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stellasdrafts · 3 months ago

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Planting Roots - James Kelly

Summary: you meet your new neighbour… or rather, he catches you staring. (James Kelly x Reader)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: mild suggestive dialogue, age gap briefly mentioned (reader is in their early 20s, James is in his early 30s), kinda ditzy reader, female reader, no use of Y/N, fun banterrrr.

Notes: in this house, we <3 hayden christensen.

You were so excited to finally have your own place. You worked your ass off throughout high school and college to save up for a nest egg. You survived roommates from hell and even worse dining hall food. The second you got your degree, you decided to leave everything behind and get the hell out of Dodge. That’s how you now find yourself in New Orleans. The house you bought is humble and in a rather shitty neighborhood. But hey, at least you aren’t in your hometown. You surprisingly don’t mind the sketchy neighborhood all that much. Sure, you’ll have to invest in some pepper spray and maybe a crappy security camera system, but at least the space is your own. It’s not like you really plan on socializing with your neighbors, anyway.

So you dragged in your own furniture – all procured locally. You didn’t exactly have the room to pack up your entire life in your car. You dragged the dusty couch you found on the side of the road up the porch steps. You heard scraping, though if that was the underside cloth ripping, the stubby legs getting scratched, or the inevitably termite-infested deck wood falling apart, you weren’t sure. You broke a sweat in the sweltering New Orleans summer moving thrifted tables and chairs and not that many boxes (still too many for your lone liking). All this while feeling some eyes on you. You’re sure you seem like some kind of crazy. Who moves houses entirely by themselves? Whatever, this is a clean slate. Who cares what they think of you? Here, you can be whoever you want to be, no matter how unserious and antisocial. The house isn’t… maximalist, but decoration is a luxury that will come with time. You have your essentials, and that’s what counts. So you get used to the vicious-sounding dogs barking in the middle of the night, hearing couples argue through not-well-insulated walls, and the weird smell lingering outside. After all, this place is your own.

You’re breaking apart boxes on your porch when you hear the loud ruckus of your next-door neighbor yanking open his front and storm doors. He leans against the front of his house and fishes a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his oil and grime-stained gray coveralls. You’ve caught glimpses of him around before – mostly during his much too-frequent smoke breaks, and sometimes if you happened to be up when he left for work. Other than that, he keeps to himself. You assume he’s a mechanic from his usual attire and the beat-up old car he likes to tinker with in his driveway.

You’d be lying if you said he isn’t a bit attractive. A lot attractive, actually. Part of you feels a little guilty. He looks to be older than you – maybe around his early to mid-thirties. It’s not age that really bothers you, you’ve shamelessly been attracted to older celebrities before… There’s just something more humbling when it’s a tangible, real-life person whose house happens to be eight feet away from your own. From what you’ve gathered during your little ogling sessions through your windows, he’s tall, with short dark brown hair and a few tattoos. One of which is an intricate design cascading down his right arm and hand, though you’ve never been close enough to quite make it out. It’s that right hand that now flicks on his damaged lighter in a way so natural that you assume he’s done it thousands of times before. For some reason, you’re mesmerized by the way he moves. Now that you get to see him from a bit closer, he truly is fucking h-

“Can I help you?” his voice breaks you out of your trance. He speaks with the cigarette dangling from his pink lips. Shit. Those stormy blue eyes are locked on you as he blows out a puff of smoke, awaiting your response.

Fuck it. Fresh start. You decide to lean into getting caught staring by laying it on thick. It’s not like you usually cross him outside anyway. “I could think of a few ways.”

The handsome stranger’s brows shoot up, surprised by your bold response. A smirk plays at his lips, his left hand in his coveralls’ front pocket. He pulls the cig from his lips between two long, tatted fingers. “Care to list them?”

Oh god, he’s actually going along with this. You did not plan ahead. You feel warmth rise to your cheeks. “No, no. I don’t do harassment.”

“And staring at me isn’t?” He tilts his head and takes another puff.

You can’t help but smile. So the man’s got a sense of humor… “Oh no, that’s just people watching.”

“People watching, huh?” Small whirls of smoke escape him as he speaks. “And what’ve you gathered?” He exhales.

It’s your turn to smirk and tilt your head. You move up closer to the railing of yours facing the side of his house. “You’re on track to contract lung cancer by age forty.”

He chuckles and raises the cancer stick to his lips again, utterly unfazed. “Oh really?” He takes his time to exhale, looking straight into your eyes for all of it. “What other genius observations have you made?”

You hum and purse your lips, deciding on what other information to reveal that won’t seem too much like a stalker. “You live alone… And I’m pretty sure you’re a mechanic.”

He smirks again. “Not bad. You a Sherlock Holmes wannabe or somethin’?”

“Only if you’ll be my John Watson.” You grin.

He chuckles, a small, genuinely amused smile tugging at his lips. He looks you up and down, and it seems like you’ve brushed off on him because he doesn’t bother hiding it before looking back up to your face. “Guess that makes you the smarter one. That’s kinda hot, Sherlock.”

You pretend to be exaggeratedly flattered because, in reality, your heart is pounding out of your chest right now. “Awe, you think?”

“I do.” He walks up to lean on his railing – which, by the way, looks like it’s about to tumble over. “You’re very attractive, you know that?”

You mirror his actions and lean on your own railing. “And what makes you say that?”

He smirks, seeing right through you. “I don’t think you really know what to do with yourself when someone’s givin’ you the attention that you give them.”

Oh, damn. You blow out air. “Well, shit. We were being playful until you went real on me.”

“Ah. I hit the nail right on the head, huh?” He laughs softly.

You laugh as well. “I swear, I’m not a slut or anything. The only reason I opened with a borderline creepy line was because I thought you’d ignore me. I figured I’d at least have some fun out of it.”

The hot neighbour just smirks. “So I’ve noticed.” He takes another slow drag of smoke. “You thought I was gonna ignore a pretty girl in short shorts on her porch?”

So that’s how he’s going to play it… Truth be told, you hadn’t even given much thought to your clothes- some risky denim shorts and a cute little baby tee. You suppose you should now that you live somewhere where the houses are so tight together. “Ohhh, so you’re the slut out of the two of us-” you feign realization.

“Oh really?” He snickers and looks down, his gaze lingering on your little shorts for a moment. “That’s a bold accusation, Sherlock.”

“You’re not denying it, Watson.”

“Mm. Guess I’m not.” He smiles smugly and flicks some ashes off the cigarette before his eyes wander back up to meet yours again.

The sight makes your ego swell a bit. “Who’s staring now?” you tease.

His smile turns into a wolfish grin. He shifts his weight against the railing, making a point of maintaining eye contact. “Ah. So we’re even.”

“I guess so.” You laugh and offer a genuine smile, truly amused by this man.

His smirk fades for a moment as he notices the authenticity of your beam. It catches him a bit off guard – the way it lights up your face. “Hey, Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Your smile is cute as hell, you know that?”

You try to suppress the joy that fills your chest from the simple compliment. You can’t explain the hold this stranger has on you. “Thanks, Watson.”

“You should smile more.” He leans up straight again as the soft smirk returns to his face.

You smirk right back. “Are you saying that in a creepy guy at the grocery store kinda way or a genuine way?”

“It’s a ‘you look nice and I’m trying to compliment you’ kind of way.” He chuckles lightly.

Your cheeks warm up. “Honestly, I think you’re the only person around here who’s made an effort to talk to me.”

He glances at the neighboring houses. “Yeah, well-” He points at the house across from yours. “That’s Mrs. Dowers – she’s barely sentient. The others don’t really talk much. We’re not exactly a block party bunch… Everyone around here’s kind of an asshole.”

“Ah.” You nod, looking along the road. “Lucky me.”

He just appears to be entertained by your sarcastic responses. His gaze lingers on you a moment before he speaks again. “I’ll be honest, Sherlock. You don’t seem as much of an ass as the others are.”

You shrug with a playful smile. “Give me a few days.”

He laughs again, surprised by how much he’s actually enjoying talking to you. “So you’re secretly a dick, huh?”

“Oh yeah. The full nine inches.”

“Ohhh, impressive.”

It’s your turn to laugh, glad that he’s matching your humor. It’s fun to shoot the shit with this man. “I mean, I don’t go around showing it off to everyone, but-”

He shakes his head, licking his teeth. After a moment, he nods in the direction of the abandoned half-destroyed boxes on your porch. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t have had to move around heavy boxes and furniture by yourself, you know?”

Your teasing grin returns. “You were lookin’?”

“You weren’t?”

Fair point.

“Your boyfriend wouldn’t help ya?” he continues.

You shoot him a half-hearted glare to let him know you’re onto him. “Don’t have one. I don’t have the most bustling social life at the moment.”

“You sure ‘bout that?”

You cock a brow. “About what? That I’m incredibly boring or painfully single?”

“The second one.” He scoffs. “You not interested?”

“Not actively searching… but not opposed if an opportunity came up.” You feel a sense of relief, recognizing where this conversation is going. It was inevitable, really, with the way you’ve been talking.

He thinks for a second before speaking again. “So, if I said I was interested, what would you say?”

You straighten up from leaning on the railing, suddenly feeling the need to hold yourself with some air of self-regard. “That depends. You like girls who play hard to get or those who get straight to the point?”

“Mm. Guess I prefer getting right to the point. I don’t do too well with hard-to-get.”

You hum. “Then I’d say when and where?”

He grins. “You free tonight?”

Your smile shifts into a more earnest one to let him know you appreciate this. “Yeah.”

He finds himself liking this more sincere side of you that slips through the jokes. His shit-eating grin softens into a warmer smile. “Alright, then. You mind if I come knocking at your door around six? I know a great Chinese place.”

You nod, starting to back up toward your door. Fuck the mess of boxes, you need to start getting ready now. “It’s a date.”

He chuckles, lifting his hands. “You gonna tell me your name?” he calls out.

You laugh. “Isn’t it more fun this way? It’s not like you don’t know where to find me.”

He shakes his head in disbelief for the second time that afternoon and pushes himself off of his railing. It makes his exposed forearms tense. “Fair enough, Sherlock.”

“Later, Watson.” You disappear into your house.

A tree. The tattoo veiling his right hand and arm is of tree roots and its trunk.

Maybe this neighborhood isn’t so bad after all.

Author’s note: I don’t know how to feel about this one 😭 I kinda just went off and had fun with the dialogue so pls don’t take it too serious (gets cringe if u look too hard). I know James is ooc, I see it as more of a fun what-if-u-were-neighbors-and-both-hella-flirty headcanon. Also I like giving my reader characters lil personalities so sorry if it’s one of those “I would never do/say that” instances. We just have fun here. Thanks for reading <333

#james kelly x reader #james kelly #hayden christensen #hayden christensen x reader #american heist #james kelly x you #one shot #fanfic #x reader

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bitchimasnake-sss · 10 months ago

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i love from me to you sm! 😭 like it aimed directly to my heart 😭 you're so good at writing stuff so, here i am asking for a zoro!fic where reader hides that she got wounded during their last battle and zoro founds out and our poor moss head thought reader was gonna die so, he confessed (i just love flustered zoro) 😚 n e ways, continue writing the best stories!! lotsoflove! - glasses of nanamin

i feel like this is your second ask cause of the "n e ways" but lol, eitherways that's such a cute concept!! i would love love love this (i tweaked the prompt a little bit to fit it better, but i hope you like it it still)

got me losin' my cool ft. roronoa zoro!

set-up: as anon asked!! you get hurt during a fight and zoro almost has a mental breakdown haha live, laugh, love <3

warning: a bit of angst, zoro is a dumbass. otherwise, wholesome!

roronoa zoro's feet pound against the earth and he was sure that with every leap he took, his heart sunk further under. his fingers were clammy. so very clammy against your soft skin. and he was sure the sweat dripping off his forehead and dropping onto your bloodied tank top was the last thing you wanted to see before you died.

"zo—" you rasped helplessly and your voice felt like graters against his skin. your chapped lips, almost closed eyes, the wound on your stomach and your week, blood-stained hand on it. he couldn't even bear to look at you without wanting to breakdown.

"stop talkin, please." he clenched his jaw tighter, the sound of teeth against teeth jarring. and although he refused to look down at you, cradled carefully in his arms, he could hear the desperate heaves that rocked your body.

he picked up the pace, ducking under hanging vines and leaping over overgrown roots of ancient trees carefully, so, as to not hurt you. the ship should be two minutes away, docked at the edge of the island and chopper must be there. and chopper would know what to do. how to help you.

zoro had to just deliver you to chopper.

but with his poor geographical skills, he felt like he had been running for the past thirty minutes without finding the ship. and he was certain the ship was docked only 10 minutes away from where the fight was taking place between the strawhat crew and a local pirate crew.

"zoro—" you started again.

why were you speaking? DID YOU WANT TO DIE?

"—don't use up your breath. please." he panted, feet still working to find the ship. where was that goddamn ship?

"that side—" you winced as you pointed your arm in the opposite direction. you coughed, wincing again before whispering, "the sunny."

zoro's head whipped around to look behind him. and at once, he changed the course. running as fast as he could, he soon found himself at the rocky beach the ship had been docked at.

"CHOPPER!" the swordsman bellowed for the mini doctor as he climbed up the ship. the reindeer was peering over the deck and when he looked at your nearly passed-out figure, he yelped in surprise.

"she got stabbed." zoro explained as he carried you inside to chopper's makeshift office/operation theater. laying you down gently, they both looked guilty as you groaned and clutched your own hand on the wound tighter.

"i need to apply some anti-septic, clean the wound and stitch it up." chopper stated, eerily calm in the heat of the moment. "here—" he gave zoro a sterilized cloth from his cupboard, "—apply it to her wound. put pressure on the area, i need to go make the anti-septic really quick."

"you have to make it? how long will that take?" if the swordman wasn't scared out of his wits, he would be surprised at how desperate he sounded.

"five minutes."

zoro looked at the reindeer wide-eyed. but the reindeer ran off, presumably to make the said medicine.

he looked back at you, putting the cloth to the wound and gently pushing down. he knew how to make the bleeding stop, he had done this multiple time. what he hadn't done multiple times was see you so lifeless, so incredibly overtaken by pain.

"hey." he found himself saying softly. softer than he had ever spoken before, "hey, can you look at me? hear me?"

you nodded slowly and relief washed over him. atleast you hadn't lost all cognitive senses.

"just focus on my voice, okay?" he knelt down so that he was on your eye-level from the bed. his other hand gingerly took ahold of yours. mindlessly, he rubbed soothing circles on your skin. he repeated, "just focus on my voice. yeah, close your eyes. i'm here okay?"

you found yourself closing your eyes, relying solely on the darkness of your eyelids and his voice to guide you to safety. his hand felt like a familiar weight against your stomach, the kind of touch that will renew a dead man and get him climbing back from his grave. his voice was sweet, too sweet to be even called his.

"i—" he paused, rubbing your skin with the pad of his thumb, "chopper's gonna fix you up, you know. h-he always does. i mean you're stronger than this. you'd survive, right?"

he's not sure if he meant to ask it as a question. he was sure he had said it to sound reassuring. but somewhere in between him uttering the words and you hearing them, they had turned into a desperate, desolate plea.

your chest fluttered underneath him, your breath strained. the face he adored slowly scrunched up from the pain. and he found himself talking even more.

"focus on me, okay? just me." he steeled his voice. and his nerves. "you'd be okay. you know, you always said you'd make me mochi, you never did. you said you'd make sake flavoured mochi. is that even a thing?" he laughed despite himself. it was barely a laugh. a pitiful scoff maybe? it was not the kind of laugh that would fool you.

"uh— once you get better." he pretended to ignore the way your body seemed to go slack under him. he repeated, "once you get better, i'm gonna convince franky to make us fireworks. you love those. and- and nami. i'd convince that money-hungry witch to lend me some money so that i can take you out. we will go shopping. you always said you—"

why were you so awfully quiet? usually, you'd talk to the point where he wanted to cut his ear off. now, he wanted to her you. he wanted to hear you call him a moss-head like sanji and he wanted you to laugh when he yelled at luffy for doing something stupid. and—

"—hey?" his voice pitched higher, "please wait, chopper will be back yeah?"

but you didn't even shake your head a weak yes. his shaky fingers reached out to look for your pulse on your neck. it was there. feeble, but there. but for how long?

how long till he lost you?

his throat was closing up, he couldn't breathe. his eyes burned and he was sure he was gonna mark your skin with his own from the way he held onto your wrist.

why won't you talk to him? call out his name, god fucking dammit. nobody called his name the way you did. as if you liked the syllables enough to make a home out of them. nobody smiled at him the way you did. so sweet, too sweet for him. you were everything. even though he was just another wrecked, broken boy with dreams too big for his mortal body, you were everything.

"please," he clutched onto you like a maddening bastard, "please. just hold on, okay?"

but bile seemed to crawl farther up his throat every time you didn't respond. not even a slight glance. not even the movement of a pinky. his fingers checked for your pulse. faint, but there.

and he couldn't hold his words back. he called out your name in a desperate effort to awaken you. water blurred his vision and he blinked it away. his throat was scratchy. too scratchy. and where was chopper?

"i love you." he finally confessed, not thinking much of his words than the fact that he just wanted you to hear them. "i love you so much. i have for so long. i-it wasn't supposed to be like this. i- i was gonna take you out to explore some island. i would have bought you food and called you an idiot when you smiled at me. then— then." he paused, "i would have told you i loved you. you would have said nothing back. and i would have loved even despite that."

he called out your name, sobs racking through his body like accursed symphonies.

"move." chopper was back, in his hand was a ceramic bowl with a green, gooey paste. "go out. i'd call you back, okay?"

if chopped noticed the state zoro was in, he simply chose not to dwell on it. and if zoro had any residual doubts for what kind of a doctor chopper was, he didn't dwell on them either. he caressed your hand one last time and stepped out.

