#local deck staining

[bitchimasnake-sss]

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!!

[stellasdrafts]

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

[darkeralmond]

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.

masterlist | request info

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.

[afyrian]

☆ 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

[cwritesfiction]

It's in the Cards: Chapter One Excerpt

(It's in the Cards is an adult rom-com with speculative elements. Please note: this is a draft and is subject to change!)

Elliott Beck was getting good at lying.

When it came to lies, the devil was in the details, and nothing taught them details like managing Betsey’s Metaphysical Boutique on Ocean Avenue. They lied about candles for rituals, which customers could learn by purchasing beautiful spellbooks. They lied about herbs and sigils and crystals, sometimes giving multiple explanations for the same item within a single shopping day. Of course they used the spell jars! In fact, they’d used one that week to cleanse their apartment of negative energy! They wouldn’t mention that the “negative energy” was actually the smell of stale weed from their downstairs neighbors, but that was fine. People who came to Betsey’s weren’t interested in reality, anyway.

In the back of the narrow shop, Elliott sat in the corner they’d designated specifically for tarot readings. For customers, they’d provided a sofa strategically covered with blankets to hide its concerning stains. For themself, they’d found a wooden chair that was gorgeous to look at and hell to sit on. It was far from the elaborate setup they’d originally envisioned, but Betsey had only given them so much space in the already-cramped shop. What she hadn’t given them was a budget.

But the furniture didn’t matter, because they could wow customers with their most beautiful set piece: themself. Presently, they wore a purple button down dotted with shimmering stars. Mismatched earrings, a gold sun and moon, dangled from their ears. God, they hated the earrings. Elliott’s fingers knocked into them whenever they re-tousled their chin-length shag of blond hair.

“I love your earrings,” their current customer said. She was dressed for the beach, a shoulder bag of towels sitting on the floor beside her flip-flopped feet. “And I love your cards! What a pretty color.”

“Thanks! We have plenty of decks for sale!” None like Elliott’s, though. They should’ve flaunted a deck from the shop, but instead, they used the Dungeons and Dragons themed deck they’d bought for themself as a housewarming gift. The backs of the cards were a shimmering purple, a twenty-sided die in the center of each. The faces featured items from the game—adventurers, monsters, weapons—illustrated similar to a Rider-Waite deck. When they’d tried to explain the references to Betsey, they’d ended up trapped in an hour-long lecture about the history of tarot art.

“I might look around later,” the woman said in a way that meant she wouldn’t. “I was supposed to meet my family at the beach, but of course, none of them showed up on time. I thought this would be a fun way to wait instead of cooking in the sun!”

Probably a smart idea, considering she was the same shade of pasty white as Elliott, who’d sometimes get burnt in the time it took them to walk from their car to the shop. They placed a hand on their tip jar, as if to say, please look at my tip jar. It was actually a tip mug shaped to look like a fat orange cat, the handle made from its black-striped tail. This particular cat’s name was Norman, the unofficial mascot of Garfield Beach who the locals called Not Garfield as a nod to the town’s not-copyright infringement. On Not Garfield’s round belly, Elliott had taped a small sign: Tips appreciated - ELLIOTT BECK, they/them, cash or Venmo!

They began to shuffle. “Is there anything specific you’d like me to consider when I read your cards?”

“Nope! You’re the expert!”

They were glad she thought so, considering they’d only just started offering tarot readings a few weeks ago. “Then for your three-card spread, the first card will reflect your past, the second, your present, and the third, your future.” At least, that was one technique they’d learned while watching tarot YouTube tutorials while cooking. They set the deck on the table and spread the cards in an arc.

The woman reached forward. “Do I pick?”

“No.” They weren’t eager to have people’s hands on their personal deck…or their personal anything for that matter. “I’ll do all the touching. So, let’s start with your past.”

They flipped a card: The Eight of Wands.

“Ah,” they said.

“What does it show?” the woman asked.

