends time to bid their farewells for the evening, knowing there was a spark of something in their meeting.

"I hope your family has a safe trip home, Miss Y/L/N."

"Thank you, and you're staying with Captain Rogers, are you not? I hope you both arrive swiftly and safely as well, though he does only live a short trip away. Not that something couldn’t happen in such a short time, but it’s not likely, is it? Oh, I don’t mean to tempt fate by saying it’s unlikely…"

He grinned at her rambling and could tell she would have continued if the Wentworths hadn't rescued her with the expectation to say goodnight.

As the family and friends made their way outside, Mrs. Y/L/N and Captain Rogers hung back a bit and made tentative plans for a dinner, their hushed voices would have hinted at some conspiracy if Y/N had noticed.

Lt. Barnes bid the Y/L/Ns goodnight and offered his hand to assist Y/N into their coach. She gladly accepted and they both felt that same connection as when they first danced earlier that evening.

"Goodnight, Miss Y/L/N."

"Goodnight, Lt. Barnes."

Their eyes stayed connected as the door closed and the coach started to ramble down the path. He continued to stare after the coach until it was out of view before sighing and turning back. His friend stood there, arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

"It seems you are quite smitten with her, Lieutenant."

Lt. Barnes straightened his back and looked his friend in the eye, but then blushed and his bravado was all but gone.

"When do you think I can see her again?"

Captain Rogers laughed and put an arm around his friend, telling him in a soft voice what the sneaky captain and Mrs. Y/L/N discussed. Lt. Barnes's eyes bulged with the information and finally he chuckled and looked back to where her coach had disappeared.

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

Y/N finally turned back to facing forward in the coach, sighing silently over the loss of Lt. Barnes's company. Her mother noticed this and a flash of a smirk went across her face before she composed herself.

"Well that was a lovely evening, wasn't it, Mr. Y/L/N?"

"Yes," he said, "excellent games of cards, good food and drink, better company, a brilliant evening indeed."

Her mother took this opportunity to catch Y/N's eye.

"Well, my child, what did you think of the ball and its company?" she said arching a brow.

Y/N felt heat in her cheeks again, but controlled her smile.

"Yes, mother, it was a wonderful ball. I will have to write Mrs. Wentworth first thing in the morning to thank her for the invitation."

"And it was so nice seeing Captain Rogers again, and all grown up and in the militia now! Oh, and what was his friend's name... It's on the tip of my tongue..."

Y/N knew what her mother was doing, but decided to play along.

"Lt. Barnes."

"Yes! That was it. A pleasant enough fellow, and quite handsome too. You danced with him, did you not, Y/N? Twice if I remember correctly."

"Yes, mother."

"How was his company during those dances?" Her mother's eye sparkled with mischief as her daughter averted her eyes.

"Like you said, he was quite pleasant. I would not mind seeing him again."

"That's good to hear child, because he and Captain Rogers are joining us later this week for dinner. The captain and I have already set it up, and goodness knows how late that could run. It'd be a shame if they might just have to stay for the evening and enjoy a walk around the gardens the next morning."

Y/N, shocked by the revelation and her mother's audacious planning, could not speak for a moment, but moved her mouth in an attempt. She finally schooled her features and smiled knowingly.

"Yes mother, that would be quite dreadful, but I'm sure we'll make it through somehow."

Her mother turned back to her father and Y/N looked back out the window.

'Dancing is a certain step toward falling in love, indeed,' she thought to herself as the sun rose over the woods of their home.

[rubysunnday]

No. Six

A/N: i actually wrote something, bloody hell (no, this isn’t Umbrella Academy despite what the title says)

Growing up in Birmingham wasn’t pretty.

Literally and figuratively.

Growing up in a family of six was even worse.

Over her nineteen years of being alive, Y/N Shelby had often wondered who or what she’d wronged in a past life to deserve being the youngest of a family of idiots. When Polly used to make her go to church on Sunday – something she’d stopped doing as soon as she could because if God was real, why was the world so shite? – she often silently asked what she’d done wrong and how she could fix it.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like her family – love was a very strong word, one that wasn’t said… at all, really – they just drove her up the wall.

Ada was the one sibling who rarely managed to annoy her - the two only succeeding in driving each other insane twice and, even then, it wasn’t for long.

Her twin brother, Finn (who was only ten minutes older but seemed to think he was a whole year older), was the main culprit behind her exasperation. He wasn’t the brightest tool in the toolbox and it often led Y/N to wonder how on earth he’d survived nineteen years on the planet without even coming close to dying.

“I didn’t mean to stab myself,” Finn muttered as Ada prodded the stab wound, he’d somehow given himself whilst chopping carrots. “I thought it was the carrot.”

“Well, they do have a similar resemblance,” Y/N replied. She was sitting on the kitchen table, legs swinging back and forth, as she tried not to enjoy her brother’s pain too much.

Finn turned his head to glare at her sister, regretting it almost instantly when he accidentally looked at his very bloody hand. “Oh, fuck.”

Arthur sighed and handed Finn a bucket, begrudgingly rubbing his back as he threw up. “Alright, you’re fine.”

“Somewhere out there a tree is working very hard to replace the oxygen you consume,” Y/N said, scooting across the table, away from Finn. “Now go apologise to it.”

“You’re one too talk,” Finn groaned, head in the bucket.

“Finn, love, everything that comes out of my mouth is pure gold,” Y/N replied, picking up a piece of chicken from the plate next to her. “You lot just never fucking listen.”

“Y/N, you’re not helping,” Ada snapped, taking a moment to glare at her sister.