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

the swordsman had been pacing around the deck. none of the members were back and it gnawed on his heart. what if they were hurt too? should he go back to see? but how could he leave chopper and you alone here? and what kind of a first mate was he if he cannot even save his own crew?

the world's greatest swordman be damned.

chopper stepped out and zoro looked at the doctor, frantic. chopper gave him a sigh and chased it with a smile, "she's okay."

zoro was not sure if it was the exhaustion, or the relief, or some other feeling his gut had concocted in him without asking. but he crashed down on his knees. his palms felt rough against his face and when he inhaled, he could smell dried blood on them.

"hey." chopper trotted towards him, keeping his paw on the green-haired man's shoulders, "she's okay, really. they missed any vital spots and she didn't lose a lot of blood. she will heal, okay?"

zoro couldn't do anything but just nod along. then, when he had the courage to look away from his hands. he looked at the doctor, finally muttering a faint "thank you."

the reindeer blushed at the compliment, "don't thank me. but you know, once she's better, you should tell her how you feel. this time maybe while she's conscious."

"chopper." the swordsman groaned.

the reindeer shrugged mechanically, "i won't tell anyone what i heard if you promise to take her out on that date."

after much deliberation— having to choose between humiliation at the hand of his crewmates when they discovered his crush or the humiliation from his crush when he finally confessed— he finally gave in. after all, humiliation from one was better than humiliation from seven. especially that fucking cook.

"fine." he grumbled, "i'd take her out."

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

it had been two weeks since you were stabbed. well, you didn't talk to anyone about it, really. but when you drifted off into the wicked embrace of sleep, you would be plagued by the memories. and well, a confession.

it's not like you were pretending to be dead!! your body had simply given up. it was exhausted from the fighting and the not-dying. so, when you were laid on chopper's bed to be patched up, your body had gone slack. but just because your body had gone slack doesn't mean you weren't awake.

it had been two weeks and you hadn't told the green-haired asshole what you had heard. why? maybe cause you thought he would make the first move. or maybe because you weren't quite sure if he actually said those things or if you hallucinated it to dilute the pain.

eitherways, seemed like things between you and the mosshead were the same as they were before the incident. and you were really starting to consider the hallucination excuse. but then—

"hey." zoro quipped up as he came to stand beside you. it was cloudy today, the grey skies churning in anticipation of a storm. the winds were unkind and the sea was malevolent. beautiful nonetheless.

"oh hey." you turned and gave him a small smile. you shifted from one feet to another, pretending as if you weren't terrified of the route this conversation might take, "whats up?"

"uh—" he looked back for a spilt-second and you saw— from the corner of your eyes— chopper hidden behind a bunch of boxes, giving zoro his best death glare. zoro sighed, "so, uh, this is random, i think? but when we dock on the next island tomorrow morning. do like... do you want to go see some new sword-cleaning equipment with me?"

you shouldn't have laughed. but you did.

"what's funny?!" his eyes widened and his cheeks were dusted pink.

"no-nothing." you heaved, closing your eyes. "that's the best excuse you could come up with? sword cleaning equipment?"

"what do you mean 'excuse'? i need some equipment!"

"zoro." you forced open your eyes, your smile still frozen over your lips, "if you want to go out on a date with me, you should say that okay?"

his ears went red and he looked away. you were sure if the weather was quiet, you could hear his heart picking up the pace. clearing his throat, he finally asked, "who told you? chopper?"

"no, dummy." you reached your hand out, taking his calloused palm in yours. your thumb rubbed familiar patterns on his hand, "you did."

"me?" he snapped to look back at you, "me?"

you just gave him a grin, "this reminds me, i did promise you i'd try making sake flavoured mochi. i never did. but again, you said you'd ask frankie to make us fireworks and we're still firework-less. but hey, i forgive you if you forgive me okay?"

his head could have burst open from the sheer pressure on his brain but you continued, "but eitherways, what i really mean is that if you said i love you." you stepped a bit closer, "i'd say i love you too."

your hand let go of his and you chose to walk away, leaving him dumbfounded. when his senses came to him, he ran upto you, "YOU HEARD THAT ALL?!"

"all of it."

"ugh."

"heh, it was kinda cute."

"i thought you were dying, woman."

"in a way, we all already are."

"have you been hanging out with robin too much? god, kill me."

"god doesn't need to. you're already dying."

"i want to die faster."

you took his hand back in yours and pulled him towards yourself. pecking his cheek, you said, "no. we still have to go on that date. i mean, if you ever actually ask me."

the flustered mess that was rorononoa zoro just sighed. accepting his fate, he asked, "well, do you wanna go on that date or what?"

you snickered, "i'll think about it"

"do you live to annoy me?"

"maybe. but you love meee."

"i might change my mind after this."

but despite his words, his fingers stayed gently intertwined with yours. hey, maybe getting stabbed in the stomach wasn't all that bad? (jk, it was very very bad)

a/n: i love writing stoic men are flustered little guys lmaoo. hopefully y'all like this? i've been writing a lot of fluff/semi-angst lately. i wanna write some nsfw content but im so out of ideas. send reqs if you guys have anything in mind!!

#one piece #opla #op #roronoa zoro #zoro x reader #one piece zoro #zoro fluff #zoro fic #zoro imagine #one piece x reader

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darkeralmond · 2 years ago

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POOL BOY || J.F

Jeremiah Fisher x fem! Reader

synopsis: Y/N’s mother had an emergency meeting at the country club which leaves Y/N is home alone with the pool boy, Jeremiah. After working for hours with no breaks, you invite him to come inside to get some water.

warnings: smut 18+, oral sex, m! receiving, fem! receiving, fingering, praising

word count: 2.1k

A/N: I was scrolling on TikTok and a vid by @nick_grajeda popped up about them talking about their roleplay fantasies and one of them was pool boy. Jeremiah instantly came to mind so I went to working immediately. FIRST TIME I’VE WRITTEN SMUT IN FOREVER.

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It was the middle of a hot July summer in Cousins. Your mom had important business to run at the country club down the road of your house, leaving you alone with your pool boy, Jeremiah Fisher.

He wasn’t a local like you. He only came during the summers with his family and family friends. Your mother hired him a few summers ago after she got the new position as head executive chef at the country club. For those past few summers he spent cleaning the pool, you’d watch as he did so occasionally sparking conversation here and there. He was older than you by a few months which fueled your desire to have him even more.

You convinced yourself that you wanted to be helpful and wash the dishes for your mother and father to come home to. There was a window right over the sink which overlooked the pool, so your helpful antics were only an excuse to watch Jeremiah as he worked.

He swept around the pool deck, getting rid of the dirt and leaves that fell from the trees that were planted right next to the pool for some reason. He had been out there for a couple hours just working. She knew he had to have been tired and hot from working in the direct sunlight for that long without a break. His white tank top had sweat stains on it due to him using the fabric as a towel to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

You knew this was your chance to spark a conversation with him. You walked away from the sink and toward the sliding doors that lead out to the backyard. You walked out to your porch and leaned against the railing. “Jeremiah,” you called out to him. He didn’t even look up, he just kept sweeping, so you yelled a little louder. “Jeremiah!”

His head perked up and looked in your direction as he took an Airpod out of his ear. “Hey, Y/n!” He had a wide smile on his face. He lifted the sunglasses off his eyes and placed them on the top of his curly blonde hair. There were so many features of Jeremiah you loved, but your favorite had to either be his beautiful blue eyes that were the same color as the ocean. A close runner up was the dimples that appeared when he smiled.

“You’ve been working hard. You want to come in and get some water?” you asked, tilting your head. A slight breeze blew your hair back and caused your white skirt to ride up slightly, showing a glimpse of your upper thighs.

“Sure!” He placed the broom next to a poolside chair and made his way to the porch where you were. You smiled as you entered the kitchen and opened up the fridge. You grabbed an ice cold bottle of water and looked back at him.

He shut the door after he entered and used the bottom of his tank top to wipe his forehead again. This gave you a peak at his sun kissed abs. Your face flushed bright red as you took a quick glance at his stomach before looking away. You turned back around a second later hoping he hadn’t noticed you staring or your embarrassment. “Here you go!” You handed him his bottle, taking your time to admire his strong, lean arm muscles.

He thanked you before downing half of the water. The movement of his neck as he chugged. The water that dripped down his chin. It all felt too erotic for you to bear. You couldn’t stand to see him like this any longer. He placed the bottle back down on the kitchen island and wiped the excess water off his face with the back of his hand.

Most people when they sweat had an overbearing smell of body odor that oozed out of them. Not Jeremiah, he wasn’t like most people. He sweated the scent of his umber cologne, a nice mix of pine and musk, that mixed into an intoxicating aroma.

“Thanks for the water,” he said again, smiling at you. His mouth opened a little wider than it usually did and you could see one of his small canine teeth sticking out from underneath. You found yourself staring at his teeth for much too long. “Y/N?” Jeremiah tilted his head curiously. “Everything okay?” He sounded almost… concerned. You blinked and then realized that you must have zoned out and just stared at him like a creep.

You shook yourself mentally and tried not to look embarrassed, “Oh yeah, everything’s fine. Sorry.” You turned around and focused on what dishes you needed to finish before your mom got home.

He sighed and ran his hands through his wet dark blond curls, pushing back the sweaty locks. “Don’t worry about it,” he chuckled. “I don’t mind. I know my charm can be annoying sometimes.” He smiled softly and looked at you. You quickly glanced at him and blushed before turning back around and finishing the dishes.

‘How dare he say such things!’ You thought to yourself. You heard footsteps and turned your head to meet Jeremiah’s gaze. “I have a small question for you, Y/N.” He raised a brow.

You nodded for him to ask his question. “What’s up?” you asked.

It was so quick you almost missed it. “Are you single?”

Your jaw dropped, “I am. What’s this about?” Did he really just ask me that? You thought as you struggled to keep the excitement off your face.

“Good,” he said, “because I’ve been wondering if you're ever gonna kiss me.” Your jaw dropped more.

“Kiss you?!” you replied. “Why haven’t you asked me out yet?!”

He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, “I was kind of hoping you’d do it instead.” That was another thing you didn’t expect him to admit. You always assumed he wouldn’t give two shits if you did or didn’t ask him out. He seemed to be very confident and cocky that his charm would sweep you off your feet, but you weren’t sure how true his confidence was now.

You said, “Jeremiah-”

“You have no idea how much I want you, Y/N.” He cut you off and stepped closer to you. Your heart began beating rapidly faster.

His eyes stared directly into yours. He was close enough you could feel his body heat emanating from him. His skin looked soft and tan compared to the pale complexion of the other men in Cousins. He was the best looking guy here, you were sure of it.

Without another thought, you said, “Prove it then.” Your voice was shaky. You hoped he would pick up on it. He smirked before leaning forward, closing the distance between you. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss, slowly moving to deepen it.

You wrapped your arms around his neck loosely while his hands held onto your waist. You leaned up against the kitchen counter while you kissed. He tasted sweet like honey with the faint taste of mint. You parted your lips slightly allowing him to push a tongue inside your mouth to explore further. After a moment, you started to move your hips in response to the kiss, pressing yourself against his shaft and making him groan slightly.

You broke the kiss to catch your breath. “Jeremiah,” you whimpered quietly as you parted lips once more. His fingers dug into your hips lightly before gently running up your sides, resting at the skin underneath your skirt.

You felt him smirk into the kiss causing goosebumps to form across your skin. Your hips rolled harder against his body, feeling his erection poking through his boxers. You pulled away from the kiss and took in a deep inhale of air.

“Do you want to do this?” you asked. You knew you wanted this. You wanted Jeremiah.

“Yes.” He reached down, pulling his zipper down. You watched as his pants dropped to the floor revealing his erection.

You got down on your knees against the hard wooden floor and pulled back your hair. You wrapped your finger around the base, slowly stroking him. You licked the tip before sucking it into your mouth.

Jeremiah let out a low moan followed by a sharp intake of air as his grip tightened on your shoulders. “Please...” he whispered. You took him into your mouth, bobbing your head up and down. Your tongue lapped at his engorged shaft. You took him deeper and faster with each stroke. “Slow down. I want this to last longer,” he begged.

You slowed your stroking pace like he had requested. You wanted to make him feel good, that was the whole point of a blow job. His fingers found themselves tasseled in your hair as groans escaped through his lips. Finally you heard his last groan before he met his climax in your mouth.

It hit the back of your throat causing you to cough and spit out his semen. “I’m sorry!” He immediately apologized.

You laughed, wiping the substance off your face. “You’re okay! Just shocked me.” You grabbed the water he was drinking earlier and drank some to get the flavor out of your mouth.

Jeremiah grabbed a towel from a drawer and wiped himself clean before pulling his boxers and shorts back up. He cleaned up the spot where you spit out his cum. “Now I wanna treat you right,” he said.

Your eyes widened as you met his. “What do you mean?” you asked.

“Like I said; I want to show you how serious I am.” He smirked before reaching out his hand to touch your cheek. “How about you get nice and comfortable on the island counter.”

You giggled before walking towards the island and climbing up onto it. The cool surface of the granite top felt soothing against your heated skin. “Okay.” You sat down facing him.

Jeremiah stepped closer to you and placed his hands on your thighs. He spread them open and brought his hands up your skirt. He grabbed a hold of the hem of your panties and slid them down. You bucked your hips to help him slip them off easier.

When they were off, he placed his head between your legs and took a couple licks at your clit. As he sucked on it gently, you closed your eyes and moaned loudly. It felt so good you wished you could stay here forever.

Your fingers found themselves gripping onto his golden curls. You pressed him closer to you in a desperate manner. Your head tilted back to look at the hanging light above you. Your breath hitched when he suddenly slipped one of his large fingers inside of you.

You were so wet that his finger slid in with ease. You gripped onto the edges of the counter tightly as you bit your bottom lip, trying to stop yourself from moaning out loud. “That feels so good, Jeremiah. Please don’t stop.”

He curled his finger inside you. “I know it does.” he replied in between quick strokes. The sensation was intense. You moaned louder as he made slow, circular movements with the tip of his warm, wet tongue. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, unable to keep them open any longer.

You accidentally knocked the paper towel roller off the counter. “Mmmm! Oh god, Jeremiah.” You felt your breathing become heavier. Your heartbeat was rapid, your mind clouded with lust, and all of your emotions were overwhelming your senses as you reached your peak.

You screamed his name out as you came undone completely. “Jesus Christ.” You panted heavily, trying desperately to regain your breath and calm your erratic heart.

He grinned smugly after hearing you scream his name, he pulled his face away from between your legs. You gazed into his blue eyes and saw lust there, but there was a hint of something else. Pure admiration.

After catching your breath, he stood upright and removed his fingers from your pussy. You were in disbelief that you just had sex with Jeremiah Fisher. It felt like a lucid dream.

You pulled your panties back up and hopped off the counter. You were in desperate need for a shower, but you didn’t want to wash Jeremiah's touch off your body. “So uh… do I need to give you a tip for your extra services?” You asked with a giggle.

“No because that would be prostitution,” he tapped the tip of your nose with his clean finger before walking over to the sink and began washing his hands.

You rolled your eyes and grabbed the dirty towel off the table. You began walking up the stairs. “I really enjoyed that.” You leaned over the railing.

Jeremiah smiled, “We should do that more often. Maybe we can try it on your bed next time.” You laughed as you continued running up the stairs.

#jeremiah fisher #tsitp season 1 #tsitp x reader #tsitp imagine #jeremiah fisher x reader #jeremiah fisher smut #smut fanfiction #the summer i turned pretty

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afyrian · 2 months ago

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☆ chapter two - words unspoken m.list

propping another yellow tulip into the paper wrap, you hold it with up your arms stretched outwards, trying to get a full view of the bouquet. leaves escape the top of the brown paper, peeking out into the world. staring at it, your finger mindlessly picks at different petals and flowers. "it looks perfect, stop messing with it," yachi walks into the shop, her puffer jacket still on, wool scarf cascading down her back and chest.

pulling off her matching hat, she rests it on your coat rack. the old wooden rack coming from the same heirloom antique store you delivery flowers to every week. as you look at yachi, you start to notice just how much of your shop's atmosphere comes the loved and the lost. biting your lip, you find your head shaking slowly, "i don't know, something seems off."

"put it with the other in-store pick ups and remember that your first instinct is always your best," yachi removes her scarf, continually trying to remind you that you understand flowers, and questioning yourself never helps.

rolling your eyes, you pat the counter, finally backing up and walking to the storage space at the front of the store. the light wood color matches that of the coat rack, something you strived for when searching every nearby hardware store for stain. fist-sized holes in every shelf leaves space for the stems on the flowers. setting the dozen tulips in, you stand back to stare at it once more.

the bouquet rests alone on the shelf. despite the tulips having each other for company, they have nothing else around them. their happy disposition confined to one space, setting a small frown on your lips. "more people are gonna start coming here, ordering from us. don't they say the first three years are the hardest for new businesses?"

looking back at yachi, your shoulders shrug as if they have a mind of its own. "right, yeah. just a bit disheartening is all," you crossing your feet as you stand there, hands clasping behind your back.

"well, to help calm your mind, why don't you just deliver these and grab us some lunch. they always give us a discount when we bring them a few complimentary sunflowers," yachi starts bagging a few small bouquets to hand you, one of the nearby restaurants contributes to a barter-like system with you.

her hands work delicately as she carries them over to where the sunflowers rest. a small basket holds a clear, plastic liner. inside the stems rest in a small layer of water, some fertilizer mixed within. "there, now get it delivered and get us a couple sandwiches," she sets the bag down onto the main counter, grabbing a small receipt.

meanwhile, you slip on an old jacket you got from your mother. the fleece inner lining rubs against your shirt, a long scarf quickly following behind. tossing it over your shoulder, you get up to grab the bouquets off the counter. letting out a short breath of hot air, you shrug your shoulders, grabbing the bagged set of bouquets. a few sunflowers placed deliberately within them.