Elliott wasn’t sure, because for the life of them, they couldn't remember what the Eight of Wands meant. Usually, the illustrations helped them remember meanings, but this one looked like a bunch of ambiguous sticks. Taking a deep breath, Elliott bobbed their head, hoping they appeared lost in thought. They didn’t need to provide a perfect interpretation—tarot was less about memorization and more about helping people gain insight into their lives. That was the advice given by someone with an unrepeatable username on Reddit, and Elliott intended to follow it.

“Wands are good,” they remembered. “But…sometimes, you can have too much of a good thing. It looks like you’ve recently had a lot on your plate.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I did do a ton of laundry before leaving to come here.”

“And besides that?”

“Well, there were dishes too.”

Elliott nodded calmly, internally screaming.

[letsdeerintheheadlightsuniverse]

<<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).

DISCLAIMER: PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, REPUBLISH, OR TRANSLATE MY WORK ANYWHERE WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT PERMISSION. I DO NOT OWN OFMD OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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

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!

[the-kr8tor]

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!!!

[hersweetrevenge]

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.

[sweet-child]

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.” 

[voidsdamned]

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.

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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.

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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.

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

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.

[gayhawkelatehomicide]

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.

[boyakishantrinity]

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.

[brooklynislandgirl]

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.

[lunacornfan2k25]

Trick or treat!

Could I perhaps also have some Cowboy Juniper flirting with a Nonbinary Saloon Bartender Phoenix? 🥺

Gonna be honest, I don't think I made John Cowboy enough in this and I brought back the mechanical bull and included Guys and Dolls. I hope that was okay

Rating: Teen and up

Pairing: John Juniper x they/them!Phoenix

Characters: John Juniper, Agent Phoenix, Reginald Crane

Warnings: none

Phoenix frowned and readjusted the cleaning cloth in their hand before they went back to scrubbing a particularly stubborn spill on the counter. Business was currently slow with only a few patrons in the saloon, so Phoenix was free to scrub without any interruptions.

Or so they thought.

“Did someone spill invisible ink?”

Phoenix looked up at the man that approached the bar. He was one of the few customers that had been sitting alone, claiming the back booth for himself.

“I wish,” they said “then I could just half-ass this. It’s just a beer stain.” Phoenix paused as a disgusting thought came to their mind. “Or well, I hope it’s just beer.”

Phoenix went back to scrubbing at the stain.

“You’re really cute when you’re disgusted.”

Their head shot up. “Excuse me?”

“Your nose scrunches up and it’s adorable.”

Phoenix scoffed. “Flirting with the bartender will not get you a discount on a drink.”

“Oh, no. I don’t need a discount. Although, I wouldn’t say no to a date.”

They stopped wiping the counter and took in the customer for the first time.

The man was attractive. Truly leading man of Hollywood attractive, with hazel eyes and a Stetson that hid his neatly combed brown hair.

“No, thanks,” Phoenix said, “and could you send up the friend that dared you to flirt with me? I’d like to punch them in their teeth.”

“What, no! You are exactly my type. How ‘bout this.” He looked over his shoulder at the saloon’s mechanical bull. “I’ll make a bet with you. If I can stay on that bull for ten minutes, you’ll go on this date with me and if I can’t, I’ll leave you alone. I will never speak to that gorgeous face again.”

Phoenix sighed, dropping the rag on the counter. “Have you ever seen that musical, Guys and Dolls?”

The entrance to the saloon was covered with posters advertising a local performance. They enjoyed the movie and looked forward to seeing it performed live at the local community theater.

His smile twitched. “I may have heard of it.”

“Well, there’s this character, Sky Masterson, and in the musical—it’s a musical, by the way—he recounts some advice that his father gave him. He says, ‘This guy is going to offer to bet you that he can make the jack of spades jump out of this brand-new deck of cards and squirt cider in your ear. But, son, do not accept this bet, because as sure as you stand there, you're going to wind up with an ear full of cider.’ You are looking a lot like an earful of cider to me.”