Y/N licked her fingers and sighed. “I know… I’ve just got nothing better to do than annoy you lot.”

When Finn wasn’t causing complete havoc in the household, it was usually John.

Despite being married – twice – and a father to far, far too many children, John still acted as if he was a child. Y/N had lost count of the amount of times she’d been woken up by John falling down the stairs because he was too drunk to remember that they went around a corner.

Out of all four of her brothers, however, John was – not that she would ever admit aloud to anyone – her favourite. He always seemed to know when she needed cheering up or when she need someone to take her mind of things.

As a rule, the Shelby’s were not a very affectionate family, but John was the exception to that rule. He gave the best hugs – the one’s that could almost piece every broken part of you back together again – and he wasn’t afraid to show his soft side to his siblings.

That didn’t stop him from being a complete twat, however.

“I was going to ask how, but then I remembered I don’t care,” Y/N said, frowning at John who had, somehow, managed to get his car wedged between a wall and tree.

John sighed, hanging his head. “Y/N, for once in your fucking life, can you just help and not make a sarcastic comment?”

“John, you’re the one who taught me to be that way,” Y/N replied, jumping down from her car and walking over to him. “Besides, what exactly do you want me to do about it?”

“I don’t know!” John yelled, throwing his hands up. “Fucking fix it?”

Y/N sighed, leaning on the bonnet of her car, crossing her arms. “Have you tried pushing it out?”

“Yes.”

“Driving it forward?”

“Yes.”

“Moved the branches?”

“Yes.”

“Have you tried reversing it out?”

John paused, frowning slightly. “Ah, fucking hell.”

“You’re welcome,” Y/N called, jumping back into her car. She reversed it back far enough for John to reverse his car out – albeit with a lot of screeching and swearing from both him and the car.

Tommy and Arthur never, usually, caused an issue.

Well, for Y/N, anyway.

The age gap between her and her two oldest brothers meant they’d never really gotten close or had a chance to actually be siblings. Y/N rarely talked to them since neither one was around much, both off running the company.

She saw more of Arthur than she did Tommy. She normally saw him at the Garrison when she was working – because god forbid a woman who wasn’t married be allowed to work for the Shelby Company – and she was often the one to kick him out and send him home.

Arthur was more of a parental figure in her life than a brother. Y/N didn’t remember her mother and had no recollection of their father ever being in their lives – all she remember was Arthur being the one to look out for her.

“Evening,” Y/N said as Arthur sat down at the bar, taking his hat off and burying his head in his hands.

“Mmhm,” Arthur muttered, his head dropping onto the counter with a loud thud.

Y/N turned around, setting aside the glasses she was drying, and grabbed a fresh bottle of whiskey and two glass. She placed them down and poured the whiskey out.

“On the house,” Y/N said, sliding the glass over to her brother. “Well, since you own it, it’s your own shit so who cares.”

She reached over and clinked her glass with his as Arthur looked up at her, a puzzled expression on his face. Y/N looked at him and raised an eyebrow as she swallowed the sip of whiskey she’d taken.

“Oh, what?” Y/N asked, knowing the look on her brother’s face never meant anything good.

“You’re not usually this nice,” Arthur said, picking up his glass.

“Well, I am to Polly and Ada.”

“My fucking point.”

Y/N smiled, chuckling as she finished her drink. “Well, being the youngest of six does mean all concept of ‘nice’ goes out the fucking window.”

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head as he downed his drink in one, slamming the glass back on to the table. “You know, it’s still weird seeing you in here, working… living. I keep thinking you should be back at the house, in bed or getting ready for school. Yet, here you are, wearing John’s old shirt and trousers –“

“Nah, this is your shirt,” Y/N corrected.

Despite what many people thought, Y/N wasn’t opposed to the skirts and dresses her aunt and sister wore. She just didn’t like them as much. It made running and breaking up bar fights considerably harder.

Y/N had realised that Tommy and Arthur never really bothered to mend the shirts and trousers that got holes in them. They just threw them out because they had the money to just buy new ones. Y/N – who had never quite gotten to grips with the fact they had money now – always rescued the clothes from the bin or pile of scraps and mended them enough to let her wear them.

They were always far too big, but she just rolled the waist band up or wore a belt with them and it tended to do the job.

Y/N slid the bottle of whiskey over to Arthur and nudged his hand. “Don’t seem so surprised. I never quite got over the fact we don’t have to be frugal anymore, so I took your old clothes – and Tommy’s, too – and mended them up and wore them myself. Besides, I look a lot hotter in these than I do a dress. I think it’s the waist band, it does wonders for my hips.”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head as he poured himself another dink. “Y/N Shelby, you are a fucking wonder to me.”

“Why, because I’m nothing like you or Tommy?” Y/N asked, drying another glass. “You don’t see it, Arthur, but I’m a lot more like the both of you than you think. I can just hide my hatred of the world.”

Tommy was, if Y/N had to say, the sibling she had the worse relationship with. Over the years she’d realised that she was far too like her brother for them to ever get along because Tommy just constantly saw himself in her. She would’ve loved to have a better relationship with him – she was always envious of how close Ada was with him – but eventually just realised it would never happen.

Because Y/N was the spitting image of her brother, she just hid it all better.

The one and only time Y/N and Tommy had a meaningful sibling moment that didn’t involve yelling and screaming at one another was shortly after Grace had died. Y/N hadn’t seen him in weeks – he’d disappeared off the face of the earth entirely without a word – but she’d found him one night, sitting on a hill, by himself.

She’d been out riding, gotten lost and – long story short – had somehow found herself at Tommy’s house despite starting out over ten miles away.