"and i assume no tomatoes-"

"and no pickles, but you can get my pickles on the side if you want," yachi leans against the front counter, hands holding up her chin as her elbows press against the wood grain.

nodding at her, you push the front door open with your back, instantly feeling the rush of cool air. snow still falls slowly, the roads warm enough that it turns to water as soon as it collides. yet it builds along the grass and above the trees, starting to collect on your scarf. holding up the bag, you walk your way down the street, double-lined socks keeping your feet warm.

this small offshoot of tokyo has always been welcoming of small businesses. from local coffee shops that always think of a new drink to serve to a small board games store where the owners even create their own games to sell. and each and every store helps the others, making sure to leave a (not completely) complimentary iced coffee in exchange for a deck of cards.

however, getting calla lily off the ground has not been easy, the typical customer doesn't seem to make it to their website. all despite yachi's brief time with graphic design and the passion she poured into the website and the social media accounts she made. and due to the time of the year, most patrons tend to visit any nearby grocery stores to grab a poinsettia.

leaving your crocuses and daphne shrub to sit idly in your shop and eventually as a bouquet in your living room. even though you know a yellow crocus would work great for a gift or celebration. the rich color reminds you best of the sun's bright light on snowy days, only occasionally obscured by the clouds above. carrying the bouquets through the town, you spot the best lunch spot.

their outside string lights glow beneath a pile of snow, the bricks recently fixed after someone forgot to switch their car to reverse. using your free hand you reach for the handle, only stopped by a leather-clad hand reaching for the same thing. looking up from the handle, you spot the only person you didn't expect to see today... the mysterious stranger who destroyed your bouquet.

“come to squash another?” you bring your hand back, gaze unable to escape his.

“what kind of monster would do that to such beauty?” he motions his free hand at the shop, urging to step insane, quickly following after to get out of the snow. only suddenly realizing his words came out wrong, “because your bouquets are stunning. i even scoured your website some last night.”

“really? well feel free to order if you have any events or holidays coming up. people tend to like mistletoe this time of year,” you step into the line, free hand stuffed into your jacket pocket as you continue to look back at him and his golden tie that seems to match his eyes.

he raises his eyebrows, looking away from you with an auspicious smile. pursing his lips, he’s able to return your look, the same silver watch shining under the sun’s beams into the shop. “my boss is looking for a florist for our work event, maybe i’ll have to bring your name up, which is?”

“l/n y/n, owner of the calla lily and also part time deliverer. the reason for that being that men seem to always run into me and somewhat overpay for the squashed bouquets. some people call me the magnet, and you are?” you look up towards the board, wondering if you’d like to try something new.

“kuroo tetsuro. i happen to have been in the same situation, what a crazy world,” that same smile makes its way to his lips and you can feel the breath leave your lips, “so your shop must be pretty successful then?”

“we just opened earlier this year and so i would be hard pressed to define it as ‘pretty successful’. however, someone did order a bouquet yesterday, so i’m hoping the trend will pick up. so, mysterious kuroo, what do you do?” you narrow your eyes, stepping forward as someone finishes their order.

the sweet aroma of the morning pastries still lingers in the air, a hint of savory following from the stove-top grill. the soft overhead lights do little to compete with the sun’s bright rays. “i just work at the japan volleyball association, pretty menial work right now. but running into you has definitely made my days more exciting.”

“i would hope so, i am quite an exciting person,” you wink at him absentmindedly, like you would with yachi or any other friends, and yet unbeknownst to you, it strikes a cord in his heart strings.

turning towards the barista, you order lunch, making sure to give her the replacement bouquets for the tables. making sure to mention that yachi’s sandwich shan’t have a tomato in sight and the pickles can go on the side. leaning against the counter as you order, even grabbing out your wallet, you seem to not be able to keep your eyes from mystery man kuroo.

standing off to the side as they start making your sandwich you listen to kuroo place his order. something involving pacific saury and a side of rice. shoving his hands into his pockets, he stands beside you, inches between your shoulders. “so, maybe i’ll see you around town again?” he questions, unable to look at you as he questions.

“i’m usually out and about or in my store if you ever want to pop by, so, that’s up to you mr. kuroo,” you look over at him, tempted to say something else before your phone starts to go off.

the ringtone resembles a soft orchestra, the bass lowered and the brass section in need of a louder microphone. pursing your lips, you hold your phone up to your ear, but not before answering it and noticing that yachi is the one on the other end. she mentions something about the customer still not coming and wanting to know how long the sandwiches are going to be.

as you explain to her that you aren’t quite sure, kuroo’s order gets called, his gaze meeting your’s once more before he leaves for what you guess to be work. for a second, you see his lips twitch, like he wants to say something. instead he simply walks out, words unspoken. watching him fade from the store’s view, you return to yachi, “yeah, it shouldn’t take too much longer, why?”

“it’s just that sometimes they take forever and i know you like to be here in case any new orders come in.”

taking in a deep breath, your foot starts to tap against the restaurant’s tile flooring, “i doubt they’ll take much more time, but you got this. if any order comes in, i’ll just do it when i get back-”

“well you may want to hurry then, another order came in. this time it was for a mixed bouquet from the same number as the last one. it looks like they left instructions,” yachi sends your heart racing as she tries to navigate to the instructions, her online knowledge beginning and ending with a website’s appearance.

“well what did they say?”

“‘i hope you enjoyed the last bouquet, consider them and any more to come as a gift’… oh my god, y/n, you have a secret admirer or something.”

a/n: unedited but hopefully a banger taglist (open): @eggyrocks @causenessus @applepi25 @softpia @bakery-anon

@nekozaki @nnnyxie @kameyyy @grassbutneo @asrichin

@boosyboo9206 @anqelkoz @rriwyu @ssabvln @thesleepingrose

@chososcamgirl @lale-txt @weezerbby @cupidsblonde

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #hq #haikyuu fic #haikyuu fanfic #hq x reader #hq fanfic #☆ love’s nectar #hq kuroo #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo testuro #haikyuu kuroo #kuroo tetsuro x you

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letsdeerintheheadlightsuniverse · 11 months ago

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<<Previous Chapter <<

**Masterlist**

>>Next Chapter>>

Pairing: Izzy Hands x gn!reader

Synopsis: The fallout from the storm leaves more answers than questions for the crew, as they do their best to heal from wounds past, present and future.

A/N: Hiiiiiiii, besties! Chapter 5 is officially here! Whoop whoop! Who's ready to board the Angst express? Also, Happy Easter!

Content Warning: Knives, mention of injuries, trauma, sensory overload, mentions of drowning and blood. I think that's everything. This series is 18+, so minors dni. Go away (politely).

=============================

She watched as the ship came rolling in. A flurry of activity upon the main deck, as the anchor was dropped, and a plank lowered to connect the boatside and port. Something was wrong- she could sense it. Usually when the Revenge paid a visit to the Republic of Pirates, there was a certain frisson of excitement and promise of good times. This time around, the crew's calls were not sentiments of hopeful anticipation but anxious haste to disembark.

Spanish Jackie's eyes narrowed, as she spied upon the weary form of one Oluwande, supporting an equally worn out Jim and Archie. Damn, she had never seen them looking for forlorn and exhausted. Sure, pirating was not the most glamouroud of professions but cuts, bruises and...what even was that staining their clothes? Yeah, the trio had seen better days, that was for sure. "What the fuck happened?" the bar owner forgo her usual greeting, demanding to know what the hell was going on.

Oluwande regarded the business woman with a look of pure reluctance. He was tired- no, scratch that- he was bone-achingly, soul-wearily exhausted, to the point where talking felt like a curse and a chore. Every fibre of his very being was screaming in unison for him to collapse upon the ground and become one with the dirt. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and all that jazz. "Ship got caught in a storm."

"Any casualties?"

It only happened occasionally but there were times when Oluwande would get overwhelmed and it was like something in his brain switched off, needing to go on standby for a while, until he felt more settled and assured. His partners were aware of the main triggers that would induce a sensory overload. Things like a cacophony of clashing ambient sounds or extreme exhaustion would prompt him to remain silent for a while.

It had never really phased Jim, Archie- and when she was visiting- Zheng. As soon as he had explained it to them, their only main concern was making sure Oluwande felt supported during those periods of quiet. Whether it was finding him a safe space to decompress or making sure he got enough rest- the great loves of his life always endeavoured make sure his needs were met.

Sensing their partner's increasing distress at having to be verbal, Archie quickly spoke in Oluwande's place. "We're bringing them out now. Is there a doctor nearby?" the grateful upturning of his lips confirmed her suspicions. Always happy to help, the pirate have him a gentle squeeze around the shoulders.

"Yeah, yeah...Oi, you! Yeah, you!" Jackie called out to one of her many husbands. How she kept track of them all was anyone's guess but damn, Archie was impressed. The lady had mad game. If the pirate weren't so burnt out, she might have been even more impressed byt in the particular moment, she just wanted a comfortable seat and a warm meal. "Send the doctor to the local Inn. Tell him he's gonna have a real busy fucking morning. Oh and that The Genital Pirate will be paying!" like hell was Jackie going to foot what was going to undoubtedly be one expensive bill. She knew Stede was loaded but hopefully he had enough coin in that silk purse of his to pay the handsome fare.

Jackie's attention refocused when she caught sight of Swede supporting Blackbeard's right hand man. Damn, did every single member of the Revenge look equally as haggard? "Fuuuuck, you look like you've seen better days." Izzy could not bring himself to respond with his usual sharpness. Gods, he felt as fucking wonderful as he looked. The rescue mission had been an absolute nightmare. So many collective moments of thinking, 'this is it, this is how I go', that amounted to finally pulling Pete's unconscious body from the watery depths. It was a miracle that the First Hand himself had not drowned. In all honesty, Izzy could not decide which was worse, this storm or the night he lost his leg. "Wow, must be bad if you aren't even telling me to 'fuck off'."

The sound of more footsteps took the spotlight off of the weary First Mate, who was glad to have Jackie's attention directed elsewhere. In that moment, the silver-haired pirate allowed himself a moment of weakness to lean upon Swede more than he generally would have done, under different circumstances. But he was tired. Tired of always having to be capable and strong fir those around him. It was quite nice having someone support him for a change.

The charismatic business woman offered her signature wolf-like grin at the two co-captains, who had finally made their way to shore. No obvious wounds to be seen upon their persons, she noted, wondering who it was out of the cohort whom required such urgent care. "Eddie. Hello, Stede. So, a storm, huh?"

A storm, yeah. Some storm, Stede thought, as he felt Ed's grip around his waist tighten at the mere metion of what they has all just survived. Before the blonde could even open his mouth to give a retort, his lover beat him to the punch with a bitter laugh. "If you could call it that. Felt more like a trip to fucking Hell."

"Heard you got some injuries..." the words died, as she and the rest of the waiting crew, moved to let Fang and Roach carry the first of several makeshift gurneys up the hill. "Oh, shit."

"Yeah. 'Oh, shit'." Ed muttered, watching was a solemn gaze, as the body was carried into the nearby Inn.

"That's a lotta fucking blood."

====

Perhaps they should have washed up before sitting down in the Inn's small dining area. Well, if you could really call it that. It was more of a gloried room with a few tables and chairs. Still, the plates of cheese and bread were more gratefully recieved by the famished pirates, who could barely recollect when they had last eaten. What day was it even? The storm had felt like it had lasted an eternity.

"There was so much blood." Wee John commented, as he bit into another piece of bread. It was almost inedibly dry but thankfully, the cold pitcher of water, in the middle of the table, solved such issues.

Swede nodded with mild enthusiasm. He did not mind the bread's texture so much, having eaten some truly horrific meals during his time at sea. However, the cheese. Oh, the cheese. It was chalky in texture. The blonde was not aware that cheese could be so powdery. "So much. Maybe even too much?"

"I didn't even realise a person could bleed that much." yeah, no. The cheese was actually worse than the bread, John decided, pushing away his plate in disgust.

"Surely that was an abnormal amount of blood, right?"

Whilst Roach was the most seasoned out of them all when it came to seeing blood...and severed body parts, even he had to admit, it had been an alarming amount of...red. "Yeah, that's gotta be some witchcraft or something. People don't bleed that much." he blamed the fairies. Yeah, it was the fairies fault for sure. They must have been displeased with his offering of thanks, after they made the bread rise. and cursed the ship with their fairy magic. That was the only logical answer.

Also, the bread at the Inn really was fucking disgusting.

====

It felt almost sickeningly self-indulgent to allow someone so intrinsically well-meaning to tend to such a wretched soul as he and yet, Ed could not bring himself to push away Stede's gentle touch. In fact, the once gruesome legend found himself leaning into the tender caresses. Despite the apparent care he was receiving, Ed could not quieten his racing thoughts. No matter how much he proverbially tried to smother the insidious voice, that whispered vile realities, from the recesses of his mind. "Fuck." he cursed, as his lover carded his fingers through the silvery tresses. "This is bad, Stede."

The Gentleman Pirate faltered in his ministrations, knowing full well that Ed was not referring to his loving gestures. "I know." there was a graveness that tinged his tone, confirming all of Ed's most intimate fears. If happy-go-lucky Stede Bonnet thought the situation was dire, then Ed was well and truly fucked.

"The crew's gonna blame me for everything, you know?"

He did not want to agree. Oh, how he did not want to but despite his whim-prone ways, Stede knew that they both had to be realistic about the given situation. It would be a fool's error to assune that everything was okay with the crew, that things would magically go back to the way there were and a few weeks time, the Revenge would set sail once more. "I do."

"And they've gotta point. If I hadn't royally fucked them all up during the last storm, we'd've had all hands on deck. And..." the question tasted bitter on his tongue, souring the lingering taste of all the sweetest kisses they had ever shared. Ed knew that Stede's answer had the potential to break his heart into a million pieces but as a suckered for punishment, the pirate had to know his lover's honest opinion. "Do...do you blame me?"

Moving to stand between his lover's legs, Stede gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind Ed's ear, noting just how defeated his boyfriend looked. That would just not do, he thought. "Honestly? No, no I don't." the co-captain's attempt at a smile was strained at best but still, it allowed sone light to encroach on the heaviness that dwelled within Ed's heart. Stede Bonnet, the Gentleman Pirate, truly was a lighthouse to the once lost soul. "In fact, I blame myself. I underestimated how deeply traumatised the crew was. So, if anyone is to blame, it's me."

What, no! No, no, that did not make any sense to the silver-haired pirate. No, he and he alone was to blame. How could some so...so good and loving as Stede be to blame for the atrocities caused in the name of Blackbeard? "But they wouldn't have been traumatised if I hadn't-"

As much as Stede was usually a firm believer in talking things through as a crew, he also was well-versed in the thought pattern of his fretting amour. Such a conversation could go round and round in circles for hours, if he did not shock the man into breaking the spiralling of his mind. Nothing too drastic, just enough to snap him out of the self-loathing and bring him back to the present moment. A tender kiss was often the best option for such a task. It was short, sweet. No taking, only giving. Providing comfort and a promise of unconditional love.

Pulling back after a beat, Stede kept his forehead pressed against Ed's, savouring the closeness and allowing the pirate the option to lean in for another, should he crave such a thing. "Guess we'll just have to be co-blamed, hmm?" Stede whispered, offering another freely given smile. This time, it felt more genuine. Easier. Almost as easy as breathing.

And with that, Ed tugged the

Gentleman Pirate closer into his encircled hold, until the blonde was situated on his lap, needing him to be as near as physcially possible. "I needed that." the silver-haired man mumbled, as he buried his face against the drenched fabric of Stede's shirt.

The once pristine material was tainted with...he did not even know who's blood it was. All he had witnessed was the bloody aftermath in the hold, before he ordered Buttons to clean what he could and leave the rest for the repairmen to deal with. The familiar iron scent overwhelming Ed's senses. Man, the stench of decay transported him back to that unwelcome memory of when the night the Kraken was truly purged from existence...

====

"Did you see his face?" the mystic questioned his drinking buddy, as they sat side by side, outside in the pleasant warmth.

Though he preferred the silvery light of the divine moon, Buttons could certainly appreciate all that the sun had to offer. The basking rays of golden splendor were a much welcome gift from Mother Nature, after the heavy downpour of the previous days. It was too nice a day to be stuck inside. Plus, someone had to pay mind to the crew's clothes, as they dried outside on the line.

"Who's face?" Fang questioned, as he took another swig from the bottle he had brought from Spanish Jackie. Though his usual preference was rum, the fresh orange juice was definitely a nice change of pace. Good for you too, he thought, savouring the sweet, citrus flavour.

He was thankful to be able to experience something as simple as drinking juice from a bottle. After the events of the storm, he had been so sure that none of the Revenge's crew would live to see another day, let alone taste an orange. It was terrifying to even pause and consider how close to death they had been only a mere twenty four hours ago.

No, no, enough of that, the pirate chided himself, as the tell-tale sting of tears threatened to blur his vision. He was safe now. They were all safe. Well, most were safe, Fang thought glumly, remembering how all good cheer for surviving the beast of a storm, had instantly been snuffed out at the emerging form of Captain Stede. Damn, there had been so much blood.

Fang was well-versed at witnessing so much gore but outside of a raid environment, the sight had turned his stomach. He had fight back the waves of nausea, that threatened to cause bile to spill past his lips. Thankfully, no such incident had occurred. The last thing the pirate needed was a vomit-inspired nickname.

"Izzy's."

"No."

"Looked like he'd seen a ghost."

Were Izzy sat with them now, he would have undoubtedly told the pair to 'shut the fuck up' but the First Mate was nowhere in sight. In fact, Fang could not recall when he had last seen the other pirate. He assumed that, like the rest of the crew, Izzy had locked himself away in one of the many rooms but now that he pondered on it more, had Fang caught sight of Izzy following in tow, as your body had been carried off the ship? Perhaps he was by your side right now. Fang liked the idea of that better, than Izzy being holed away in some dingy space, with only a bottle for comfort. He also liked the prospect of you being kept company.

"Probably has." Buttons continued, his gaze scanning the nearby shoreline. On the horizon, you could easily spot the Revenge, in all her damaged glory. Once a proud vessel, now a shell of her former self. "The ship'll be haunted now, for sure. No way anyone can survive bleeding that much and live to tell the tale." he added gravely.