“A sexy earful of cider?” he asked hopefully.

Phoenix stared at him, unamused.

“Alright, then. What if I stayed on the bull for ten whole minutes, while standing up.”

“Standing up? On the bull? That bull?”

He nodded.

Phoenix felt their resolve wavering. The mechanical bull was old, jerky and nearly impossible to stay on even when sitting. They were certain that Reginald only kept the machine around because it came with the building. They eyed up the man, taking in his green flannel and well-kept jeans. Could he really ride a mechanical bull while standing, for ten whole minutes?

“Alright.” Phoenix held out their hand. “You’re on.”

The man shook their hand, and his slightly flirty smile grew smug. In that moment, Phoenix felt like they had just made a deal with the devil himself.

“I’m going to need you to turn him on, of course,” he said. Reluctantly, Phoenix walked out from behind the bar and towards the bull. “Not that I think you’ll have any issues, with the way you’ve turned me on.”

“Don’t get cocky, yet, you haven’t even done anything.”

They let the man into the bullpen, then turned on the machine so that it could warm up. “I’ll set the timer for ten minutes. No more, no less.”

“Please, I can go all. Night. Long.”

Phoenix laughed. “Not the first time I’ve heard that before.”

“Yeah, but the only difference between me and them, is that I mean it.”

The control panel beeped, indicating that the mechanical bull was ready to go. “You’re up.”

“Quick question. Should I do this with my shirt on or off?”

“On, please.”

He shrugged. “Your loss.” He climbed on top of the bull until he was sitting before he slowly worked both feet under him so he could stand.

He nodded at Phoenix, and they hit start.

The bull jerked harshly, likely from not being used in some time, and it almost threw the man off immediately. Unfortunately for Phoenix, he regained his balance and had no more issues.

Phoenix watched, their heart pounding, as this guy rode every jerk and bump with ease. His brow furrowed in concentration that Phoenix thought was adorable before they forced that idea into the back of their mind. After a few minutes, sweat started forming on the man’s hairline as the exertion of balancing started to get to him. His cheeks grew flush, and the occasional rivulet of sweat fell down his face, drawing Phoenix’s attention to the curve of his cheekbones. They felt their own cheeks grow warm and, as time went on, the warmth spread down their neck.

It was the longest ten minutes of their life.

Eventually, the bull slowed to a stop and the man jumped down, walking towards Phoenix, victorious. Phoenix turned off the machine and opened the gate. Without a word, they walked back over to the counter.

The man followed right behind them.

“So,” he said once Phoenix went back to rubbing at the stain, “what did you think?”

“I think I have an earful of cider.”

He laughed. “Oh, come on, don’t be a sore loser. Do you want to have dinner, or skip right to the dessert?” He winked.

Phoenix opened their mouth to respond when Reginald crashed through the doors in his rush to exit the kitchen. “John Juniper! Phoenix, why didn’t you tell me that we had a celebrity at our saloon!” Reginald ran around the counter to shake the man’s, John Juniper’s, hands.

Phoenix blinked. “You know him?”

“Know him? Mr. Juniper is one of the leading actors in the local production of Guys and Dolls!”

Phoenix felt the blood drain from their face. “Oh,” they squeaked, “which character does he play?”

“Sky Masterson,” Reginald said.

John smiled at Phoenix with the biggest shit-eating grin.

“So, about that date...”

[heygerald]

HEART MECHANICS - PART 7/9

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x oc

Matty doesn’t like change. 

Like, at all.

But when things in her life start changing faster than she wants them to with no room to argue, she realizes that sometimes change isn’t so bad. Sometimes, it’s better to finally accept that her old habits aren’t always the best habits, and that maybe, just maybe, some rules are meant to be broken. 

Read the story here: part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / ... / part 8 / part 9

The parking lot was empty when Matty pulled in. 

Not late, for once, not that there was anyone around to see it though.