Tommy had looked up as she rode up to him and had frowned slightly, looking around to check that it was, indeed, night time.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He asked as she walked up to him.

Y/N waved a hand. “Got lost, long story. More importantly,” she said, kneeling down opposite him and warming her hands in front of the fire, “why are you moping up here in the cold?”

“Doubt you’d understand, Y/N,” Tommy muttered, taking a sip of his flask.

Y/N sighed to herself, sitting cross-legged on the cold grass and leaning back on her hands. She looked up at Tommy, eyes scanning him. “Tommy, you’ve probably heard the same fucking apology speech a dozen times this past week from a dozen different people. None have helped because you blame yourself for what happened.

“Our family isn’t one for affection and, well, for being nice to each other. We never used to even be able to have a conversation without screaming at one another so, whilst I’m almost certain you are high, I’m going to add this one to the list of successful conversations.

“Tommy, look. Life is… shit. But we all knew that already. It doesn’t get any easier. It gets a whole lot worse. Losing Grace will be one of the hardest things you’ll have to live with, and you will always run that moment over in your head, wondering ‘what if?’. But, what’s the point in dwelling in the past so much you forget what a gift the present is.”

“And what fucking gift is the present gonna give me, eh?” Tommy asked, glancing at his sister, his tone cold. “My wife is dead, because of me.”

“Yet your son is still alive.”

Tommy’s cold eyes flicked up to look at Y/N. His brow furrowed slightly as he took in her words. He raised his cigarette to his lips and took a long drag of it.

“Tommy, we don’t get to decide who lives and who dies, despite what you think,” Y/N said quietly, leaning forward, her face being lit up by the fire in front of her. “Nor do we get to decide who tells our story. But, your son, is still alive and breathing. If anyone is going to tell your story and be the one to continue on your legacy, it will be him.”

Y/N stood up, dusting the leaves off the bottom of her jacket. She gave Tommy a small smile and turned around, walking back to her horse.

Tommy watched his sister as she rode off without another word, leaving him and his thoughts alone once more.

[mrs-nate-humphrey]

it’s halloween month so I would love to know any and all of your dan/nate halloween headcanons (bonus points if milo’s there too) 🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡

you sent this on the first of october like the wonderful festive pumpkin pal that you are! but i have been sooo no thoughts head empty,,,, and i wanted to give this actual deliberation & thought before diving right in, so....

DAN, SPECIFICALLY:

ok. i think dan would have complicated & conflicting feelings re: halloween. we already know, canonically, that rufus was really into halloween, so this paints a pretty elaborate image in my head of halloween at the humphrey household - i bet it was a lot of fun! but then, of course: alison left. i think holidays in general become difficult for dan in the After, because they remind him of a time his family was truly happy that he cannot go back to.

so halloween is always bittersweet for dan, he'll carve all the pumpkins and get nate all the pumpkin flavoured stuff from all the cafes, and his wardrobe is so full of browns and sweaters that he's always ready for fall anyway, and he's happy! he is. but sometimes he'll remember another family he used to be part of that's all fractured & fragmented now, and he'll get a little sad. it happens less frequently over the years, but it never quite stops. (nate the ever observant always puts an arm around him and kisses his cheek, and says something silly to make dan smile. sometimes they talk about it; most of the time they don't. but nate is always there, quiet & non-judgemental, waiting for when/if dan needs him.)

NATE, SPECIFICALLY:

on the contrary........ halloween is natie's absolute FAVOURITE. much like the thanksgiving flashbacks we get in 1x09, i feel that halloween for nate, during his childhood, would involve being with blair & serena and all of them having the time of their lives. i think anne & howard would drop him off at the waldorfs, and eleanor would entrust blair & serena & nate to dorota's care. when they're younger they go trick or treating, and blair is very serious and very prim & proper and has on a perfect, sophisticated costume (she dresses as movie characters always) while serena's in a state of chaos, her costume for whatever she's dressing as (usually a witch or a ghoul or something like that) is a bit lopsided, the ribbons in her hair are coming out, her makeup is smudged (not deliberately!). nate, naturally, is sort of in between those two states - blair dolls him up and sets him to rights, serena takes his hand and runs around with him until his costume is a little wonky - by no means as much as hers, but definitely not in pristine, blair-approved state. blair just gives serena & nate a tired, Adult look, like they're toddlers and she's the babysitter (this doesn't change over the years, and this dynamic sets in remarkably quickly.)

once they're older, there's alcohol, there's halloween parties maybe, but nate still sticks with blair and serena, and they still hang out with him. halloween & the first of november are THEIR days, because they always do a sleepover on the 31st, and waking up together on the 1st of november is just something that makes the day Theirs, to nate. so unlike dan, for nate, he DID have that family feeling, and he had it consistently over the years, and he knows that it exists still.