====

"What's the damage?" the once fearsome First Mate asked, as he sank into a nearby armchair opposite the lengendary- oh, who was he kidding, it was fucking Edward, for goodness sake- who was busy doing fuck all but getting lost in his spiralling thoughts.

Pouring his new companion an equally large dose of rum into a secondary glass, which had been meant for Stede but he was off somewhere, talking to the doctor about an update. "Multiple crew injuries, a damaged ship and a potential mutiny on our hands." he rattled off the list as if it merely contained supplies needed for the crew.

At the sound of the word 'mutiny', Izzy could no suppress his scoff. After everything that had happened, the pirate highly doubted that the shipmates of the Revenge were even thinking about rebelling against their co-captain. If anything, their main focus would probably be getting a change of clothes, food and getting absolutely stinking pissed in their rooms. Hell, that was all that Izzy had planned his agenda that evening. In fact, a glass of this poorly aged rum was a good start. Downing the drink in one go, he savoured the familiar burn, as it warmed his throat and chest. Urgh, it was truly disgusting. Had the owners watered it down? "The crew actually mentioned anything about kicking off, or are you just being a narcissistic prick?"

"Izzy..." Ed all but begged for the man to take him seriously. Emotions amongst the crew were surely running high and once the option of a mutiny entered their minds, the idea would spread like wildfire, burning through everything he and Stede had fought so hard to build together, leaving in it's smoldering wake nothing but ash and potentially, his charred corpse.

"Look," "I'll keep my ear to the ground, see if I hear any actual rumblings, okay?"

"Thank you."

"Twat."

"Have you been to see them?"

"Don't-" during his time on the rocky waves, he had been thankful that you were at least safe in the hold and not there to witness both the demise of him and your friend. If only he had known what was really afoot in the hold, Izzy would have kept you by his side. Hell, he would have left the crew to their own fucking devices- storm be damned- and kept you hidden from sight in the safety of his cabin. "I can't...not with you. Not right now, Edward. I..." the uncharacteristic break in his voice caught his lifelong companion by surprise.

Ed knew how much Izzy cared about you. For fucks sake, the man was not as subtle as he thought he was when it came to his pining. However, Ed could list on one hand the amount of times he had witnessed the First Mate's stoic mask crack under the pressure of intense emotion. It felt almost blasphemous to pay witness to the glassiness, that built up in Izzy's eyes, as the silver-haired pirate tried his damned hardest to not breakdown right there and then. "I'm not blaming you but-" a gloved hand came to settle over his mouth, as a sob ripped through his body.

Gods, it was just one nightmare after another. But you. Oh, you. Just the mere recollection of your body being bundled onto a makeshift gurney and carried past the crew, as they stood in horrified silence on the hill, was sure to haunt Izzy for the rest of his wretched days. And Izzy could not even blame Frenchie for what had happened. The poor bastard had been lost in a hallucination, caused by unresolved trauma. Had he been in control of his mind, there was no doubt that the young man would never have dreamed of injuring you- accident or otherwise. "you might as well have been the one to put the knife in his hand." he all but whined, sounding as broken as he felt.

"Iz, I'm-"

"No. No, I don't want to hear it. Fuck your apology, Edward." he meant every word. Izzy did not want Ed to feel any worser than he already did. Isreal Hands was many things but he was not vindictive. Well, he was not feeling vindictive at that particular moment. Calm him soft but sailing the seven seas with Bonnet's ragtag group of misfits had shown the First Hand an alternative life to being a pirate. One full of love and a found family. While Izzy could still be hurtful with his words, he was trying so desperately to be better. Anything for those he loved. Had he not promised the exact same thing to you? "I'm at fault too." but before Ed could even dare to interrupt with a protest, the silver-haired pirate was quick to shake his head. Roughly drying his tears, Izzy delivered one last line to his captain, "I fed your fucking darkness back then. Let them blame me too."

Let (y/n) hate me too, it's what I deserve, Izzy thought, as he downed the rest of the glass and stood to make his exit, wanting nothing more now than to get blind drunk on whatever disgusting excuse for rum the inn could offer.

====

"I'm not saying I blame him completely. I'm just saying it's his fault." Jim whispered to her partner, as the sat outside the door to their shared room. Oluwande was inside decompressing after his sensory overload and while the two pirates knew he needed space, they felt more assured remaining at least in the hallway, should he need anything.

It felt good, Archie thought, as they took a bite of the cheese Wee John had brought up for them to share, to be able to rest for a moment. After everything that had happened, it was a miracle that they had survived the storm. What a blessing it was to be able to sit beside their partner, share food and even breathe the same air. When quite frankly, they should have all been sleeping with the fishes. "Completely, yeah and I hear you, babe. It's just that- you know- if Izzy hadn't poked the bear-"

"Oh, no. Totally. The guy fucked us all over." Jim agreed half-heartedly. It was not anything personal to Archie. Usually, the pirate would be all for talking things through. However, it had gotten to a point in the day where, they felt unable to really process any more information, let alone mentally dissect the thought pattern of another person. So, whilst they were not fully engaged in the conversation, Jim recognised that Archie obviously needed a sounding board while the worked through some things. And, hey, once Oluwande was awake, he could take their place, while they got some much needed rest.

Taking another bite, they ruminated over the chalky consistency of the cheese. Yeah, there was something definitely not quite right with it. After one more testing bite, it was then they realised that the kind gesture had not been all that kind. Wee John had proffered bad cheese on them! That bastard...

The more Archie considered the gravity of the situation, the more she found herself not being able to completely cast the blame onto the First Mate.

So much had happened during the Kraken era. So many horrible, terrible, unforgivable things. And yet, she knew that deep down, things could have been so much worse. There were times when they had been so sure that Blackbeard was going to punish them for something but the cut of a knife never came. There was no barrel of a pistol to stare down. Archie had always considered those moments to be based on pure luck or prayers answered by the snake god, Manasa. Knowing what she did now, the pirate realised that it had been Izzy taking the fall for their shortcomings. He was not a guardian angel by any means but credit was given where credit was due, the guy had suffered for his infatuation with the lethal myth. His anatomical sacrifices had saved their lives on more than one occasion. "I guess he did kinda pay the price by losing his leg."

====

"We've managed to stabilise them. It'll be a bit touch and go over the next few days but right now, we're optimistic for a full recovery." the doctor explained in a hushed tone, as he and the co-captain lingered outside his patient's door.

A sigh he had not been aware he was holding, escaped his lips. Okay, that was something, right? They could work with 'touch and go'. The battle was not over yet, at least. There was still hope. "That's...that's really great news. Thank you for all your hard work. Myself and the crew really appreciate all your efforts."

"I'd recommend in the meantime, minimal visitors. Only people they're closest to on the ship, that kind of thing. Just while we're monitoring things." at the mere mention of visitors, Stede was already knew who should have be first in line to pay the patient a visit. The only question was, were they sober enough to sit by the bedside without throwing up everywhere? He highly doubted it. The last he had seen of the other man, he had been clutching a bottle tightly to his chest, as he made his way up the stairs and to hide away in his room.

"Of course, I'll let everyone know."

"One last thing, Jackie did mention that you'd be footing the bill."

"Ah, yes. Of course." the blonde dare not think about the extortionate amount that the doctor was about to charge him. Still, the gentleman had at least stabilised any serious wounds, so Stede supposed he did deserve some coin. "Let me get my purse."

====

With your fight or flight insticts in overdrive, the sound of the door opening, had caused you to reach for the knife you kept concealed under a nearby pillow. The pirate would have assumed that following your plight in the hold, you would have been unsteady upon your feet and yet, you moved at an surprising speed. In the blink of an eye, you had abandoned your post on the bed and had the serrated edge of the blade pressed against his throat.

If anyone else had dared to attempt such an act, they surely would have been impaled on their own weapon but with you, the silver-haired pirate, fought tooth and nail to keep his insticts at bay. He let you slowly regain your sense and return to yourself, as you blinked a few times. Whatever fear plagued your mind, slowly lifted, allowing you to recognise your surroundings and not deem the man before you as a threat.

The blade clattered to the floor, as you arm dropped to your side. You supposed this was the moment you were meant to feel shame for having threatened the life of the man you called co-captain and yet, you felt nothing. No emotions bubbled to the surface. All that remained, in the wake of your momentary lapse of mental control, was a much-welcomed numbness, that sat heavy as a stone within the center of your sternum. The feeling of nothing was far better preferred to the overwhelming waves of grief and terror, that had previously coursed through your veins.

Ed's gaze momentarily broke your intense eye contact, to survey the discarded knife. Only then did he notice the tarnished metal. Crimson coated it's exterior and while he could not be fully certain that it was not your blood, that adorned the crude metalwork, there was not doubt in his mind that, this was the same weapon that Frenchie had brandished in the storage hold. The Captain had his suspicions as to why you had kept it in your possession but such thoughts would have to remain entirely his own, until you were suitably taken care of.

You watched the man warily, as he bent to pick up the knife. Despite the tensing of your muscles, he did not pay your on edge disposition any mind, while he took his time to place the blade upon the modest writing desk. Ed was conscious to keep his movements steady- no sudden gestures, nothing to spook you in your heightened state of alert.

With the knife out of harm's way, his attention zoned in once more on you, as you stood just a few feet away, anxiously wringing your hands, as if you expected something foul to befell you, now that you were without your trusty blade.

Despite your fears, your demeanour softened a fraction, when the once fearsome myth of a man offered you a rare smile. It was small. Hell, barely even noticeable to the untrained eye but you spotted it all the same. It was a gesture meant to comfort, to put you at ease and well, whilst your nerves remained frayed, you could not deny that, his presence was more than welcome in that cramped space of yours. Company served as a distraction from the intrusive memory of your time in the storage held.

He dared to take a step towards you, and then another, when you did not cringe away from his approach. Edcarefully watched you for any subtle changes to your physical appearance. From the rise and fall of your chest, to the wide-eyed stare- any discernible flicker of your trepidation rising by even a fraction, he would back away. All he wanted was to help you feel more like yourself again, not worsen your mental and physical stare further.

Toe to toe, you now stood. So close in fact, you could feel the much welcomed heat radiating from his leather clad body. Perhaps you should have listened to the adrenaline-fuelled alarm bells that screamed in your head, as you allowed the pirate to take your hand in his but there was something about his gentle touch, that kept you rooted firmly to the spot. He turned your hand to be palm up, as he examined the crude, jagged line, that marred the skin from the base of your digits, to the crook of your elbow. Really, it should have been cleaned and bandaged hours ago by the doctor. Roach had tried his best but your hysteria had prevented any actual medical intervention. Now that it was just you and Ed, alone in some random room at the inn, you finally became aware of how painful and itchy the wound felt.

You winced, as his ran a thumb along the inflamed skin, noting the budding infection that bloomed beneath the damaged surface. You could have sworn you had heard him mumble a quiet, "Sorry." Though, in your current state, it could have just been your mind playing tricks on you. "You have two choices." he suddenly stated, interrupting the stifling silence that had sat heavily in the atmosphere. "Get cleaned up and then have the doctor take a look at this." Ed explained concisely, carefully letting your arm drop to your side. "Or you can see the doctor now and we'll get you cleaned up later." his arms roamed over your shirt. The once pristine (colour choice) was now completely ruined by the nauseating dark red, that now saturated most of the cloth. Ed doubted that it was your arm that had caused such monumental stain.

The overwhelming sense of guilt reared it's ugly head, as the pirate felt the familiar tug of sorrow pull at his heart strings. To hell with what Izzy had said, this was his fault and his alone, Ed thought, blaming himself for the precarious predicaments of his crew's wellbeing. Izzy may have instigated his bad behaviour all those many moons ago but Ed had allowed himself to thrive in the darkness and pain of Blackbeard. This was all his doing but by the grace of Calypso, he was going to make amends. Anything and everything to make his crew feel whole and mentally stable once more. Starting with you. "So, what'll it be, (y/l/n)?"

=============================

A/N: It's your choice, dear reader, what would you prefer- get cleaned up first and then see the doctor or vice versa? Chime off in the comments or vote in the poll here and I'll write whichever decision gets the most votes.

P.S. oh, just one more thing, either choice will completely change the trajectory of the story. So, pick wisely!

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the-kr8tor · 4 months ago

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I have a little hc that hobie and r went through a phase of "is mona a child serial killer" because whenever she had a nightmare she would just stand over one of you and stare until her directed person woke up Daily Hobie HC! Week two, day seven Hobie couldn't help but purr if he was a cat in this situation. As you sat on the railing of the ship, your legs dangling over the edge, Hobie anchored you with an arm around your waist, resting his head against your middle as your hands gently massage the nap of his neck. You were simply just talking, and yet he couldn't have felt more comforted ever. However, once your talking stopped, Hobie opened his eyes to see a ship in the distance, with... a government Navy flag. He tugged you back slightly, helping you swing your legs back onto deck. Afterwards, Hobie left a kiss to the tip of your nose, matching your knowing smirk. As Hobie made his way to the wheel, beginning to stir the ship closer to the Navy as you made your way under the deck to inform the crew, who seemed excited to finally get that pent up energy out with a good fight. You readied your weapons for until the aftermath of the battle, where your medical skills were needed to replace the rush of adrenaline. As Hobie steered closer, the ships were finally close enough to engage into combat as somehow the crew managed to quickly beat back the Navy from even stepping foot into the ship. The ferocity of the crew was amusing, considering that they seemed incredibly pent up without any proper outlet, with the 'training rounds' not seeming to do much. Hobie was clearly playing with his food, purposefully making flimsy attacks towards one of the members of the Navy, managing to avoid every slash. It wasn't until someone managed to sneak up behind you with a knife to your throat, when Hobie finally killed the Navy member. You quickly unsheathe the dagger on your belt and dug it deep into the Navy member's side, before harshly twisting it inside their body, causing the person to fall to the ground. You kicked away the body after ripping out the dagger from their body, flicking the thick, red blood back onto their twisted face. Looking back at Hobie, you definitely don't fail to catch his wink towards you. Hobie quickly engaged himself into another fight, the loud clash of weapons and gunshots echoing through the air like a symphony of chaos. Blood stained clothes, weapons, and obviously the deck. With every member downed, the crew gained a new set of weapons to use against other members. As well as fighting for themselves, many times Hobie had seen Yuri, Gwen, Miles or you practically speardive into the Navy members to protect any crewmember from a surprise attack. As the amount of Navy members slowly decreased to just dead bodies now being thrown offboard, Hobie wiped the blood off of his face and hands, deciding to take advantage of the adrenaline pumping through his veins and going under the deck to loot out the ship. Despite Hobie pushing for you to treat the others before him, somehow he managed to be treated along with the others, your persuasion tactics working wonders on him. Even with everything, it was a successful battle, with Hobie managing to drag sacks of gold and gems onto the ship. The next stop? An old town where you know that a large sum of the loot would be very useful to the local orphanages. -🐦‍⬛

Lmaoo every quiet child went through that phase! (Including me tbh) She's just shy! I bet there were times that Hobie or R jumped in bed too whenever that happens 🤣

Daily Hobie HC ❤️❤️❤️

GASP DO I SMELL A PIRATE AU?!

They were reenacting the titanic for a second there lol the little kiss on the nose 😍 he was like "time to go killin' again, lovie" and r just loves it

I think everyone's missing bdas rn lmaoo (i do too 🥹 I promise you all it's definitely coming together very slowly since there are a lot more moving parts and new characters!! One who you will least expect 😉)

Hobie being an absolute badass with a cutlass!!!!

GAHHHH i love the action scene!!!!!!! MORE BLOOD RAHHHHHHH

Crew mention! 🫵

Lol not even Hobie can disobey the ship's medic!

On to wild card next, folks!!!

#ask answered #chatting with lovelies #hobie thoughts #hobie headcanons #daily hobie hc!!#octobie #octobie anarchy #octobie'24 #pirate! hobie #🫶🫶🫶#🐦‍⬛ anon

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hersweetrevenge · 1 year ago

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thinking about the first anniversary of the accident and how corey wasn't prepared for how fucking awful it would be.

in the year since jeremy died, corey had dropped out of college, been to a shrink, been on meds and then off them again, and tentatively tried to reintegrate into society but failed miserably.

the local media circus had long since died down, they didn't hang around the house anymore and there were no crowds baying for his blood, but the monikers they gave him had already stuck.

that first halloween was, in some ways, much like any other. kids laughing, jeering, shouting. joan was irritated by trick-or-treaters anyway, but now they had new chants, new pranks, and no one to stop them messing with the local pariah.

corey could hear it all from where he holed up in his bedroom; curtains closed, light switched off, buried beneath his blankets in hopes of perhaps never waking up again.

joan calls the cops but it takes them so long to arrive that the kids have long since scattered. the officers don't seem to care much anyway, like this was to be expected, after what corey had done.

(but he didn't do it, not like they said he did. a judge had as good as agreed, but still no one seems to believe him.)

corey barely sleeps, not that he ever does, and wakes early the next morning. he can hear ronald clattering around downstairs -- he must be getting ready to go to the scrapyard. momma should still be asleep, so corey chances getting up. his footsteps are silent, dodging each and every squeaky floorboard and creaking door hinge.

when he gets downstairs, all he can see is red. the front door is open, revealing the crime scene outside. someone had thrown red paint, a whole bucket of it, over their front porch. It covers the wooden deck, dripping down the step onto the grass, splattered up the sides of the house. and scrawled on the front door, in the same red paint, is two words; "KID KILLER".

corey blinks slowly, trying to process what he's seeing but he can't.

the clattering he heard was ronald getting the mop and bucket, hoping to sort this problem out before corey saw it. he startles when he finds corey at the foot of the stairs, stock still and staring.

"corey," ronald says quietly, like he's worried he might frighten him, "go back to bed, I'll clean this up."

corey shakes his head, lip wobbling. ronald's seen him cry before.

ronald does mop up the worst of it, and then heads to work, leaving corey to his own miserable devices in the kitchen, even though he's twitching to go and throw open the door and scream that it was an accident! he didn't fucking do anything!

joan is in hysterics when she wakes up and sees what has happened, only coddling corey between fits of rage. two of the guys from the scrapyard show up about an hour after ronald had left. they scrub the whole porch down before repainting it. they paint over the vicious epithet on the door too.

corey watches them from the window, shrouded by the sheer curtains. all he can see is the deep red stain in the allens' hallway.