She pulled her keys from the ignition while attempting to smooth down her flyaway hairs. A glance in the mirror proved that it was a fruitless mission—nothing less than she deserved for driving too fast down the highway with her top down—and for no real reason at all she made sure to glare at her rearview mirror sourly just to feel a little bit better. 

“At least a hot mess is still hot,” she muttered, popped some strawberry gum into her mouth, and swung out of the vehicle. Her uniform boots had been traded off for a pair of red converse that she had taken the laces out of (lost, actually), and her oil stained overalls had been replaced with a pair of jeans that were more gaping holes than fabric, as well as what had to have been a t-shirt bought in the child’s section at Good Will. 

She didn’t remember ever buying it, but one day it showed up in her laundry basket. It was a little too short on the midriff and faded with bleach in some areas, yeah, but it also had a picture of Optimus Prime with large, neon 90’s style lettering splattered across the front. And, well, Transformers fucking rocked so she gladly accepted whatever stroke of luck had placed it in her possession without asking any hard hitting questions as to its existence. Karma rarely worked on her behalf, anyways; she would take whatever gifts she could get. 

A passing parade of elderly women out on an afternoon stroll clearly didn’t agree if the looks they shot her were anything to go by. One even made a subdued comment about the recent downfall of women’s pride in the twenty-first century to her chubby walking partner. 

“Oh, it’s not mine,” she lied, a little too miffed to do anything else. “It’s, uh, a charity... thing. You know, like, I love boobies? But, um... for children. Raising awareness one conversation at a time. Pride has absolutely nothing to do with how I dress.” 

The tallest woman, the leader at the front of the pack, stuck her nose up in the air at the comment and stormed off—an impressive feat given the size of her ankle weights—and without hesitation the others went as well. They reminded Matty of a flock of flamingoes strutting past something unsavory. 

Which...

Rude. 

“It’s laundry day!” she shouted at their retreating figures, somehow feeling equal parts mortified and offended. They gave no response though; just sent her disgruntled looks over their shoulders before disappearing past the parking lot. She watched them go for a moment before letting her arms clap against her legs in defeat. “Note to self: die before ever reaching… whatever age that is.” 

Mind made up on the matter and feeling slightly better about her life, she turned around, hopped up the deck stairs, and walked inside the empty bar with a snap of her chewing gum.

“We’re closed until five.” 

Well. Mostly empty. Amelia Benjamin, daughter extraordinaire, sat at the bar. 

Matty shot her a too-bright grin and strode closer with another snap of her gum; eyes sweeping the empty restaurant for any sign of Penny. The girl took one look at her conniving grin, however, before promptly returning her attention to the textbook spread out before her. 

“What?” Matty drawled whilst snagging the empty stool at her right. “No hello, Matty, dear friend and role model, how are you? And here I thought the local diner had bad customer service.”  

Amelia sighed out through her nose. Still, Matty caught the way that her lips curled up at the side, even if she tried to hide it behind a flip of her hair. 

“I don’t work here,” she said. “And you’re not my role model.” 

“Wow,” Matty deadpanned, clutching at her heart in mock pain. “That hurts, kid. I thought we were past this, but apparently puberty can turn even the best of friends against each other.” 

The only response Amelia gave was the scrunching of her nose. “Ew.” 

“Yeah, you’re telling me. Just wait a couple of years until you’re a senior in high school, every boy you meet shares exactly one brain cell, you have to deal with both zits and college applications, and the only good beer you can get is Bud Light.” 

Amelia paused in her writing to glance at Matty. “The drinking age is twenty-one.”

“Eh, pretty sure that’s just a recommendation,” Matty said with a shrug. Amelia clearly wasn’t convinced, however, and the blonde completely ignored the look that she was getting to bend over into the younger girl’s space. “Homework?”

“Duh.” 

“Subject?”

“Math.” 

“Gross.”

“Yup.” 

Matty abandoned the elaborate equations written out in neat, swirly lettering to glance around the bar. Math had never been her thing, let alone something she was interested in having to relieve just in hopes of extending a conversation. The kitchen seemed empty, as did the Adirondacks out back, but Penny rarely left her daughter unattended at The Hard Deck. Curious, she asked, “where’s your mom?”