DAN & NATE, FINALLY:

nate gets so excited for halloween! he goes full on into event-planning mode. he and jenny get really engrossed in designing costumes for the humphrey gang, and dan is like "who are you again?" and nate gives him the finger + an unamused look. halloween is a great bonding time for dan & jenny's gf, actually, because both of them get to watch their partner be an absolute dork over the holiday AND get really into designing (which is normal for jenny but not for nate, lol.) they just sit together and share drinks and act very, very cynical.

dan knows that halloween month is a special month for nate, and he's determined Not to be a grouch, so he goes out of the way trying to keep that cheer alive. he bakes sugar cookies that he ices to look like ghosts, he carves pumpkins, he does All The Things. but in a similar vein, nate knows that halloween month is a bit rough for his bf, so he is extra cuddly and patient, and goes out of his way to remind dan again and again that he loves him, that they're family now, etc.

i think halloween would also bring a lot of gender feels to dan, who gets this one holiday in which it's socially acceptable to wear makeup and doll himself up and dress up as whoever he wants to be. i think that'd give him a lot of euphoria, a lot of questioning, and a lot of anxiety, all at once, and i think nate would just be there like a stabilising force, because nate just loves dan that unconditionally, whoever dan is, even if dan is figuring that out - nate loves dan. i had more to say about This Point specifically but i am so tired, i kind of forgot what it was.

oh!!! vampire movies. all of them. nate and dan WOULD. they'd watch endless nights and they'd watch vampire porn and they'd definitely sleep together after THAT. nate would bite dan's neck and repeat some dialogue from the porno, and dan would laugh, but he would also be so, so turned on. (what! parts of this are literally canon!)

since dan also canonically reads anne rice (i wonder if he's one of the fic writers who got a cease & desist or whatever she was sending at them back in the day, that would be an interesting dan humphrey backstory) i think he'd read it aloud to natie. nate would just be lying there with his head on dan's lap, and dan would be sitting up reading aloud, one of his hands carding thru nate's hair.

at a blairena halloween party one time, dan and nate dress up as... *drum roll* each other. are you surprised? yeah, me neither. they keep making risque references to That Night At Yale, and blairena threaten to kick them out of the party (empty threats.)

MILO HUMPHREY MY BELOVED:

i wish i had more milo headcanons than just "jenny designs extremely elaborate costumes for milo, and nate goes trick or treating with him" but that's kind of it. milo would also end up wearing a LOT of orange-brown-maroons to school all through october (dan is like, nate, the kid is 5, is this the age to put your fall agenda onto him? nate is like, yes.) i think once he's older, milo would start getting these ridiculous mugs home in october - a pumpkin mug, a mug shaped like a skull, a mug shaped like a skeleton hand, etc. think mugs that look like THS thing that krysten ritter is holding:

dan looks at the collection of horror themed mugs they have with equal parts dismay and pride, and looks at nate like, yeah, you sure did raise this kid alongside me, didn't you? this is all YOUR influence, babe.

i also feel like milo would wear black nail polish ALLLL the time. he'd start during halloween and just never stop. i mean. if you're curious about this, i have two words for you: aunt jenny.

BONUS:

nate finds photos of a younger dan trick or treating - dan must be 7 or 8 in these photos, and he & vanessa are both dressed up as witches, with the hats and everything. dan is carrying a pumpkin shaped lantern, and marx is sitting in the lantern, peering out from inside it.

dan just smiles, and goes, "yeah, when i was a kid, all my costumes involved marx in some way." there's marx with angel wings (looking extremely disgruntled), there's marx with a green blanket around him ("he was a caterpillar that year," dan informs nate seriously), there's marx with a little bonnet on his head ("he hated that SO much," dan laughs).

the humphreys adopted marx when dan was around 7 - and given how unconcerned rufus is by lily's lack of pets - when he moves in with her, they do not discuss getting a cat or a dog or a bird or anything.. i'm guessing that maybe alison and dan went to pick marx out. i think dan and jenny have both seen marx grow from being a kitten to an adult cat, but because dan was older he remembers it slightly better. and dan and that cat were INSEPERABLE, to the extent wherein dan would often put marx in a pram and stroll him around everywhere. (there are halloween pictures of this, too.)

anyway, i'm just saying.

"he was my partner in crime," dan says fondly, looking at a picture of marx.

"i'm your partner in crime," nate corrects him.

"well, yeah," dan says. he raises an eyebrow. "but do you really need to compare yourself to my cat?"

/end

[dreamescapeswriting]

Moonlight and Stars ~ HJS [Request]

↱↱↱Word Count: 1.8K

↱↱↱Genre: Fluffy

↱↱↱Pairing: Han Jisung x Idol!Reader

↱↱↱A/N: Again I am really sorry about not being able to write the horror one you wanted but I hope this makes up for it sweetie!!!

It was the first time in months that Stray Kids had a real break and Han was going to use it wisely. He'd been wanting to see you in concert since he started training but he'd always been too busy or when he wasn't busy your concerts weren't on so he never could see you but finally the stars had aligned and he was able to go and see you.

"You sure you're going to be okay on your own?" Chan asked as he drove Han in the direction of the venue your concert was happening in, Han nodded at the older member he'd been looking forward to this for months he wasn't about to back out now right at the last minute. He'd gotten front row passes and he was able to go backstage to meet you after the concert was over since he was an Idol just like you were.

"Yeah, it'll be fine." He promised Chan who smiled at him softly. Han wasn't the best with crowds of people he didn't know but he was getting better at it and Chan was proud of him for doing something that was a little more out of his comfort zone than he was used to since Han was so used to being the one on the stage instead of in the crowd.

"Text me when you need picking up," Chan said as they pulled up outside the venue, it was already packed full of people lining up to see you and Han nodded sliding on his hat and mask before hopping out of the car and going to stand in the line with everyone else. Keeping his head down so no one would recognise him, he didn't want it to turn into a night for stray kids when it was a night for you. Y/n Y/l/n one of the most known solo singers in the world.

"I had a rumour that this is her last ever concert..." Han's ears picked up at the sound of it and he stepped closer to listen in to the conversation but without making it look obvious,

"Yeah I heard it too, the company she's with is dropping her?" They went into a deeper conversation but Han ignored it not wanting to listen to rumours, he was an idol so he knew what rumours were...Just rumours although sometimes they could be true so he tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and focus on getting excited to see you sing.