#corey cunningham #halloween ends

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sweet-child · 9 months ago

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western

Situated in the west, or directed toward or facing west

Living or originating from the West, in particular Europe or the United States

My sweet dill pickle’s aesthetic <33

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

In which a group of visitors stumble into a welcoming saloon

Pairing - n/a

Word Count - 1013

A/n - this is dedicated to my sweet bundle of sunflowers @rumble-aint-a-rumble-without-me <33 (im tempted to turn this into a series over the summer)

"Dang, it sure is hot out there. You want some sweet tea or lemonade?"

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

The sun rises in the East, and sets in the West; but the sun always rises the next day, so the sun never truly sets in the West. The town life continued on, day after day. Sheriff Rango sleeping in his favorite rocking chair in front of the small wooden county jail, Dillo making drinks in their saloon, and Ash always flirting’ up a storm with the aforementioned bartender. Life in Cape Lesnil was never really changing, it was peaceful and calm. Yes, Tim and Curly stirred up some trouble here and there, but it was all in good fun.

The town never got many visitors, but everytime they did the visitors were welcomed with open arms. It was the same when a group of 8 boys rode in; dirty, sunburnt, and sweaty. The grease and sweat in their hair and the dirt in their face told anyone that they have been on the road for a while. The town felt majorly empty, but quite beautiful around the town square (due to Angela’s creative ability, and Ash’s gardening). After hopping off their horses, the group of boys walked into town. They looked around, and heard the familiar strum of a guitar coming from the saloon followed by a fit of laughter and singing.

The group looked at eachother, shrugged, and decided to follow the music. After tying their horses to the fencepost, all 8 entered Dillo’s Saloon. Ash, in her flowy sundress and sunflower boots, was making up lyrics to a local guitarmans songs, swaying to the beat and laughing at every wrong sounding word. Dillo made small talk with a newly wedded couple, wishing them better times together while wiping clean a mug. The door swung open and shut with a gentle thud, and the bartender looked up from the newly wedded couple.

“Welcome in, gentleman! What can I get ya?” Dillo asked, setting down the rag and cup, a smile on their face.

“4 beers, 1 glass of milk, and 2 water, please.” The presumed leader, with sweat dripping down their fore-head and who was about 6 feet tall with dark brown hair and a cowlick, answered.

Dillo gave a soft smile and a nod, starting to fix the drinks. The broad-shouldered leader sat down on a barstool, looking around and admiring the place. Ash left the guitarman alone, letting him strum out a tune, and decided to make conversation with the strangers. Looking around the room, she decided on the smaller group of 3; A man with sideburns, a wide grin, and gray eyes (who at that moment grabbed a deck of cards and pocketed them) who she thought looked mighty fine in the brown cowboy hat he was wearing, a boy who seemed timid, with dark brown eyes and a nasty scar, and a boy with light brown hair, green eyes, and a purple bandana that was stained by red dirt.

“No, Two, dont do that! Youll get us caught and kicked out.”

“Oh shut it Johnny cakes, dont worry your head off…” The man with sideburns looked past the second boy, seeing Ash who started walking toward the group. “Now shut your trap, I'm about to score a broad.”

The boy with the purple bandana rolled his eyes and shook his head as the girl walked over.

“I’m Ash, its nice to meet you.” She spoke gently, holding out her hand.

“Johnny,” The timid one said, shaking her hand gently. He reminded the brunette haired girl of a puppy whos been kicked around many times.

“Ponyboy,” the one with green eyes shook her hand

“And I'm Two-bit, but you can call me your future husband.” He said, taking her hand and gently kissing it.

“You're gonna have to try harder than that if you think that's gonna happen,” She let out a giggle and shook her head, changing the conversation. “So what brings you into town?”

“We’re just passing through,” The handsome one answered

“That's a shame! Why don't y’all stay a while! We have a summer festival coming up! There's a rodeo and a beer drinking competition. You boys look like you do rodeos.”

“Johnny and Pone don't do rodeos, but the rest of us do.” He said, taking off his brown cowboy hat and running a hand through his hair.

“So you’ll stay?”

“Well-”

“Oh no. We can’t stay. We should be on the road by tomorrow.” Pony spoke up, before Two could be suckered in.

“Awe, c’mon. Let me talk to the head honcho, I'm sure I can convince him for you all to stay awhile.”

“Miss, I wouldn't talk to Darry. He’d tell you the same things we are, just in an unkind way.”

“Darry? Hm..”

Dillo, who was fixing drinks, was talking to the man with broad shoulders, who he learned was Darry. Apparently the boys were looking for a place to rest for the night, since they’d be continuing on their travels tomorrow.

“Well, why don't ya just stay here for a few days? We have the festival coming up, with a rodeo nd everything.”

“Shucks, we would but we don't want to bother. Most towns we visit don't take to outsiders very well..” Darry shook his head.

“You wouldn't be a bother, not at all. In fact, we don't get visitors often, and it's a nice opportunity to swap stories.”

Dillo stated matter of factly as he served up the drinks. A boy with brown eyes and shaggy brown hair took a beer and sat down in the corner. Another brown-headed boy with a chipped tooth and a tattoo grabbed a beer and started sipping on it, talking to the movie-star type handsome man whose choice of beverage was apparently milk.

“We got plenty of spare rooms here, and it’ll give your boys a break.” He nodded to the group of 4, who were now sitting. Ash and Two talking up a storm, and the other two resting their heads on the table. “Plus, what's the harm of having fun sometimes? Your friends seem like hard workers, they deserve the break.”

#the outsiders #two bit mathews #dallas winston #dillo!!#ponyboy curtis #johnny cade #steve randle #sodapop curtis #darry curtis #the outsiders western au

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voidsdamned · 9 months ago

Text

Wicked Natures - The Ghoul/OC (Female Character) Chapter Five

Summary: Bounty hunters are frequent customers at Mulholland's Saloon, and Rue's taken quite a shine to one gunslinger in particular: a cantankerous, old Ghoul in a tattered duster. Witness her unabashedly lust after him in all his irradiated glory (as we are all currently doing), as well as navigate the precarious relationship she unfortunately has with local law enforcement.

Minors, do not interact.

Content Warnings: more spice. Blood. Begging. Spanking. Roughness.

Enjoy.

Chapter Five: Stray Cat

Rue is fitfully sore when she wakes, and her back aches mildly, the curled-up position she slept in having done her no favours. She stretches until something pops –her left shoulder, maybe– and looks around the sunlit room. There’s not a soul in sight. No Ghoul. No Artie. She’s not terribly surprised. Artie doesn’t like staying too still, and the Ghoul… well, Rue’s equating him to a stray cat. He’ll just come and go as he pleases.

She drags herself to her feet, an old, grey bedsheet falling off her. It drapes over her feet, and she just stares at it for a moment, heart warming stupidly. She folds and stows it quick before shutting herself in the bathroom.

In the cracked mirror hanging above a pedestal sink, she can see the events of the night spelled out plainly on her body. Her neck is covered in splotches, the area around her pulse –where the Ghoul must have concentrated his efforts– is particularly bruised. Then there’s an ugly spot on her left shoulder where dried blood stains honey skin. There’s an outline of teeth amongst the bruising and split flesh having scabbed over. Telling bruises litter her breasts, and her wrists are a little red where the ropes rubbed her.

Rue, for once, is thankful she works in a glorified whorehouse. She knows a few tricks to disguise the marks the Ghoul left on her, and she’ll definitely have to. Deck may be out of town and his posse isn’t being as attentive as they should be, but they do still pop in on her. If they saw her in this state…. There would be a shitstorm when Deck returns, one Rue isn’t too keen on imagining. So, she doesn’t, she just sets to fixing the problem.

She’s quick about a bath. Quick to dress, donning a blouse with a more conservative neckline (but still standard for her). It covers the bitemark completely, and a bit of yellow concealer and some kind of cream almost her skin colour disguises the bruising on her neck decently well. She halves her hair, weaving twin braids to fall over her shoulders. With them providing more cover and a bit of shadow, Rue can’t even tell the Ghoul had gone to town on her.

As for the marks on her wrists… her blouse sleeves cover them mostly. But if anyone asks, she’ll say she got tangled up in the clothes line again.

Made up to the best of her abilities, Rue goes about the rest of the morning as she normally would: breakfast, laundry, and general tidying. There’s a period of time where she goes back into her bathroom, strips off her shirt, and studies the Ghoul’s handiwork again –and it gets her worked up horribly. She’s still sore, almost too sore to touch herself.

Almost.

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

Rue leaves the house earlier than normal, heading straightaway to Artie’s to check on him. She finds him in the schoolyard, working on one of the garbage sculptures he likes to put together –and most of them aren’t bad at all. Some don’t even look like garbage anymore he’s done such a good job with them. Some of the smaller pieces, he even manages to sell.

He’s on his knees, bent over working on an abstract shape of jagged edges, all of metal bits and shards of glass. It glints brightly in the noon sun, causing Rue to shield her eyes as she picks her way across the yard to him. He doesn’t notice her, doesn’t look up from his project, until she’s tapping him on the shoulder and giving a very gentle, “Afternoon, Artie.”

Artie jumps a touch, head snapping up to look at her with wide eyes –well, eye. One of them is black and swollen nearly shut, and it hurts her heart to see it –and to see all those other bruises peppering him. The little cuts. But his nose looks straight and fine.

He settles once he realizes it’s her, giving her a bright, toothy smile. “Rue! Y’see this? Got the idea in a dream last night. A bright, burnin’ star sharp enough to cut.”

She crouches beside him, examining his work and nodding her approval. “It’s nice. Really does have a kinda starburst effect to it. …How ya feelin’ this mornin’?”

“Bit foggy when I first woke,” he tells her, fiddling with a piece of metal, “bit sore. And ‘course I can’t see all the way. Havin’ to keep an even sharper ear out for the Dust Devils.”

“Y’know, I haven’t even seen the first one today.” Rue hopes that will calm him, allow him to relax a touch more. “Thinkin’ that wind storm we had a few nights ago really scattered ‘em.”

Artie gives a deft nod. “Good. Real good. Get a breather in before they start congregatin’ again.”

“I plan to. …You manage to sleep okay?”

“Like a baby. That um… rum? Yeah, rum. It knocked my lights out. Don’t think I want it again, but it did help me last night.”

Rue smiles bright. “That’s good to hear, Artie. Oh, here. I brought ya this.” She pulls out a small, glass bottle of painkillers Doc Nguyen had given her when she twisted the hell out of her ankle a few months ago. “It won’t knock your lights out, and it’ll help if you’re havin’ any pain. Doc Nguyen told me it’s okay to take two every six or so hours.”

Artie takes the bottle from her hands, shaking it. Holding it to his ear as he listens to the contents clink around. “No worms?”

Rue shakes her head. “No worms.”

He nods again. “Thank ya, Rue. Can I keep the bottle once it’s empty?”

“Of course. I can bring you by that empty rum bottle, too, if ya want it.”

Artie nods ecstatically, that toothy grin taking his mouth again. “That’ll be just what I need.”

“Great.” Rue pulls herself up to her feet, dusting off her skirt as she rises. “I’ll bring it by tomorrow, and I’ll try to get your clothes patched in the next few days. Got ‘em dryin’ on the line right now.”

The artist’s toothy smile transforms, becoming something sweet and a little watery. “You’re always real good to me, Rue. I appreciate it.”

“You’re very welcome, Artie,” she assures, squeezing his shoulder. “And I’d love to stay and watch ya work on this lovely piece, but I’m already late gettin’ to work. Take the meds if ya need ‘em, and try to get some rest, okay?”

Artie nods dutifully. “Yes’m.”

Rue gives him another smile and a small wave as she bids him goodbye for the day, and Artie goes right back to working on his sculpture, pausing only for a moment to pop two pills into his mouth before moving right along.

She moves right along as well, into another long, busy night at Mulholland’s.

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

When Jimmie Boone brings in a fresh shipment of moonshine, Mullholland’s tends to see a big crowd. It’s good shit, apparently. Volatile as rocket fuel. Rue’s never tried it, because it smells like it could kill her (she does have a gifted bottle of it at home, though). She also doesn’t like the particular brand of stupidity her tables exhibit when they’ve had moonshine. They get drunk, fast. They get clumsy. They get a little testy. They start throwing fists.

And then Rue finds herself watching full-out brawls transpiring in the midst of the saloon until Hal unholsters his revolver and fires a warning shot into an old dartboard pocked with bullet holes. That usually settles things down, but tonight… tonight, two men get a bullet to the ass and Hal gets so fed up he calls it early. He just about decides not to order anymore moonshine from Jimmie -but, of course, that’s a decision Deck will ultimately make once he gets back to town (and Rue already knows he won’t even consider it).

Rue meanders her way home in a fantastic mood. She seldom ever gets off early, and she really is looking forward to a long night of sleep after how hectic Mulholland’s has been lately. She also has a basket full of muffins curtesy of Hal, and she’s so excited to eat one in the morning for breakfast. They go beautifully with coffee, and she’d managed to get her hands on a small bag. She doesn’t have milk, though, which is unfortunate. But she can’t justify buying it when it doesn’t keep and she doesn’t have a fridge.

Home is quiet and dark. Rue sets all her belongings down on her wardrobe and shimmies out of her clothes, catching sight of bruises almost faded and a bite mark almost healed. All so faint, it’s almost like her encounter with the Ghoul didn’t happen. She needs him to come back around and leave some fresh ones (and she knows she’s stupid for that, considering the murderous prick of a warden she’s under the thumb of).

Rue dumps her caps into the slowly-filling, glass jar by her wardrobe, sighing long and deep through her nose as she gets on her tiptoes and stretches her arms high above her head. She doesn’t get a pop like she wants, but the stretch of her muscles feels good regardless. She tries again, rolling her shoulders, touching her toes, and twisting, but earns nothing for her efforts.

Giving up, Rue tosses herself onto the misshapen form of her couch, settling into the lumpy comfort of it. It doesn’t take long for her mind to go sleepily wandering, drifting further and further. She starts seeing a hare with antlers hopping around in her mind, every movement it makes sounding like the jingle-jangle of spurs.

Those jingle-jangles are a little too crisp and clear, and they tickle something in Rue’s mind into a state of quasi-awareness. Her eyes part a fraction, blearily focusing on a dark figure breezing towards her, steps soundless except for the jingle-jangle that excites her heart.

Rue pushes herself up onto her elbows, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand as her lips tilt sleepily up at the Ghoul. “Hey you.” She yawns largely. “Want a muffin?”

The gunslinger pauses, giving her a look that tells her exactly how stupid he thinks she is –narrowed, tired eyes and incredulity. “I ain’t here for muffins, ya thick thing.”

“I know it.” Her grin stretches, teasing and smug. “You’re here ‘cause I’m stuck in your head.”

He rolls his eyes (why does Rue delight in that so much?) and shakes his head. His steps towards her are slow, resounding in the small space. The jingle-jangle of spurs stokes a heat in her belly. “I’m here ‘cause I got an open invitation to ruin you any-fucking-time I want. Remember?”

Rue rocks a hand from side to side, feet kicking idly. “That sounds like me, though.”

He comes to the edge of the couch, close enough Rue could lean forward and plant a through-the-clothes kiss to his dick if she wanted to (and she kind of wants to). She licks her lips, eyes picking their way up to his, holding. His gaze is always so severe, so serious. Rue thinks he could peel back the layers of her with eyes like that.

“Think you’re cute, huh?”

Rue, not looking away, dips her head forward and presses her lips to the front of his trousers. “I think I’m adorable.”

And there comes the fire, that smoldering glint in whiskey eyes. His voice is gruff, a growl, as he orders her to, “Get up.”

Rue complies, drawing herself to her feet to stand pressed to his body –firm and cool with all that leather. “I was thinkin’ ‘bout ya not too long ago,” she shares, stretching her arms above her head. Her back finally pops, and she can’t help the pleased, little moan that escapes her. “All my lil’ trophies are healin’ up, and I like havin’ somethin’ to remember you by.”

Rue watches his trailing eyes, how they fix on a spot on her neck –one of the more lingering bruises. A cocky, little smirk twists at a corner of his mouth that she wants to pepper with kisses. “With the way you’re runnin’ that mouth, I dunno that you deserve ‘em.”

“Can’t help myself. You’re so fun to tease.” She reaches to touch his leather-vested chest, but he snags her wrist, holding tight enough to have her wincing.

He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Ya ought not tease a man like me, sweetheart.”

Rue sticks her tongue out at the mean, old man. “Would ya rather me just sit there all quiet like and take it?”

The Ghoul snorts. “I don’t think ya can be quiet.” His other hand ensnares her free one, and he pins them behind her back. “But I like to watch ya take it.”

Rue’s smile goes wide. “Challenge accepted.”

He cocks a browless brow at her in question.

“I won’t make a sound.”

He laughs, timber low and vibrating into Rue. “Shit, we both know I can getcha screamin’ if I want.”

Rue doesn’t say a word, only waggles her brows.

The bounty hunter gives an amused, “Hmp,” and tips his head. “Alright, then. Ya make a peep, and ya don’t come. I’ll just find out how deep I can shove my dick down your throat and be on my merry way.”

Just the threat of it makes Rue want to moan, but it’s much too early in the game. In fact, it just started. She raises her chin in a short motion she hopes he reads as, “Bring it.”

The Ghoul drags her in closer, letting her feel all his sharp edges and the hardening bulge of his cock beneath his trousers as he slowly ruts against her. Rue’s eyes flutter, and she bites down on her bottom lip to keep the whimpers in when his free hand tangles in her hair, pulling her head to the side so he can lavish her neck with his brutal brand of attention.

Against her pulse, he tells her, “I guess I can admit to thinkin’ a bit about ya –the kinda games I’d play with ya. What positions I’d put ya in. Thinkin’ I want ya from behind this go ‘round.”