To that, Amelia finally leaned away from her homework. “Out with Pete,” she said, nose scrunching up once more. 

This time, however, it wasn’t directed at Matty, and she couldn’t help but wiggle her eyebrows suggestively. “Ooh la la. Are we expecting her back anytime soon or is this more of a ‘they’re in the middle of playing hide zucchini’ type situation?”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Amelia said.

“Oh, well, just imagine that Pete is the zucchini, you know, because he’s got a—” 

“Ugh!” Amelia clapped her hands onto her ears with a terrified shriek. Matty grinned at the reaction, and in response the girl’s terror filled eyes narrowed into slits. “That’s disgusting, Matty! God! Don’t say stuff like that; that’s my mom we’re talking about here.” 

“You do understand the physics of how you got here, right?” Matty poked fun.

Amelia, if possible, turned an even brighter shade of red that was impossible to hide behind her sheet of hair. “I—shut up! That was forever ago and it was with my dad and it definitely wasn’t with—with Pete!” 

“Hey,” Matty drawled, eyebrows arching up towards her hairline as she spotted a nearby jar of cherries. Popping one into her mouth distractedly, she pondered, “what’s so wrong with Mav? He’s a good looking dude. Objectively, anyways. His personality is definitely off putting.” 

“He’s, like, fifty,” Amelia said, as if that explained everything. 

“And you’re, like, fifteen. Give it time, kiddo. Right now you’re probably obsessed with an age appropriate heart throb like, I don’t know, the youth’s equivalent of Mario Lopez or whatever—” 

“Don’t say the youths,” Amelia interrupted her, only to be promptly ignored as Matty chomped on another cherry with her hand waving in the air in a vague gesture even she couldn’t make out.

“And then the next thing you know you’re going to sit down to rewatch The Lord of the Rings and suddenly—wham! The old fucker who plays Elrond is all you can think about at volleyball practice. It becomes this weird obsession thing and now you can’t watch those movies again without mentally asking yourself how much of an age gap you could put up with, which, trust me, can be an upsetting question to answer. Before you know it, decades have passed and you’re no closer to meeting the man of your dreams that you were when you were fifteen, only the man of your dreams is a lot less… dreamy.” 

Amelia blinked at Matty slowly, taking that in. “I honestly didn’t get any of that,” she said. 

Matty, in turn, blinked right back at her. “...so… when did you say your mom would be back?”

“I’m not sure. Definitely by five, but that’s all I know,” she said, shrugging, sighing, staring at her homework with a forlorn expression. A wince crossed her features as she settled her chin onto her left hand despondently. “Hopefully soon. I’m hungry.” 

“Isn’t there a kitchen right back there?”

“No cook.” 

“Damn.” 

“Yup.” 

The two girls—one a slowly growing pre-teen, one an adult who still acted like a pre-teen—both leaned onto the bar with matching sighs of disappointment. Amelia tapped her pencil against her notebook. Matty watched as the clock ticked by, counting the seconds.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four— 

“So, do you want to blow off your homework and go get food or…?” Matty blurted out, self-control a record low. Amelia’s pencil paused mid-air as she gave her a surprised look. “I mean, not, like, blow off your homework because it’s still gonna be here when we get back. You know. It can’t walk on its own or anything.”

Amelia’s gaze narrowed. “Can I pick?”

“I suppose.”

“And you’ll pay?”

“What am I, Make a Wish?” she scoffed.

To that, the girl gave a nonchalant shrug and slowly swiveled back to her homework. “Well, if you’re not going to pay, then I suppose I can wait until Mom gets back. But it’ll probably be awhile. You know how Pete can get when he has his motorcycle. I think he took her to some little café up the coast; said they’d be lucky to get back before —”

“Okay, Jesus,” Matty gave in, arms thrown up in the air. “I’ll pay. If I don’t die of boredom, first. But we’re not going anywhere expensive. I’m not made of money, you know. And there’s, like, a recession going on. Pretty sure, anyways.” 