You were a sweating panting mess up on the stage and you giggled into the microphone looking over at everyone in the crowd,

"You guys have been amazing!" You screamed into your golden microphone eyes glancing over everyone in the crowd, you couldn't believe it would be the last show you would ever do for them and you couldn't help but start to get emotional over it.

"I want a photo of us all together, shall we do it?" You asked looking over at the side of the stage where a photographer was waiting when the crowd screamed yes you got into the centre of the stage and posed for a photo with them, making plans to sit the photo on your desk at home. Han smiled as you got up from the floor and cleared your throat into the mic, he couldn't help but feel upset that the concert was ending but there was something wrong, there was something on your face that made him ache and he could tell you were upset over something,

"So there are-" You cleared your throat again as you started to tear up at the thought of addressing what you were about to address to everyone in the room,

"There are some rumours going around at the minute that I know some of you have heard." Han's heart rate picked up at the memory of what everyone was talking about outside the venue,

"And I wanted you to be the first ones to know that unfortunately those rumours are true and I am retiring from my company." The crowd literally began booing and Han stared up at you, you had tears rolling down your face as you spoke about it and he could tell it wasn't something that was your choice.

"Hi, thank you, everyone, for everything you've done for me over the years. I know there is no real way I could ever thank you so I just upped your pay a little and I hope you guys know I love you." Han heard you saying to the crew backstage, he'd gone to get a coffee for himself and you while he waited for the backstage pass to be used. The crew all left and you were alone in an empty hallway,

"You alright?" Your head snapped up to see Han Jisung from Stray Kids standing there and you almost fell over the air as you noticed him staring at you, then you realised you hadn't said anything yet.

"W-What? Me? Yeah, I'm cool. You?" Cool? Did you just say you were cool? You wanted to slap yourself across the face but Han was laughing softly and handed you a cup of iced coffee,

"Thank you, Han,"

"You know me?" You nodded at his question and giggled at his widened eyed expression he looked adorable,

"Who doesn't? Also, you happen to be in one of my favourite kpop groups." He chuckled and smiled at you suddenly forgetting everything he wanted to talk to you about until he saw a tear rolling down your cheek, out of habit he reached out and wiped it away shocking you both as you locked eyes.

"S-Sorry I just-"

"It's fine, was just a little shock." You giggled trying to ignore the spark you felt when his hand came into contact with your skin and Han tried to forget about the butterflies in his stomach.

"Are you retiring out of choice?" You stared down at the floor you weren't supposed to speak about it since you'd signed an NDA restricting you from giving out information about it and why you were being let go but Han didn't need an answer. He could tell by the look on your face that it wasn't your idea to quit,

"We could talk about it if you want...I won't tell anyone." You looked up wanting nothing more than to spill your guts to someone but you heard your name being called by a stage manager.

"I have to get to the small meet and greet...Can I take you out for a coffee and we talk about it?"

Taking him out for coffee didn't happen, you ended up getting in your car together and driving to the beach even though it was pitch black out you both decided it was a nice evening for it. Even though you'd never met Han before you had a strange feeling inside of you letting you know you could trust him with everything, and he had a sort of aura around him that made you feel relaxed and easy-going with him.

"What was the reason they gave for firing you?" Han asked as you sat on the bonnet of your car looking out at the sea. The only thing lightening up the area were streetlights and the stars which gave the setting a romantic feel but neither you nor Han cared about that,

"I wanted something they didn't, it was in my contract and I decided I didn't want something like it being taken away from me." You whispered not wanting to admit what it was but Han stared at you,

"Which was?"

"Dating. No dating until 8 years of working for them and it had been 3," You sighed sliding down from the front of your car, you kicked off your shoes and stepped down onto the sand letting it relax you as you felt it. It was the first time in years you'd been to the beach without a pack of guards around you, or photographers following you. You and Han had gotten lucky, ditching dispatch and heading straight for the beach to relax without a care in the world, as though you weren't famous.

"Eight years? Even JYP was slack and gave us three years." Han said following your lead and walking alongside you down the beach, looking at you as you tried to explain everything that the company had put you through.

"I guess I should be happy it's over but I just- I'm going to miss performing for my fans." Han nodded along and stopped you from walking by taking hold of your wrist, you stared at his hand and then up to his face.

"You don't have to stop performing though, you can move to a different platform...Start performing on Youtube and grow a fanbase there." You hadn't thought about it before, you just figured everything would be gone the moment the contract was done but Han had a point,

"Plus you can always go to other companies, plenty of people would be more than willing to let someone as talented and beautiful as you work for them."

"Beautiful? Y-You think I'm beautiful?" He nodded with a bright red blush creeping up onto his cheeks even in the low lightening you could tell he was blushing.

"Yeah, I mean- yeah, you're great and you're like- You know-" He couldn't finish a sentence because you lent over and kissed his cheek, his grip on your wrist dropped and you instantly felt bad for kissing him...He could have been dating someone, he could have just seen you as a friend or anything.

"Sorry." You whispered looking down but his fingers were on the bottom of your chin tipping your face up to look at him, he was no longer the blushing mess he was before, there was something different about him as if someone had flipped a switch and he brought your face closer to his. Closing the gap you kissed him and your arms wrapped around his neck and he moved his hand to your waist, bringing you closer to him as he kissed you. It was like your whole world was on fire the moment it happened, everything else around you melted away and it was as though it was just you two in the entire world. It wasn't until you had to come up for air that the world slowly began to seep back into your mind,

"So yeah," He said awkwardly with a chuckle behind his words, you giggled and bit down on your lip looking up at him not knowing what to say not that you'd just kissed your ultimate crush.