Rue shivers and squirms, wanting that desperately. They didn’t get to that position last time, and she thinks it would hit like nothing else. She nods her approval probably a little too exuberantly.

The Ghoul grinds against her a final time before his body pulls back a touch. He fetches a length of rope from his belt, and Rue holds still as he binds her wrists behind her back. Then he takes a few more steps back from her, eyes thoughtfully, hungrily, scanning her body before they latch on hers.

Pure wickedness brews in those whiskey eyes, and the devilish curl of his lips promises her undoing. So do those goddamn hands when he takes his gloves off. He really isn’t playing fair.

And he’s playing rough when those hands greet her breasts, the tweak of her nipple something that wracks its way down her spine and has her biting down on her lip. She doesn’t make a sound, only shakes as his fingertips ghost against the flesh he’d just abused. And he makes sure her other tit gets the same treatment. Along with her clit, and goddamnit, is he particularly thorough down there, hooking his fingers into her, curling and coaxing. Flicking. That has her eyes wide around, and her hold on her lip harsh enough she tastes blood.

Rue silently quivering, watches the Ghoul suck his fingers clean of her. “Huh. Guess I gotta admire your determination,” he comments, eyes raising from her cunt and to her face. They go straight to her lips. The grin that takes his is feral as he licks his fingers. “Now, look what ya did. Makin’ a mess. I’m the one who’s supposed to be doin’ that.”

Why is that when he speaks she wants to moan the most? To whimper and swear?

The Ghoul grabs hold of her face and presses his lips harshly to hers, tongue trailing. The taste of blood intensifies as he deepens the kiss, as he bites at her. When he pulls away, his mouth is smeared with crimson. He licks that clean, too.

Rue almost goes to her knees, a series of swears threatening to spill from her battered lips. But she’s good at games, and she’s resolved herself to win this one. She wants to feel his body pressed to hers from behind, fucking her absolutely silly.

She steels herself and smirks, winking at him for good measure.

His eyes go half-lidded, dangerous. He clicks his tongue, a short laugh rumbling from him. “You’re just a glutton for punishment, huh?

Rue’s first instinct is to fingergun at him, but with the state of her hands, cannot do so. She settles for a nod and a slow, exaggerated licking of her lips.

The Ghoul is fast, grabbing and spinning her around. Pulling her down as he plops back on her couch. She lands across his lap, ass in the air and his fingers digging into the plushness of her left cheek. Which is all just fantastic, but what really has her attention is the way his dick presses against her stomach. It’s all she can think about until a breath-stealing, skin-searing, open-handed smack lights up her rear.

It robs her of her voice (most definitely the opposite of the desired effect), leaving her tense and wound tight as she awaits the next. And it does come, the sound sharp and the contact right where the first had been. But Rue was braced for it, ready, not a sound escapes her; but in her mind, she is gasping and giggling. On the outside, she squirms, toes curling and uncurling. Fingers clenching and unclenching. Her head hangs until a third smack has her snapping upright and biting down on her raw lip all over again.

“Tougher than you look.” The Ghoul hums, almost sounding impressed. His hand leaves her rear to grab her by the hair, tipping her head back further and making a “tch” sound. A scarred-up thumb drags across her cheekbone. “But ya sure are pretty with tears in your eyes.”

That small touch has her wanting to whine. She swallows thickly instead.

“That’s nice, too.” His thumb drags over her lips. “Wish I could see from this angle when you’re swallowin’ me down.”

Rue could make those dreams come true if she could get him on his back. Then she could approach from his right or left side, and he could have a nice side profile of her going to town. And if he was feeling sweet, he could finger or spank her. Or nice mix of the two.

Fuck.

Thinking of it has Rue squirming, needing some kind of friction below. There’s a pressure, a pulse, down there fast becoming unbearable.

Another disapproving sound from the Ghoul as his thumb withdraws from her mouth and his hand from her hair. “Nuh-uh, sweet. None of that. Not ‘til I say so.” One hand ghosts down her spine while the other rubs the tender spot on her ass in slow, lazy circles. Then pinches. Rue’s whole body goes tense, winding so tight it’s almost exhausting.

But I’m gonna win.

She chants that to herself, and almost immediately loses when that cruel hand slips between her legs to be so sinfully sweet she wants to purr and plead. Her head and eyes roll, breath gone completely erratic. Heart a mile a minute. Building and building and building, and-.

SMACK.

It truly takes every single drop of Rue’s resolve, stubbornness, and self not to scream. To shout and gasp raggedly and likely sob just a little. All she can do is shake and bleed and feel tears slip hotly down her cheeks.

The Ghoul huffs. “I was sure that’d get ya.... You don’t wanna sing for me, Rue?”

A dirty, fucking play to use her name, but she nods her head like crazy, curls spilling all around her shoulders and face until she’s shrouded by them.

He’s back to sweetness, touches gentle on her thighs and the spot on her ass likely to be as raw as her lips. Then he’s shoving her off his lap, and Rue’s hitting the floor with a bang that shakes her vision.

“You’re gonna,” the Ghoul promises, voice rough, husky, and even vaguely threatening. “You’re gonna sing and scream and pray for me.” His spurs jingle-jangle as his boots hit the floor as solidly as Rue had. She hears his belt buckle jingle, too. A zipper unzipping. Fabric sliding.

The Ghoul is on the floor with her, hands on her hips, jerking her onto her knees as the left side of her face scrapes against the floor. A knee firmly spreads her legs, and Rue, so excited, tries not to quiver as she feels the hot, rigid girth of him prodding at her from behind. The sharpness of his hip bones pressing into tender flesh.

She doesn’t expect gentleness, and she doesn’t get it. He’s as forthright as he was the first time, slamming his way into her completely in one, debilitating stroke that nearly pulls a whispered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Yes,” from her throat.

The Ghoul’s groan does something to her, that deep, throaty, purely pleasured sound. It stokes the fire he’s built up. She wants to hear more, loving to know the feel of her can draw out such a musical sound. That she can make him sing.

But the Ghoul’s grip is like iron, not allowing her to shift or angle her hips any differently. Or let her attempt bouncing off him herself. His fingers only dig in deeper, aggravating the spot he’d favoured, and Rue’s body clenches. The Ghoul’s hands hold tighter, an expletive hissing raggedly out of him.

He spanks and grasps her ass, tone rough and chiding, “That ain’t fair.”

Rue wants to laugh, to risk a glance up at him, but she thinks her smile would only work him up more –which isn’t really a bad thing, but it would only make the game harder. She’s struggling with it now. Really, really struggling when the Ghoul pulls back only to stroke roughly, fully again. Her eyes flutter. Her heart stutters. She needs to claw at the ground. She needs something to bite down on. It’s so good. The friction. The feel. Scratching at an itch so deep she wasn’t even aware of its existence.

She wants to tell him, “Again,” but doesn't have to. He’s a mind reader (more likely he planned on it already) because he does it again. Again. Again. Slow and deep and firm. Excruciatingly saccharine and biting. Something croaked and begging tries to escape from Rue, but she bites down on it with all her might, breathing roughly. Wildly.

She wonders if breathing counts as a noise? Hers is loud and unbelievably lewd right now –even to her own ears.

“So close,” the Ghoul muses, a genuine, wolfish delight underscoring the deep timber of his voice. His hips still. “Ya need a few more of those, huh?”

Rue bobs her head like a desperate fool.

“Ya gotta beg me.”

She shakes her head firmly. She wants to come. She needs to. She can’t have him running off on her tonight, not when she’s in such a twisted-up, terrible way.

A sharp smack greets her ass, and mercifully, it’s not on the likely-bruised cheek. She doesn’t make a sound, but her cunt throbs.

“Stubborn.” One of his steadying hands leaves her hips to fist in her hair, dragging Rue up, pulling her taught against his chest. The hand on her hip snakes to her front, between her legs to press firm, dragging circles against an overly sensitive bundle of nerves. The hand in her hair disengages, reaching around to grasp at her breasts.

Rue’s shaking from her head to her toes. Dizzy. So close to losing her mind.

“Beg me, Rue,” the Ghoul coaxes, voice low and beguiling. “And if it’s sweet enough, I’ll let you come.”

Grey eyes flutter open. She wants to ask him, “Promise?” but she doesn’t trust the offer in full. She wiggles her pinky against his chest.

The gunslinger pulls back a touch, the motions of both hands stilling. He scoffs out a disbelieving, “Really?”

Rue bobs her head.

An aggravated sigh and a grumbled, “Fine then.” A hand leaves her tit; the Ghoul’s pinky hooks with hers. “You’re a bit of a brat. Y’know that, right?”

“And you’re everything,” Rue gasps out. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Please, keep doin’ what you’re doin’. Please. I want you so bad it hurts. I’m about cryin’ over it in the best fuckin’ way.” She tilts her head back, hitting against his shoulder and finding his eyes. They’re hungry, dancing, delighted. And she knows hers only help her case. Wet, wide, and pleading. “You fill me up so fuckin’ good. It’s all I can think about. Please. Please. Fuck me. Fuck me ‘til I see stars. ‘Til I can’t walk. ‘Til I’m screamin’. Make me scream. Make me sing. And, darlin’, if ya gave me a name, I’d pray to it.”

The gunslinger’s hips buck –involuntarily or not, Rue doesn’t know. She just feels everything so acutely that a reedy, pitiful whine rips from her, her head dropping, lolling. Another plea marked by desperation.

A pull back. A stroke that sends her eyes to rolling. The Ghoul growls into her neck, “Ya don’t need a name. Anytime I hear ‘oh god’ come from ya, I’ll know it’s for me.”

Rue decides she’ll give him plenty of that, and she has every opportunity to. The Ghoul hears her pleas, and he answers. He gives her the slow, powerful thrusts that feel as if they reach to her gut. Hands pushing her buttons all the while. His pace alternates, him holding her tight and fucking into her with wild abandon, the snap of his hips quick and brutal.

She’s nonsensical. She hears her voice but cannot understand the words she might be speaking. No thoughts exist in her mind other than those of the Ghoul and everything he makes her feel. She’s lost completely to the mix of aching pleasure and too-sweet pain. And it really doesn’t take him long to send her toppling over the edge. Coming hard and shaky and loud. Her entire body tautens, especially around him. She can hear the way he swears around the buzzing in her ears. She feels every touch, how grasping and desperate his hands become. The unsteadiness his strokes devolve into.

His grip on her torso disappears, and Rue cannot hope to keep herself upright. She has no strength, no control, and no hands to catch herself with. Her chin strikes the floor, setting her teeth to ringing and eyes to swimming. And still the Ghoul fucks her, his hands on her waist and hips until a final, broad, shattering thrust spells out his end. As well as a second one for her that disconnects her brain from her body. She floats, overwhelmed and awash. She could happily drown in such pleasure.

But the Ghoul's voice and touch keep her afloat. Has her trying to reattach her scattered parts as she picks up bits and pieces of what he says. A bit of praise, him telling her he loves the way her filthy, fuckin’ cunt milks him for all he’s worth. How she’s such a good girl taking it like she did, singing like she did. He could get used to being worshipped.

“I’d exalt ya every-goddamn-day,” Rue mumbles, barely there, not even realizing he’s untied her hands until he’s flipping her over and she doesn’t crush her own arms. They just flop out uselessly beside her. She hazily watches as the Ghoul spreads her legs and kneels between them, his half-hard cock on full, lovely display before her eyes roll back into her head and her body seizes at the way he fingerfucks his way back into her.

“Hell, that’s a fuckin’ sight,” he breathes. “Fillin’ you up and watchin’ me spill out.”

Rue half-whimpers/half-gasps/half-laughs. “Ohhhh, that’s... that's fi- filthy. I... l-love it. But ya -fuck– you’re killin’ me.”

The Ghoul laughs at the state of her (most likely), and through lidded eyes, she watches him sit with his back against the couch and tuck himself away. His head hangs, chest rising slow and steady, and sweat glistens on his forehead and neck. A fucking painting, a masterpiece, is what he is.

Rue can’t help herself. “You’re so handsome.”

He’s close enough to reach out and pinch her. “Gonna make you eat your own tongue.”

The pinch is easily ignored, nothing compared to what she just went through. “So, so handsome.” Rue rolls over on her side, grasping for the couch and using it to haul herself up. She’s not successful. Her limbs are useless. She grins lazily at the cowboy. “Think ya broke my arms… and my legs, maybe.”

A short, bark of a laugh. “Ain’t sorry ‘bout it.”

“Neither am I.” Rue gives hoisting herself to her feet another go, barely managing to get on her knees. It’s an even greater feat that she manages to get to her feet. She feels wobblily, like a newborn radstag, as she crosses the floor. “I look as silly as I feel?”

“Like an idiot, but that’s nothin’ new.”

Rue snorts, sticking her tongue out at the Ghoul before shutting herself in the bathroom where she cleans up just a bit. When she emerges, she’s pleased to find the Ghoul sitting right where she left him, head tipped back and his boots kicked off. She leaves him to relax for the moment, going to her kitchenette and fishing out the sealed mason jar full of Jimmie Boone’s moonshine. She also fills two glasses with water.

She returns to the Ghoul, handing over the moonshine and a glass before joining him on the floor, back pressing into the couch. She upends her glass of water quickly before tilting her head back to relax and bask in the presence beside her. But the tired hits heavy, letting Rue know she's about to have a proper sleep whether she's ready for it or not. She fights to keep her eyes parted, to enjoy the Ghoul for just a little longer. She watches him unscrew the jar lid and take himself a sniff. Or as good of one as he can. She doesn’t know how much he can smell without a nose.

“Think I’ve had this before,” he mutters before taking a swig. His face screws up. “Goddamn.”

Rue grins smally, drowsily. “Two people got shot in the ass tonight ‘cause of that shit.”

“If they were drunk off this, bet they didn’t even feel it.”

“Sure howled like they did.”

The Ghoul snickers and takes another draw from the ‘shine.

She smothers a yawn, asking, “Ya set to head out after another bounty?”

“Yup. Got some raiders in the hills not too far from here goin’ after caravans. Boy standin’ in for Deck’s offering a hundred caps a head.”

Rue perks slightly at that. “Damn, that’s good money. …Ya sure I can’t bounty hunt with you?” It’s a question made in jest, but… some small part of Rue is stupidly hopeful.

The Ghoul tips back the moonshine, taking a deeper glug. When he pulls the jar away, his sharp intake of breath sounds like a hiss. He shakes his head. “I maintain that you ain’t built for it, sweetheart. I don’t even think ya got a gun.”

He’s not wrong about the gun. Rue doesn’t have one. Deck won’t let her have one. No one in Dust will sell her one either on account of her being not quite right in the head. They think she’ll hurt herself or someone else. But she has a fucking pocket knife. That’s all fine and dandy.

“I used to,” she mutters, eyes too heavy to keep open. He really does wear her out in the best way.... “It was pretty. Bolt-action rifle. Real antique lookin’ thing with gleamin’ wood and all these pretty lil’ whorls carved in it. I think it burned up with the ranch.” Her lips quirk at the thought of it, the mental picture in her head. The blurry sensation of what it felt like to hold it and fire. To feel the assuring weight of it strapped to her back.

She felt tough enough to take on the world back then. She knows that’s still somewhere in her. She feels it stirring sometimes, making her want to rip her skin off.

“Always noticed you take care of your guns,” Rue goes on, voice soft and sleepy. “Appreciate that ‘bout ya.”

“Gotta. They make me my money.” A pause. A shift she can feel vibrate through the couch they both lean into. He might be looking at her? She thinks she can feel his eyes on her, but she can't check. “Ya gonna fall asleep like that?”

“Yeah.”

And she does.

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The Ghoul is gone in the morning, not that Rue expected any different of the stray cat. But she didn’t expect to wake up in her bed with the covers draped over her –or to find the glasses and jar they used last night washed and drying by the sink. It’s a nice, small surprise. One that has her smiling while she brews her morning coffee.

And her smile takes in her ears when she goes to grab a muffin from the basket on the kitchen table, finding half of them gone.

#the ghoul #cooper howard #fallout #fallout the series #fallout 2024 #fallout tv series

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dapppaintingdrywall · 25 days ago

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Restoration: Bringing old or weathered wooden pieces back to life with a fresh coat of paint or stain.

Regardless of the project, experts can tailor their services to meet your specific needs and preferences.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

Q1: How much do wood painting services cost?The cost varies based on the project size, type of wood, paint quality, and labor involved. On average, expect to pay $2-$5 per square foot for most wood painting projects.

Q2: How often should I repaint wooden surfaces?Interior wooden surfaces typically need repainting every 5-7 years, while exterior wood may require touch-ups every 2-3 years due to exposure to weather.

Q3: Can wood painting services repair damaged wood?Yes, most professionals offer minor repair services, such as filling cracks, replacing rotted sections, or smoothing uneven surfaces, before painting.

Q4: What type of paint is best for wood?Latex-based paints are durable and easy to clean, while oil-based paints offer a smooth finish. Your painter will recommend the best option based on your wood type and project location.

Q5: How do I maintain painted wooden surfaces?Regular cleaning with a damp cloth, avoiding harsh chemicals, and applying protective coatings every few years can extend the life of painted wood.

Conclusion: Enhance Your Wooden Surfaces Today

Investing in professional wood painting services ensures your wooden surfaces remain beautiful and durable for years to come. Whether you need to refresh your deck or add character to your furniture, hiring skilled painters near you guarantees quality results. Begin your search for “Exterior painting services near me” today and discover how local experts can transform your space.

#wood painting services #wood painting #painting services

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gayhawkelatehomicide · 1 month ago

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Untitled Fallen London Fic

Writing about Them!

I really should give this a title at some point, but it's not finished so I don't have to figure that out yet. It's going to be... Kinda long, because there's no world where this pair of incredibly suspicious, closed-off people from very different walks of life just fall into each other's arms on first contact. Here's the beginning of their story anyway.

Chapter 1: In which we meet our two principals.