“Trust me, I know,” Amelia said, sliding off of her stool to give Matty a pat on the shoulder. Then, as if that wasn’t dramatic enough, she gave Matty’s outfit a look full of pity and commented, “I’ve seen your phone, Matts. Maybe you should consider writing to Make a Wish.” 

Matty’s jaw was on the floor when the pre-teen sashayed towards the front door. 

She paused only to shoot the blonde an impish smirk. “Are you coming? I’m starving.” 

Then, she promptly stepped out of the bar and made her way towards Matty’s jeep. Another relic that she eyed with a pitying look. In response, Matty took a moment to pick her jaw off the floor before she was exploding out of the building like a bat out of hell.

“There’s nothing wrong with my phone! ” she shouted. “It’s a classic!”

Amelia, already sitting in the passenger seat of her jeep, glanced up from what she was holding in her lap—unfortunately for Matty what she was holding in her lap was the ten year old sleeve of CD’s that was typically clung to the visor. “NSYNC? Seriously? Talk about old.”

“Alright kid, new rule,” she chirped, snatching the CD out of Amelia’s hands. With a glare, she shoved it into the CD player, swung her sunglasses low onto the bridge of her nose, and turned the volume dial to max. “Driver picks the music; passenger shuts her pie hole. Yeah? Now, stop talking, and let me teach you everything there is to know about teenage hormones.” 

Amelia shook her head with a laugh; from the stack of junk that was scattered through Matty’s car, she managed to find a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses that she settled onto her own face. “Just don’t get a speeding ticket, okay? Technically, Mom told me that I’m not allowed to ride with you after the last time.” 

“That was a total fluke,” Matty argued as she pulled out of her parking space. NSYNC was just starting to bump her stereo and, when Amelia glanced down at her phone, Matty took the opportunity to crumple up the stash of parking tickets that were currently stuffed into the cupholder. When Amelia looked back over at her she just gave an innocent smile. “Besides, if anyone is upset about that it’s me. Everyone goes fifty in a twenty-five.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Amelia said as they peeled out onto the road. “But I think you should spend less time with Pete.” 

Matty just laughed. And, when Amelia started singing along to the third song on her CD, she was in a good enough mood to even buy Amelia an extra-large milkshake along with her dinner. 

---

Turns out, music and food was the key to any angsty child’s heart. By the time they made it to In N’ Out down the coast, Amelia was singing along to the catchy, timeless tunes of the quintessential boyband. And after they got their too-large orders of fries, burgers, and milkshakes, Amelia had even insisted on taking a couple selfies with Matty in what she dubbed “golden hour” lighting of the afternoon. One of the pictures even made it onto her Instagram account—not that Matty had been paying attention—while the others just cluttered up her phone. 

More than that, but once she had been fed, she had been in a good enough mood to let Matty take a quick detour to the nearby surf shop so she could peruse some boards that she definitely couldn’t afford. The downside of that interaction was that even when well fed, Amelia made sure to point out the issue she took with Matty spending money on hobbies when she couldn’t even be bothered to upgrade to a smartphone. 

“I don’t need a smartphone,” Matty told her primly. “When you’re as stunningly hot as I am, Amelia, you have to learn to live in the moment. This body isn’t going to last forever.” 

“You’re not even thirty yet,” Amelia shot back incredulously.

“And I’ll be lucky to make it to then with how stupid the mechanics are on base. Total morons. All of them.” 

Amelia cocked a hip, heart-shaped sunglasses low on her nose, and gave Matty her best impression of Regina George. “You are a mechanic on base.”

“No duh,” Matty had shot back just as quickly while running her hand over a neon green surfboard that matched the writing on her t-shirt a little too well. Karma who? “The problem here is that, while I’m not an idiot, I’m in charge of a fuck-ton of idiots. Idiots who don’t like to be yelled at or called teenie-weenies when they need to be knocked down a peg. How long do you think that shit is gonna last before one of them murders me?”