"I erm, can we- Will you do that again?" You asked nervously and he obliged bringing you closer to him once again connecting your lips and making out with you as you stood under the moonlight and stars.

Tagline: 

@writingdreamsnottragedies @yoongisdumplingcheeks @snowy-meowl @jooniesdarlingdimples

[doctors-star]

16 for cowboys??

“Look, I care about you, alright? Quite a bit, I’m afraid.”

Johnny flops on his back, head slightly downhill of his feet in a way which makes the blood in his skull rush and whirl bewilderingly and his eyes pressed closed against the burning-bright sun, as yet undimmed by the afternoon. Someone drops a hat on his stomach and he flinches as though it had been a cannonball, sticking his tongue out and playing at being injured like the hognose snake Will had found in the shade under the general store’s porch - he’d rescued it from being killed as a copperhead, scooped it up in his hat, and brought it round to Ainsel’s back window to show the kids, thoroughly derailing all schooling for the day, as they all crowded around the hat to watch the creature resolutely turn on its back and stick its tongue out in repeatedly feigned death.

He stretches massively on the grass, smiling at the gentle laughter and the feeling of someone sitting near him and reaching across to give him two firm pats on the flank like a well-behaved horse. It’s been a long day, and it started early, but Johnny does like the big drives and hay harvests - all Danser collected together for one purpose, to help their neighbours and be rewarded in turn. Before dawn, he’d been drummed awake by fists on his door and had dressed quickly in the dark to stumble out into the street and go about mustering up others in turn. Of their little gang, he’d been first out of doors, followed by Will - looking bleary but drawn out by the other men staying in the saloon - then Ainsel, who seems to think they might be more use in bed than on horseback every time they see their own horse, then Tommy and Finn looking respectively disgustingly bright and alert, and still mostly asleep. Will, with his extremely biddable broad-chested nearly-a-draught horse, is quickly co-opted into driving one of the carts out of town and along the dusty prairie roads, uphill to the Wilder ranch to deliver tin pails of food and heavy stoneware bottles of drink and the very young and the very old, so that all of Danser may equally participate in the drive. Johnny, Finn, Ainsel and Tommy saddle up and cut north through the prairie, up the steeper side of the hill where the road can’t run; there, Diaz, Wilder, and Wilder’s eldest lad are calling instructions over the heads of the crowd and pointing in disparate directions to where the cows oughtta be, and where the cows oughtta go. A further crowd of skirts and fine hats - for today the town congregates, and it had better be in full finery and Sunday best - has collected around Mrs Wilder and Mrs Diaz to make tea and grits and beans cooked with salt pork in molasses, the scent sticky and inviting on the air even now, with hours of cooking left. Johnny tilts his nose into the air and breathes deeply, shooting a wink at Jody Masham when she passes near and earning a delightfully saucy grin for it. Her ma notices, of course, and gives him the evil eye, but Jody lets her fingers trail down his thigh from hip to knee on the pretense of admiring his horse and looks up at him through her lashes and he could perish on the spot for love of her, so what does he care anyhow.

She passes up chunks of soda bread, steaming in the dawning light and golden with butter, and he tosses them to his fellow riders - dinner will be late today, what with the distance the herd might have gone. And then they’re away, riding nearly the full complement of the town’s horses across the plains to where the herd stands, sedate and well-fed on the last of their summer grazing and ready to be collected up, split once more between Wilder and Diaz, and stowed in smaller paddocks with good solid barns over winter.

There ain’t no point in racing, really. There’s no advantage to getting there ahead of any other person. Johnny grins up at the sky, remembering the wind in his hair, hat brim in his teeth, crouching low over his horse to eke out those crucial inches that keep his horse’s nose ahead of Finn’s as they hoot and holler with the freedom of the run.

“Aww,” Finn says in a tone of very mocking gentleness as he nudges Johnny’s knee with the toe of his boot. Johnny cracks an eye open in preparation to glare at him for the inevitable teasing; against the bright and sunny sky, Finn’s hat is like a halo though his face is dark in the shade. “Didya go too fast today? You ain’t got no endurance, Johnny.”

Johnny allows the glare to settle, but before he can retort, someone on his blind side snorts. “No endurance - how many girlfriends has he got, again?”

Johnny chokes on startled laughter. Finn is wide-eyed in delight as he stares across Johnny’s prone form. “William,” he says, sounding scandalised.

Johnny props himself up on his elbows and sticks his hat back on his head so’s he can watch Will spread his hands defensively. “What,” he says, “I can’t be crude sometimes?”

Finn gestures at his own cheeks. “Naw, sure ya can, only it makes your face go so red that I get worried about ya.”

“That’s just the sunburn,” Tommy says cheerfully, clapping Will on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway and dropping to the grass next to Johnny. As promised, Will’s fair skin is flushed with embarrassment and striped with an angry red across his angular nose and cheekbones, the skin already starting to peel from a day under the sun. He huffs and folds to the floor, knees up to his chest and sleeves shoved up to his elbows to display a bar of red down his forearms too.

“I hope you weren’t teachin’ my kids that kind of joke,” Ainsel says, an enormous black umbrella hooked under forearm and over shoulder to shield them from the sun as they carry a wicker basket in two hands packed with tin pails, bread, biscuits, and bottles over to their little circle. The rest of the town is ranged likewise on the hill overlooking the town and, beyond that, the desert; the horses are tacked out near the farmhouse; the kids themselves are enjoying the freedom and sunshine having been released from hay harvest duties and are tearing up and down the hill, weaving in between groups and only occasionally stopping by their families to grab more food before haring off again.