A ship steams into Wolfstack Docks, her engine running on fumes. She actually coasts the last few feet to the wharf on sheer momentum and her Steely-Eyed Captain’s strength of will, thudding against the barnacle-encrusted stone and jolting hard enough to send the crew stumbling. All except for the captain, that is. He stands at the wheel of his beloved Saint Dymphna with nary a wobble as the last of the fuel runs out, he loses power steering, and she collides with the pier at what must be nearly three knots.

An officer, a cheerful looking gentleperson with singed and powder-stained clothes, rappels down the side of the ship with a heavy-duty dock line in their free hand and secures her to the pier before she can float away again. Several members of the somewhat underfed crew fix the spring lines, lower the gangway, and begin to unload her. While many of them look longingly towards the pubs and eateries which line the docks, no one slopes off to get a meal in. Not under the captain’s gaze.

The Saint Dymphna herself is a sight to see: a Maenad class frigate, she is 128 meters from stem to stern and weighs in at a little more than 9,000 long tons. Her deck and forward guns (easily the best-maintained part of the ship) gleam wickedly in the reflected lights of the city. She’s clearly seen some trouble on her most recent voyage, patched as she is in several places with what appear to be chunks of lifeberg carapace. Whoever the ship’s mechanic is must be an incredible artificer, because she remains obviously seaworthy despite no fewer than three lorn-fluke spines embedded in her aft starboard hull. The Steely-Eyed Captain, having assured himself that his ship is appropriately docked, strides down the gangplank to oversee the offloading.

He checks the gazetteer he keeps in an inner pocket of his heavy wool coat. Within this invaluable volume is a wealth of information about the far-flung corners of the Unterzee including routes to every major port of call, most every island, and many of the zubmarine docking points scattered in the deepest reaches of the darkness. Additionally, there are notes on the dispositions and disportments of various potentates and persons of interest in these far-flung locales, their goals and requests, and the rewards they’re offering for assistance. (Or, in the case of the Khanate, the rewards they aren't offering for assistance they certainly did not ask for.) The captain’s to-do list is on the last page. Currently, it has three entries.

The first should be obvious to anyone looking at the state of the Saint Dymphna: A trip to London’s finest drydock for refit and repair (while the crew eat and carouse on the docks, frittering away their pay, which is just large enough to tide them over for a few weeks, after which they’ll come crawling back for more. As it should be.) He’ll have to check in with the Admiralty’s Survey Office for permission first, but he’s fairly certain that the files he has tucked away in his many pockets will gain him enough favor for a steep discount on repair costs.

The second item on his list is to hire more crew members. When he left London, the ship had been only slightly undermanned (provided you count the clay men stoking the engine as crew). Then there had been the incident with the Lovely Deviless in the Iron Republic, who made off with two of the deck hands. And then had come that brush with the Republican Dreadnaught on the way south to Port Carnelian where they’d lost the cook’s assistant. Poor fool was in the wrong corner of the hold when a flensing shot came through and cut him near in half. Then the run-ins with the local fauna, including an angler crab that pulled off some of the hasty hull-patches they’d had to make during their last visit to Anthe, and the lorn-fluke between Carnelian and the Grand Geode. Those had taken the rear gunner and another unfortunate deck hand, respectively. And, of course, the trip to the surface had cost him three of the weaker-willed crewmen who succumbed to the bright beauty of the light up there. The last leg back to London had been slow and harrowing with so few hands on deck. It’s time to hire some more.

The third and final task he must complete before he leaves London again is the sale of his substantial cargo. In the Saint Dymphna’s hold—in fact, currently being rolled, craned, and hauled out onto the dock—are forty caskets of sapphires, fresh from the mines of Port Carnelian; twenty crates of sphinxstone chipped from the Salt Lions; two colossal fluke cores bound for the Alarming Scholar, here in London, and the Curator, the next time they sail for Venderblight; and exactly seven samples of stygian ivory for the Merchant Venturer. This piece of cargo, the Steely-Eyed Captain places into a sturdy leather bag and slings over his shoulder.

Lieutenant Augustine Moore of the Saint Dymphna, now on dry land where his name is more important than his captaincy (to most, at least), eyes the collection of hopeful looking dockers assembling at the landward end of the wharf. Several of them slink away from his scrutiny, but a few meet his speculative gaze. These, he motions forward as he approaches them.

“Any of you boys—” he scans the motley crew and amends his language, doffing his cap to the singular woman present, “and lady, my apologies. Ma’am. Any of you folks looking for some work? My cargo needs hauling to the Bazaar and to those ministry men over there.” He indicates the black-clad Special Constables with a tilt of his chin. A few of the dockers shoot frightened looks in that direction, but to their credit, none bolt.

The lady is the first to speak up. She’s as filthy and tattered as the rest of them, but her accent is pure Veilgarden. Interesting. “Fifty pence a crate and forty pence a barrel.”

It’s nearly a fair deal. Moore grumbles a bit for the sake of appearances, but he shakes her hand after only a few rounds of indignant haggling. One mustn’t let the dockers take advantage. They’ll work for thirty five pence per container of cargo, shape notwithstanding. The young men immediately set to work helping the Saint Dymphna’s crew unload and package the cargo for transportation through London, but the Ragged Lady hangs back with Moore for a few words.

“Thanks for your honesty, captain,” she commends him in a quiet voice. “My brothers and I have been having a hell of a time getting work for fair pay, on account of me being a girl and all.”

“I see no reason a girl shouldn’t be paid the same for the same work,” Moore asserts simply. “There are individuals with tentacles running ‘round London. Besides, the women on my crew are just as competent as the rest—more so, from time to time.”

Case in point, Maybe’s Rival disembarks just in time to save a poorly-balanced stack of sphinxstone crates from toppling onto the Irrepressible Cannoneer’s fool head. Right behind her is the Brisk Campaigner, who sees the disorganized rabble and immediately takes charge of the packaging operation. The Presbyterate Adventuress comes down the gangway last, her bundle of dueling weapons and personal effects under one arm, and laughs at the Cannoneer while they stumble through an expression of gratitude. Moore doesn’t blame them for their stuttering: Maybe has that effect on people.

“Thanks all the same,” the Ragged Lady smiles warmly. “If you ever need a hand, I’m your man. Well, almost.”

Moore permits himself an austere simile in response to her humor, and she joins her “brothers” at work. When his first officer shoots a questioning look in his direction, Moore flashes a few hand signals to let her know the specifics of the agreement. The Merciless Modiste offers a sharp nod before turning to bark orders at her new underlings. All is well, and all manner of things shall be well.

***

Hours later, having relieved himself of cargo and intelligence both, Lieutenant Moore is headed back to his ship to oversee her transference to the admiralty's drydocks. As he reaches the wharf, an unfamiliar shape chugs up to the docking point across from the Saint Dymphna. The new arrival is an elegant ship nearly two-thirds the size of the frigate, painted a smooth and eye-catching sapphire hue so bright it borders on violant. Moore's experienced eye tells him she isn't built for fighting, but any ship on the Zee needs durability and firepower if she intends to arrive at her destination, and this one has both in abundance. The scars of battle are well-hidden in the paint, and the deck and aft weapons are politely covered, but she's obviously survived her share of incidents.

The beautiful new arrival's gangway lowers as Moore reaches the Saint Dymphna, and a servant comes down it rolling a deep blue carpet open all the way to the pier. Another, this one with a pail of cleaning supplies, scurries out to begin clearing the worst of the grime from the stones of the wharf. It's impossible to see the deck from here, but Moore can hear the sound of a singularly skilled string quartet winding down the end of a performance. He shakes his head at the extravagances of the well-to-do.

The crew of dockers led by the Ragged Lady are scattered around the end of the pier near Dymphna's mooring point, dangling their feet dangerously near the waters of the Zee or propped up on empty barrels, passing dark bottles around, waiting to be paid. Moore produces a newly heavy purse from an inner pocket (no sense wearing your money on a belt where it can be stolen) and jingles it lightly to get their attention. The Ragged Lady herself hops up from her slapdash crate-throne to retrieve her company's due.

Moore is in the process of counting out the appropriate quantity of coin when the society people begin to disembark from the Sapphire Pleasure Yacht. He takes a moment to indulge in a bit of working class solidarity by marveling at the handsome coats and time pieces of the gentlemen while the Ragged Lady admires the shoes and frocks worn by the women. After a gaggle of well-dressed personages spill out onto the dock and begin to disperse, one final person appears at the top of the gangway.

Wearing a gown made of golden parabola linen (Moore recognizes it after transporting enough of the stuff) which gleams like Aestival's sun seen through Zee fog, this individual pauses at the edge of the deck to speak with someone still on board. Augustine Moore is not usually the sort of man who puts much stock in the fashion choices of society people, considering them beautiful but frivolous at best and downright wasteful at worst, but he cannot help but see the purpose in every line of this person's figure.

The large sapphire earrings and necklace, obviously a signifier of wealth and Carnelian affiliation, gleam in the reflected light of the gown to create a dazzling effect which must be disorienting in conversation. The pair of gold and blue heeled boots visible beneath the hem of the dress as the person begins to descend the gangway seem to move with them, steadying their steps and preventing any embarrassing stumbles. Moore recognizes them as arguably-living Moray Heels: far out of his own price range, but the kind of thing a sensible (and enormously wealthy) zeefarer with a keen eye for fashion might wear.

The brass and amber ring, prominently the only adornment on the stranger's hands, seems to whisper of hidden things even at this distance. Moore has seen enough devil-craft in his trips to the Iron Republic to spot it at twenty meters. That's certainly what the ring is. And atop their impeccably styled hair sits a coronet of chitin and bone and nevercold brass which fills the air around them with an unquestionable aura of authority. They are, without a doubt, the most arresting beauty Lieutenant Moore has ever laid eyes on.

"Who is that?" he breathes, barely able to tear his attention from the stranger long enough to ask.

The Ragged Lady giggles, not even bothering to clap a hand over her mouth to hide it. "That'd be Their Inestimable Ladyship. Just returning from another stint as Governor of Port Carnelian for the season, I'd bet."

"Don't you mean The Social Season?" one of her scruffy brothers calls, in the tone of a child poking at a familiar debate to get a rise out of someone.

"No, and I'm not having this argument with you again," she snaps over her shoulder at the interlocutor. She turns back to Moore with the amused twinkle still in her eyes. "All of the tun should be coming back into town soon, but Their Ladyship is always a little early to make sure everything is ready."

"You know they did a turn or three down here on the docks?" The Scruffy Interlocutor puts in from his spot by the edge of the water. "I heard they rapped some neddy men but good in the last strike. Took that nasty bone knife they keep in their boot and put one of Feducci's best outta commission too, a couple seasons back. Ain't seen that Captain Vendrick fella around since he was rantin' about them killing his love in a permanent sorta way."

"I heard they came up from nothin'. Came from some back alley in Spite or somesuch, tricked and fought and worked their way into the Singing Mandrake and then all the way to the Shuttered Palace," another member of the troupe, this one a solidly built boy right on the cusp of manhood, adds.

"I hear," a spindly youth barely too old to be an urchin pipes up in the story-telling spirit that seems to have taken hold of the gang, "they was born 'n raised right here on the docks, and them court twits still ain't realized!" He chortles with glee at the supposed foolishness of the high society.

After the laughter runs its course through the rest of the crew, a myopic boy with a nasal voice and thick glasses adds his two cents. "I hear they're running expeditions in the Forgotten Quarter and funding projects in the University. I hear they're starting an orphanage out of their old townhouse, and they've made friends with the rats under the Blind Helmsman."

"I hear they've got one foot in the Brass Embassy and the other in Saint Fiacres, and they've been seen out on the town with two different devils, and the Bishop of Southwark. I hear they're in bed with-" This last liberty, from the Grinning Prevaricator dangling upside down on one of the taught spring lines, draws an interruption before it can be fully taken.

"Oh hush, all of you," the Ragged Lady cuts them off with a sharp slash of her hand. She watches Their Ladyship reach the end of the gangway and stop to help the servant begin rolling the blue carpet back up. There's something almost… wistful, there in her eyes. "Everybody knows Their Inestimable Ladyship came down from the surface. They were a poet and a writer and a terrible scandal, then cleaned it all up after a trip or two to the Tomb Colonies. They got right with the Church and the fancy folks, and now they're the Poet Laureate of all London and sometime-governor of Port Carnelian."

The others have all fallen silent as their Ragged Lady speaks, whether out of respect or because they know where that wistful look comes from, Moore can't determine. She tells the story with the simple conviction of one who knows her information is accurate, insofar as it goes, and none of her gang of brothers chooses to push her on it. Moore wishes any of his brothers had ever showed him the same courtesy, but more than that he's fascinated by the stories and the person at the center of them. He burns with curiosity about Their Inestimable Ladyship (and how does the Ragged Lady know so much about them, anyway?), but he's not stupid. He knows better than to seek more tales here, where his questioning might get back to the object of his interest. Maybe the Scholar or the Venturer will know more…

Meanwhile, across the dock, Their Ladyship has finished assisting the servant (who gives them a smile somewhere in the dangerous grey-zone between "grateful" and "utterly smitten") and is overseeing the unloading of baggage. For an individual dressed as spectacularly as they are, obviously wealthy and unafraid of showing it, they seem more interested in the lives and health of their staff than any other socialite Moore can think of offhand. At one point, they actually relieve a struggling servant from work, then go up into the docks for a moment. Moore thinks perhaps they intend to head off to their next appointment, leaving the crew short handed, but they shortly reappear with two extra helpers. Fascinating behavior.

He must investigate. Drydock temporarily forgotten (the Modiste will handle it), Moore pays the Ragged Lady and marches back into London in search of more information.

#fallen london #sunless seas #my writing #my ocs #oc x oc #Their Inestimable Ladyship #The Steely-Eyed Captain

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boyakishantrinity · 2 months ago

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I wrote a thing.

Alien meets human operative, final kill. One human versus most of alien kind. Transition to random story one, I'll add more as I go along.

click, click, clack.

The chip blew itself, sparks momentarily flashing. Magazine dropped out of the gun as it fell to the floor.

“... Lucky shot “

Not a curse. A statement, an observation. Bodies lay slumped around the room, stains left in the building. It wasn't the increased security, the breaking of bonds or even countering their techniques.

They pulled their body against the wall, mask depressurising, whatever hive mind. Controls, powers. It all faded, vanishing in a spire of floating colours and shapes. As the three of them stared at the human.

Just a human, heavily armed, decked in mobile armour. A yellow alien vegetable in some kind of basket, the badge plastered on their shoulder. Body relaxing in spite of the growing pool of blood. Smirking, they chuckled to themself as they lay there.

“... I'll be right ere, y'all are kinda shit.”

Their words clicked through the translators. Whatever accent, the local tongue, changing as they hear them.

“...”

Weapons lowered. Staring in surprise, command left stunned at the noise. Watching the human die as forced moved enroute.

“... Do y'know what's special about humans?”

Slurred, well. Starting to slur, slowly dying, the wound dripping blood. Pressure shifting around them, the air responding to something.

“... I'll be perfectly honest ere, we ain't any kinda special.”

Smiling. Leaning back, killers. They stood there, unsure as they continued to ramble.

“It's kinda bullshit, both on and off dirt. Plenty of species are faster, more well rounded better at swimming down the stream…”

Water frothed below, hanging off one side of the truck. Vehicle driving by, multiple wheeled drones moving in a long chain.

“FUCKING HELL-”

Cursing, jumping between vehicles, the human constantly stumbled. Barely keeping their heads above water, firing shots whenever stable as the strike force struggled to keep up to them.

CRACK-

Thunder thoomed behind the human, thrown off the truck as electricity surged into the ground. Landing onto the previous truck, lightning sparked through their body a moment later.

“... FOR FUCKS SAKE-”

They jumped across, Dashing through the metallic taste, dodging lightning as stimulants rushed through her system.

Slinging across, struggling to stand on the uneven front of the van, far off the distance. Slowly approaching the other side of the cliff face.

“HEY-”

Jumping truck by truck, rolling, before slamming their hands against the edge. Landing ass first, sliding past lightning strike, legs kicking behind body across the truck's top.

Arms burning, the smell of smokey burnt flesh, if it weren't for the rain, she'd be fried. Looking ahead, lighting striking the cliff above, humanoid head peaked behind the truck top. A howl reaching her ears as she half heard the words.

“... You're clear- GO GO GO!”

Deep breathe. Sliding across the curved surface, skating her way over the gap, two trucks to go. Metallic taste tickled her arms, the dull, pulling sensation in front of her. Body half locking as she pushed the body forward.

“HRRRNG”

Growling, pouncing over, sliding, arms simultaneously gripping the vehicle’s back. Legs catching one end, human slipping against the side of the vehicle.

“C'MON-”

Lightning seemed to stop here. Electricity pulling back, the sensation marked it behind her, gasping. Yanking the ridges, before landing on the back of the other vehicle.

A yelp. The human scrambled up the vehicle, trucks swerving, flying vehicles grounded as they dashed up the side. Pulling themselves by the rungs, cursing their way along as she caught breath. Metallic taste in her tongue, they'd felt it too.

Forcing herself to her feet, grabbing the handles on the back, bending her knees, before throwing her body over the top. Curved section left nothing to grip, she slid past. The wider, thicker section had ridges. Backwards fingers kicking her momentum forward, sliding poorly onto the front, the human slid a small area away from her.

She forced her burning leg back, body turning numb, throwing their foot out from them, body sprawling over themselves. Mid swing, their body spun. Arms smashing against the railing, her body jumping to the other vehicle as she saw the human.

Electrified, sparks erupting the railing, the metal. The metal bent, shifting as they touched it, warping like hot putty. Smoking, body sent flying over the edge, her eyes left wide open as the human vanished into the foggy overflow.