“I have done no such thing,” Will objects crossly, but Ainsel gives him first choice from the basket and tucks him under the umbrella and out of the sun when they sit beside him so it’s quickly forgiven.

“He was exceeding useful,” Noel pronounces, kneeling by the big enamel dish which represents their share of the molasses and beans and salt pork, and wielding a large spoon like a sword. Johnny gathers that she had appeared some time after dawn, to the disparaging muttering of many of the elder town ladies, but had done so with such a quantity of fine bread and pickles and preserves that her critics had been forced to quiet down to faces of pinched displeasure while Noel held court, knowing that it was not a competition and that she had, regardless, won. She had then gone about supervising the hay harvest, keeping the younger kids in line and occupied while those trusted with scythes cut the hay and Will, on horseback, ran the new hay tedder up and down the field, and then releasing them to stack the hay under her exacting eye. Jody and Peggy had been amongst the scythers and had told Johnny with mouths full of giggles how Will had been left “in charge,” and then done every single thing Noel told him to without complaint or thought of defiance - but the harvest had been done, and Danser is too fond of Will to mock him for being hen-pecked by a woman he hasn’t even married.

Johnny reaches across to ruffle Will’s hair, but he ducks away like a feral cat. “Aww,” he laughs, “you’re useful.”

“Wish the rest of you were,” Will grouses, folding sulkily around his plate.

Tommy catches Johnny’s eye and grins wickedly. He beams in reply; Noel sighs in advance. “It’s true,” Johnny says, assuming a woebegone expression and trying not to snigger when Tommy looks similarly sorry for himself. “We ain’t good for anything whatever. Wholly useless, and you don’t love us.”

Will sniffs, mouth turned down comically in disdain. “You’d be mad to do otherwise,” he tells them sternly, in his finest clipped tones - brought out for special occasions, and their amusement.

“Why, Mister Williams, that don’t reflect very well on me at all,” comes a voice behind Johnny’s left shoulder, light and familiar fingers coming to rest there in accompaniment. Distantly, Johnny is aware of Finn choking on laughter and cornbread, and of Will straightening awkwardly with an air of panic, and of Tommy smirking and kicking at the sole of Johnny’s boot in a teasing, vaguely encouraging fashion - but mostly Johnny is aware of those five delicate points of gentle contact over the ball of his shoulder, and the swishing press of skirts against his side, and how if he tilts his head right back and left he can see all up the willowy line of Jody Masham, hip to hair, her blue eyes and golden curls like a field of cornflowers. There’s a little compressed mischief at Will’s expense tucked into her smile, and Johnny wants to kiss at it until she shares it with him; and there’s a loose, frizzy loop of hair that has escaped from the large bonnet that keeps her pale skin free of the sun, and become darkened with sweat and flyaway in the heat, and Johnny wants to press his nose to it, smooth it between his fingers, tuck it carefully away with pins so that she needn’t mind it - he could do that, he thinks, could give up on all other professions but following Jody around to tidy her hair and carry her basket on one arm, shielding her with a parasol with the other hand.

“Um,” Will says guiltily. “I - well-”

“Don’t you dare say you didn’t mean it,” Ainsel says sternly. Jody is smiling fully now; she is so beautiful Johnny could burst.

“I’m not going to lie to the lady,” Will replies, relaxing out of his tense, guilty stance to be indignant at the idea that he might. She is rubbing little circles into his upper arm with her thumb now: Johnny could not tell you for love nor money what Will just said.

“Well,” Jody says, a laugh bubbling in her voice, “how ‘bout you lend me this young man in recompense an’ we’ll call it quits? I’d like a word.”

Johnny is already scrambling to his feet, pressed up on his toes in eagerness to follow her away. Her hand slides down his arm, shoulder to elbow, and the press of it leaves hot lines in its wake that make him shiver. “Ma’am,” Finn says politely, not without amusement, “you keep him.”

Jody curls her fingers around his elbow joint and guides him gently a ways away from everyone else. Once done, he scoops her hands up in his own and holds them carefully like something immeasurably precious. She smiles indulgently and nods at the basket on her other arm, which he’d barely noticed. “Present for you,” she says.

Johnny juggles her fingers into just one hand, freeing up the other to push aside the flannel cover and fetch out a thin, steaming disk of fried batter. “Johnny-cakes,” he says, delighted.

“Couldn’t resist.” He takes a bite, savouring the salty cornmeal cut through with sticky maple syrup, and grins broadly at Jody. She laughs at his enthusiasm and allows him to feed her the other half without letting her hands go, chasing the syrup from his sticky fingers with her tongue until he can barely breathe.

“So, what’s the word?” he manages, biting the tip of his thumb to keep from kissing her, here where her ma is almost certainly watching.

“The word.” Jody bites her lip, huffs a big breath, and looks away - and a solid feeling of dread settles in his stomach. He’s had it good for so long - with Jody, and Cathy, and even Peggy and Anne-Marie, in a way - and he’s always known it wouldn’t last, and that it would ruin him, and-

“The word is baby,” Jody says eventually, tilting her head to one side and pinning him with her gaze, eyes narrowed in consideration. All thoughts leave Johnny’s head in a moment, to be replaced with vague, foggy panic. “Not-” she squeezes his hand until it relaxes a little and ceases crushing hers, “not right now, Johnny, jesus. Come back.”

The fog recedes and he musters up a gentle pat of her fingers in apology for squashing them in his paw. His hands are so much bigger and stronger than hers, tanned and weatherbeaten where hers are pale and delicate with flour worked into the nailbeds, and he oughtta be more careful with them. With her, and with - with the word, if there is to be one.

He can’t tell how he feels about that, in the moment.

“Sorry,” he says ruefully, offering her a clumsy, lopsided smile. “I weren’t - anyway. You go on.”

Jody takes a deep breath and nods firmly, gaze fixed at some point on his left shoulder. “Alright, I will. Johnny, I’ve spent the day cutting hay with a whole herd of the town’s kids, an’ it’s occurred to me, I want one.”

“I’ll get you one,” Johnny says on instinct, like he does with everything Jody says she wants however unrealistic, from hair ribbons to haywains to the entire Union Pacific Railroad. And then she raises an eyebrow at him, and he remembers how that’s what they’re talking about, actually, and to deflect from this he nods his head at one of the kids pelting past on little chubby legs. “That one’ll do - will he suit ya?”

Jody’s face relaxes into amusement and she huffs, leaning forward to press her forehead into his sternum. He must stink of sweat, and wants to tell her to shift in case he does, but he doesn’t want her to move like he doesn’t want to lose his right arm and she doesn’t seem to care. “Sweetheart,” she says into his shirt, “you ain’t never gonna be friends with my ma if you go about giving her grandchildren by stealin’ em.”

“Not even a little one?” Johnny says, tilting his head to catch her eye and watch her giggle. “‘Sides,” he says, considering it with a slight frown, “not sure she’s over fond on my givin’ her grandkids the other way, neither.”

Jody leans back, smiling. “Only ‘cause we ain’t married,” she corrects brightly, and then falters back into seriousness, biting her lip. Johnny squeezes her hands in careful encouragement, for he feels (fears) they have reached the crux of the matter. “Johnny, I - I wanna have kids. Not today, or tomorrow, or maybe even a year or two yet, but I want ‘em. An’ - I know we’ve not ever been traditional, but my ma - my ma really is gonna disown me if I ain’t married when I have ‘em, so.” She shrugs, fingers tapping in agitation against his palm and her gaze fixed back over his shoulder. “I’m not saying now, but I am sayin’ someday, and if that don’t fit with you someday then - I gotta find someone else. An’ I don’t know how that someday fits with you and Cathy, or Peggy and Anne-Marie, or - or I guess just with you, but I’m sayin’... I don’t mind, I guess, so long as you do right by the kids, and we’re…” She trails off.

“Miss Jody Masham,” Johnny says solemnly, raising her hands between his own, “are you askin’ me to marry you someday?”

She meets his gaze at last, frowning shrewdly at him. “Depends,” she says shortly. “Are you gonna say yes?”

Jody hasn’t never said she loves him. Johnny doesn’t need her to: he knows she does, on account of how she smiles at him and teases him and trounces him at cards to win kisses five nights in seven on lamplit nights where her ma can’t see them. And he bandies about words of love to everyone and everything, enough for the both of them, and they’re well-settled into the kind of long-standing devotion that doesn’t need professing very much. She’s told him before that she’s no good at romancing others (though personally Johnny reckons she’s not bad) ‘cause of how she can’t be sentimental with them; she loves them, and they gotta figure that out, or they ain’t trying hard enough.

Johnny told her he loved her on their second meeting, but then, he’s like that. Always has been. And it doesn’t mean he loves her any less, or any more, than she does him; he’s just got an awful lot of love to share, and she doesn’t mind him sharing it.

He could be married, he thinks. He and Jody could do it, and do it well, and marriage was always waiting for him somewhere - now that he’s not looking at it down the barrel of some angry pa’s shotgun, and without the threat of that too, it looks mighty appealing. They’ll have to get a house, of course; somehow stop renting, and own outright, but how hard can that be? He’ll get her fine printed calico, and build a table for her sewing machine, and Ainsel will school the kids. Finn and Tommy can teach them to ride and make great pets of them, and this time years from now Noel will have them harvesting hay neatly under her stern eye, and Will can bring them hognoses cradled gently in a hat.

He could live in that future, and live long and well.

Johnny pretends to think about it, but lets his grin slip through so’s she knows he’s teasing. “Well, you ain’t hardly romancin’ me.”

She purses her lips against a real smile and uses their hand grip to punch him gently in the chest. “I brought you johnny-cakes, special,” she objects, and he laughs. “Look,” she says firmly, “I - care about you, alright? Quite a bit, actually, and so you’re just - gonna have to deal with that.”

Johnny ducks in close and presses his forehead to hers, beaming. “An’ I love you too,” he croons to make her blush, and then ducks under her bonnet and kisses her softly. He can do that, now - here before the town, on the day of the hay harvest and cattle drive, for they are, someday, to be married.

Jody pulls back, smiling secretly in the corners of her eyes, and strokes a hand through his hair. “I always forget,” she says absently, eyes on her fingers as they comb and tangle in his curls, “how nice your hair is without your hat on.”

Johnny frowns, puts a hand up to his own head. “Where is my hat?”

“It fell off when you leaned back to see me,” Jody supplies. “You didn’t seem to notice.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t remember that.

Jody smiles with resigned amusement. “Lord help me,” she sighs, “for I’m marryin’ a moron.”

Johnny puffs up in indignation. “You don’t have to.” Of course she doesn’t - Jody Masham is the prettiest girl in the county - the west - the world - and could have any man she pleases.

“Naw,” she says, rubbing her thumb along his chin. “I’m gonna.”