#tag #writing #aura #idk #writing on tumblr #humans are space orcs #artists on tumblr #write #writers on tumblr

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brooklynislandgirl · 3 months ago

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Advent Calendar || Day Five @corinnebaileyrp

Cory should have known when Beth burst into her shop in the middle of the day decked out in hiking boots and pants that maybe something was going down. But she seemed snared by by grabby hands and that little too chipper chirp of "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!" The only reprieve came when Beth allows her to pull on her cap and gloves and jacket. The snow had been light but consistent since Thanksgiving Night and all of New York feels like the inside of a particularly holiday-themed snow-globe. Breath from dozens of neighbours mist the air. Music in a festive cacophony streams out of windows and doors, competing for attention and weave in and out of shouts, whistles, and regaling frost-silvered laughter. Of course she was the first to step out into the shiver-inducing battle grounds as she had foreknowledge of what Cory is stepping into, easily able to wrangle her friend behind one of the snow-erected barriers to avoid being pelted by any of the heavier ammunition. Gloved and mittened hands have spent a decent amount of time allowing the fresh powder to melt and reform into hard little balls while others are not taking the snow-ball fight that seriously. Ducked behind the cold wall, Beth ~skin pale from being leeched by the air, and stained red at the nose and corners of her mouth~ smiles up at Cory with fervid glee. "Bes' part is? We don' even know most of dese people. Started wi' a couple kids an' den jus' everybody join in. Andy is providin' advice an' first aid services....an' den we're gonna buy out da local shops for food an' warm drinks aftah!" The little nurse could not have been more full of joy and wonder if someone had turned up and given her a real life baby unicorn to care for. And from across the street, rare as a pure blue cut and polished diamond comes Andy's smile. Eyes crinkled at the corner, deep dimples, teeth showing. It feels for all the world that it's for Cory and Cory alone to see. Maybe it is. Beth nudges Cory's arm with her elbow to ensure the woman sees it before she starts loading the taller woman's hands with some hefty snow balls. The play goes on for well over an hour and winds down with little to no actual casualties or police presence. At least until Andy scoops Beth up to lead the charge back to Cory's shop, with triumphant cries for cocoa and coffee. It serves her brother right, that Cory has one hell of an aim.

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estimateflorida · 3 months ago

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Rooftop Deck Installation Cost

Adding a rooftop deck is a fantastic way to maximize outdoor living space, enjoy fresh air, and take in scenic views—all from the comfort of your home. But before beginning, it's essential to understand the costs involved in rooftop deck installation and the factors that can affect the price. This guide breaks down expenses for building a rooftop deck, covering material choices, labor, design elements, and permitting requirements.

Average Cost of a Rooftop Deck Installation

Rooftop deck installation costs vary widely depending on size, materials, and design complexity. Generally, homeowners spend between $25,000 and $75,000, with most paying around $45,000. For high-end installations using premium materials and custom designs, costs can exceed $100,000.

Low-End Cost: $15,000 to $25,000

Average Cost: $25,000 to $75,000

High-End Cost: $75,000 to $100,000+

Key Factors That Affect Rooftop Deck Installation Cost

1. Size of the Deck

The larger the deck, the higher the installation cost. Basic rooftop deck designs typically cost around $30 to $50 per square foot. For decks with custom features, like built-in seating or specialty lighting, the cost can rise to $60 to $100 per square foot.

2. Materials

Wood: Cedar or pressure-treated wood ranges from $25 to $60 per square foot, providing durability at a moderate cost.

Composite: Low-maintenance and sleek, composite materials (e.g., Trex) cost around $50 to $80 per square foot.

Aluminum and Steel: Modern and highly durable, these materials cost $60 to $100 per square foot due to their weight and structural support requirements.

3. Structural Requirements

A rooftop deck may require structural reinforcements to safely support additional weight, particularly with larger or heavier decks. Structural work could add $10,000 to $20,000 to the project cost.

4. Accessibility

Creating safe access to your rooftop deck often involves adding a staircase, which typically costs $3,000 to $5,000. Custom options like an elevator will significantly increase the price.

5. Permits and Engineering

Permits are typically required for rooftop deck installations, with costs ranging from $500 to $2,000. In addition, structural engineering analysis, which may add $2,000 to $5,000, ensures the deck is safe and compliant with local codes.

6. Additional Features

Furniture and Décor: Investing in outdoor furniture and decor can cost between $1,000 and $10,000.

Lighting: Custom lighting installations range from $500 to $3,000.

Outdoor Kitchen or Bar: Adding an outdoor kitchen or bar can cost $5,000 to $20,000.

Shade Structures or Pergolas: For shade, pergolas or canopies add $3,000 to $10,000 to the total budget.

Cost Breakdown by Rooftop Deck Type

Wood Rooftop Deck: $25,000 to $50,000; offers a natural aesthetic but requires more maintenance.

Composite Rooftop Deck: $30,000 to $60,000; low-maintenance and weather-resistant.

Metal Rooftop Deck: $35,000 to $75,000; durable and modern, though it may become hot under direct sunlight.

Additional Cost Considerations

Maintenance and Repairs

Routine Maintenance: Wooden decks need staining or sealing every few years, costing around $500 to $1,000 each time.

Repairs: Structural repairs, such as reinforcing beams or fixing leaks, may cost between $1,000 and $5,000.

Seasonal Upkeep

Exposure to rain, snow, and sun may require regular upkeep, especially for wood decks. Setting aside $500 to $1,000 annually can help cover minor repairs and maintenance needs.

Budgeting for Your Rooftop Deck Installation

Outline Your Goals: Define the main purpose of your deck, which will impact material and feature choices.

Set a Realistic Budget: Plan for construction, permits, accessibility, and any additional features.

Consult a Professional: Get an accurate estimate from a contractor familiar with rooftop deck projects and local regulations.

Plan for Maintenance: Include costs for regular upkeep to avoid future surprises.

Final Thoughts: Enhancing Your Home with a Rooftop Deck

A rooftop deck can elevate your home’s value and provide a luxurious outdoor space. By carefully planning your budget and considering all associated costs, you can create an inviting rooftop oasis tailored to your lifestyle. Whether you prefer a cozy wooden deck or a sleek composite or metal design, a rooftop deck is a rewarding investment in both your property and your quality of life.

FAQs About Rooftop Deck Installation Cost

How much does it cost to install a rooftop deck? Costs range from $25,000 to $75,000, averaging around $45,000. High-end projects with custom designs can exceed $100,000.

What factors impact the cost of a rooftop deck? Key factors include the deck’s size, material choice, structural requirements, accessibility options, permit needs, and additional features.

What materials are best for a rooftop deck, and how do they affect costs?

Wood: $25–$60 per square foot; attractive but requires upkeep.

Composite: $50–$80 per square foot; low-maintenance and weather-resistant.

Metal: $60–$100 per square foot; durable but more expensive.

Are permits and engineering required? Yes, permits typically cost $500 to $2,000, and a structural engineer’s assessment adds $2,000 to $5,000 for safety assurance.

How much does it cost to add stairs or an elevator for deck access? Staircases cost $3,000 to $5,000, while elevators or custom access options will be significantly more.

Do rooftop decks increase home value? Yes, they add value by enhancing outdoor space, though the ROI depends on build quality and local market conditions.

What maintenance does a rooftop deck require? Wooden decks need sealing or staining every few years, costing $500 to $1,000. Composite or metal decks are lower-maintenance, though occasional cleaning and inspections are advisable.

Can a rooftop deck be installed on any building? Not all buildings can support a rooftop deck. A structural assessment is necessary to ensure the building can handle the added weight.

Popular features and their costs for rooftop decks:

Outdoor kitchen: $5,000–$20,000

Custom lighting: $500–$3,000

Built-in seating: $2,000–$5,000

Shade structures: $3,000–$10,000

How can I save on rooftop deck installation? Opt for budget-friendly materials, limit custom features, and plan the design to minimize structural modifications. Working with an experienced contractor can also help keep costs down.

#Rooftop Deck Installation #construction #estimates

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tmkutawrites · 1 year ago

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A COMMON BOND - FREE SAMPLE!

This is a free sample of my debut lesbian romance novella, A Common Bond, which comes out November 7, 2023. Please enjoy :)

Note: There may/will be some typos in this sample. We like that, it confuses the Overlords of Zon so they don't strike me for contract infringement. I promise in the final, purchased version the typos have been fixed :)

Now, on with the sample!

RFI 1

To: Josie Basurto (May 3, 5:34PM)

From: Carneline Triana

Subject: Site Visit for Mobilization

Josie,

I will be on site with my management team most of Monday morning. I’m sure we will run into each other at some point.

Carneline

***

From: Josie Basurto (May 3, 5:39PM)

To: Carneline Triana

Subject: RE: Site Visit for Mobilization

Looking forward to it!

***

Carneline had known Clover Hill’s old town hall was in bad shape from the bid documents. On her walkthrough with Rio a few weeks ago, even more suspicions had been raised. But now, the disintegrating chunk of limestone that had fallen off the cornice and into her hand confirmed it: she was going to be spending a lot more time in Clover Hill than she had initially planned. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’ve never seen limestone this bad,” Bruno murmured. Oceanic’s chief masonry superintendent carefully set the piece of stone down on the scaffold. “This whole cornice is going to have to be checked.”

Checking the structural integrity of a city block’s worth of limestone was definitely not covered in their contract. Carneline chewed on the inside corner of her mouth as she ran a hand across the sugaring stone and watched millennia-old sand crumble into her palm. “Is this the only bad news?”

“Oh no,” Bruno said in a voice far too cheery for her liking as he pushed to his feet. “This mortar is definitely hot.”

Asbestos remediation was also definitely not in their contract.

She cast a desperate glance along the joints. “Are you sure?”

“Yup.” He pointed to an area where the mortar was exposed. “Look close. You can see the fibers.”

Carneline looked and, sure enough, there were the telltale threads amongst the cement, lime, and sand. Fuck. “Does Rio know?”

Bruno shook his head.

She snapped a couple of photos on her phone and turned for the scaffold stair. “Are xe still documenting in the lobby?”

“I think so.”

“Good. I’ll send xem up.”

The metal stairs squeaked as Carneline made her way down them, eyeing the brick and stone of the Romanesque Revival building with far more suspicion than before. The facade clearly hadn’t been washed in two decades. The window sills were covered in black atmospheric discoloration, and the blue-green haze of cupric staining streaked down major crevices. On the brick and stone walls, there were long stretches of jointing completely devoid of mortar and one of the brackets was missing entirely.

She stopped two decks down and took a moment to admire the town. This was Oceanic’s first project this far south. They mostly stuck to projects in Baymill, but her dad had wanted to expand into other markets, so here she was forty feet in the air above a town she could see the other side of from the scaffold. The five-story town hall towered over most of the rest of the buildings, but fit in perfectly amongst the clusters of various historic structures downtown. Its renovation was long overdue, but Carneline hoped Clover Hill would find it worth it in the end.

From her perch, she could see the expanse of the park, with its quaint little gazebo and beautifully kept grounds. A bit farther she spied the currently unlit marquee of an old movie theater and a neon sign belonging to local diner. It was a beautiful town, and as much as she could lean on the scaffold railing and look out over the little town covered in the fresh leaves of spring for hours, she had a job to do.

She tore herself away from the view and continued down the scaffold to the lobby. The first time she’d seen it, Carneline had been struck almost speechless by the beauty of its wrought iron doors, scagliola-clad pilasters, and massive crystal chandelier. Now it barely registered. She hurried through the plywood-covered lobby until she found her assistant project manager sprawled indelicately across the floor.

Rio was an acquired taste Carneline wasn’t quite sure she had acquired yet; mildly competent, incredibly anxious, and graced with the aggravating tendency to lose the plot at the slightest provocation. Still, xe tried, which was more than Carneline could say of half of Oceanic’s field staff.

“Good morning, Rio.”

Rio startled, and practically levitated off the floor in a cloud of dust almost definitely from the plaster demo. Xe was absolutely covered in the stuff, and Rio hurriedly stuffed xemself back into xyr gloves and sheepishly brushed down xyr front. “Good—good morning, Carneline. I—I didn’t know you were on site.”

“I was walking the cornice with Bruno.”

“Oh.”

“How is it going down here?”

Xe grimaced and gestured at the ground. “It’s—uh. The stone’s really cracked.”

Bits of torn painter’s tape crawled across the marble below them like blown blue cherry blossom petals. Carneline crouched, and Rio angled the beam of xyr flashlight so she could see the spidery lines coursing through. Great. “These are going to shatter the second Bruno tries to take them out.”

“That’s what he said, too.”

Another expensive change order for the growing pile, I suppose. She stood, dreading the prospect of the unending raft of paperwork in her future. “I’ll speak with the NCK team. Have you been up to the cornice yet?”

Rio shook xyr head.

“When you are done down here, I need you to go up and document everything before we touch it. Do you have your profile gauges with you?”

“They’re in my car.”

“Good. Bruno will be up there for a little bit. Find…” She hedged, thinking of the worn-down status of the cornice. “Find the least broken stone and take a profile.”

Xe nodded. “Okay.”

“And wear an N95. The mortar is hot and everything up there is crumbling.”

Rio’s dark eyes got comically wide behind xyr safety glasses. “Oh shit.”

Her sentiments exactly. “Do you have any questions?” Xe shook xyr head again. “Alright. Call me if something comes up.”

“Will do!”

Carneline left Rio to xyr marble documentation and slipped out the west entrance to find the jobsite trailer. When she pulled the door open, she found Josie bent over the conference table—which was really just four folding tables pushed together in the center of the room—studying the reference drawings.

“Good morning,” she greeted as the door snapped shut behind her.

“Good morning,” Josie replied as she turned the page of the drawings. “Headed out? Help yourself to some coffee before you leave.”

Carneline startled at the kind, but unexpected offer. “Oh. Thank you.”

“To-go cups are on top of the fridge.”

“I actually don’t drink hot coffee,” she replied sheepishly.

“Don’t drink hot coffee?” Josie asked, looking up from her drawings with a grin that Carneline had discovered seemed permanently glued to her face. “Don’t tell me…you’re like Baylee and only drink cold brew.”

Carneline gave an awkward little laugh, not liking the familiarity with which Josie talked to her about her sister. People always did that, acted like they knew her because they knew her sister or father. Another one of the ‘perks’ of a family business. “Guilty as charged.”

“Well, I’m one step ahead of you. There’s cold brew in the fridge.”

The offer was tempting. Carneline considered for a moment, but finally decided against it. If she got caught in traffic, which was likely considering the time, she would definitely have to stop and pee. “Not today. I have to drive back to Baymill after this, but thank you.”

“Any time.”

Josie finally straightened up fully and leaned casually on the white plastic folding table, hooking her thumbs into her jeans. She was an unreasonably attractive figure, taller than Carneline, with kind brown eyes and a sharp fade that put every short-haired worker on the site to shame. In some universe she might have been Carneline’s type—if Josie hadn’t worked for the general contractor paying them to fix Clover Hill’s historic town hall.

Carneline hedged. “I…actually wanted to talk to you about something.”

Josie’s voice remained impressively neutral. “Oh?”

“Yes…” She pulled her phone out of her pocket. “We have some problems.”

“Define ‘problems.’”

“That depends, do you want the least expensive issue or most expensive issue first?”

“Least expensive.” Josie flashed a luminous smile. “Warm me up.”

Carneline pulled up the photos she had taken of the floor and passed her phone over for her to see. “The marble in the foyer is full of cracks. It’s going to shatter when we try to take it out.”

“Architects were ridiculous to think we could salvage the whole floor,” Josie said with a disbelieving scoff. “A-hundred-and-twenty-year-old marble doesn’t come up like that.”

“No, it does not,” Carneline confirmed.

Josie handed her phone back, her face suddenly all business. The shift was jarring, to say the least. “How much is this going to cost?”

“I can’t say for certain, but it will be a decent amount.”

Josie sighed. “Great. You submitted replacement marble, right?”

“A few weeks ago.”

Josie ran a hand through her hair. “Submit an RFI and we’ll see what the architects have to say.”

“Was planning to.”

“Thanks.” She took a sip from a nearby thermos. “What’s the bigger, badder bill?”

Carneline gave Josie a significant look. “Have you been up to the cornice?”

“Recently?”

“Yes.”

“I walked it at the beginning,” she replied with a frown. “Is there something wrong with it?”

If only. “The mortar’s full of asbestos and the stone is crumbling. A piece fell off in my hand.”

Josie inhaled in shock. “Oh fuck.”

“I don’t want anyone from my crew touching it until the town knows.”

“Understandable. Do you think it’s going to need to be replaced?”

Carneline glanced around the trailer to make sure they were alone. “Off the record, I think you might want to figure out where Clover Hill has a million dollars stashed for a rainy day.”

“It’s that bad?”

“The building is a hundred and twenty years old,” she said with a shrug. “I’m surprised it lasted this long.”

Josie’s face went grim. “Got it. Thanks for the heads up.”

“Not a problem.” She hesitated, not sure if Josie could handle a third thing on her plate. “There is…one more thing?”

“If there’s a massive structural issue that means we need to evacuate the building, please turn around and leave now,” Josie joked weakly. “Let me die in the collapsed building in peaceful ignorance.”

Carneline gave a dismissive snort. “Nothing so drastic.”

Josie brightened considerably. “Great! What’s up?”

“You need to have someone go into the main hall and put down sweeping compound. Rio’s rolling around on the floor in there looking like the Ghost of Christmas Past. To say nothing of the silica hazard.”

Josie was already grabbing her hard hat off the table. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“See you then!” Josie trotted off out the door, Carneline close behind her.

She checked her watch: three-o’clock. Plenty of time to make it back to the city without hitting traffic. She pulled her hard hat off the second she hit the parking lot, shaking her curly red hair out so she could tie it back up once in the car. She’d get out of town, update her dad on the way home, then spend a quiet night with her plants before she had to go to bed.

Her phone rang. The song barely got four notes in before she picked up. “You’re psychic. I was just about to call you.”

“Are you done at Clover Hill?” Warren Triana asked gruffly.

“About to head home now, just have to throw my stuff in the ba—” She stopped dead a few paces from her trunk, eyes taking in the noticeable sink to her right rear bumper. “Fuck.”

Her father’s business tone instantly switched to fatherly concern. “What? What is it?”

She scowled and threw her hard hat in the back a tad more aggressively than was necessary. “It’s nothing,” she sighed. “I just have a flat.”

[END RFI 1]

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