“You could just try to be nicer,” Amelia said with such innocence that Matty couldn’t help but throw her head back and laugh. Glen, the owner of the store who—on more than one occasion—had watched Matty verbally berate local gym bros that tried to mansplain what surfboard wax was used for laughed as well. 

And he was all the way on the other side of the store. 

Amelia frowned, not understanding how what she said was wrong. Matty, now wiping tears from beneath her eyes, didn’t bother to explain it. Just simply pat the girl on the back before ushering her down the next aisle. “Come on, kid. Let’s be realistic here. Now, do you like the blue wetsuit better or the white? I accidentally shrunk my last one in the dryer.” 

Their aimless wandering lasted long enough for Matty to buy a new bikini that definitely wouldn’t be practical to surf in. It was cute though; not to mention half-off. At that point Amelia had ended up corralling them back outside before it got too late. Matty wouldn’t have minded spending a little bit longer talking with Glen about his latest shipment of boards, but Amelia was stronger than she looked and Matty hadn’t wanted to risk her arm being pulled out of socket. 

Fine enough; they made it back before traffic could get too horrible. Unfortunately, the bar was already open by then. Not full, though, and Matty managed to pull into the same parking space as before with a satisfied smile. Amelia didn’t seem to care any which way. 

“Can I keep these?” she asked as they made their way inside, poking the sunglasses in question back and forth on her face. 

“They’re not mine,” Matty shrugged while surveying the faces in the bar. A few frequents stood out to her. None that were Penny. “Keep ‘em.” 

Amelia, not even bothered about her mom’s presence (or lack of), frowned over at Matty from beneath said glasses. “What do you mean they’re not yours? I found them in your back seat. Did you steal them or something?”

“What? No! Of course not. Why is theft the first thing you think of?”

“Well if you didn’t steal them then...?”

Matty paused. She remembered the sunglasses vaguely from a night out with Claire a couple months back. The girls started drinking mimosas early that particular Saturday morning saying that they were going to go easy and relax after a long week. However, one mimosa turned into two, and ten hours later they found themselves in downtown San Diego at a drag bar with a bachelorette party that they had somehow been invited to. The women were nice, more than happy to bring two new girls into the mix, and they all had matching outfits of pink and red and white. Actually, if Matty squinted hard enough she could envision a blurry bride in a red sparkly dress with a pair of equally red sunglasses that looked sorta like—

“You know what? Keep them! They were a... gift.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yup,” she popped her ‘p’ with a poignant smack of the lips. “They look better on you, anyways.” 

Amelia grinned. Matty, not wanting to even consider the circumstances in which she had obtained such glasses, just patted the girl awkwardly on the head before catching sight of Penny over her shoulder. Relieved, she pulled Amelia towards the other end of the bar. 

“Penny, there you are,” she started. “Have you seen—?”

“Where on Earth have you been, Amelia?” she cut Matty off with a cocked hip and the most motherly glare the woman could possibly produce. Matty froze in her shoes at being on the receiving end of it. This was the look that drunks typically got before being booted from The Hard Deck. 

Matty promptly cleared her throat before shoving Amelia to the battlefront with a fake cough. She couldn’t see the glare—you know, because of the sunglasses—but boy could she feel it. 

“We, um, went to get food,” Amelia started, now feeling her mother’s ire a little bit more.

“Food?” Penny deadpanned.

“Yeah. Didn’t Matty text you?”

Penny pulled her phone out of her back packet with a pointed look, before reading, “Stole your daughter, be back by…” she trailed off. Then, as if to punctuate the point she was making, she shoved her phone towards the pair to show that the text was exactly as she read it. “You didn’t even finish the text.” 

Matty rubbed the back of her neck with a wince. “Right. I was going to, and then… um. I got distracted. Guess I sent it without spell checking.” 

Penny arched her brow. “I called you twice since then. I thought the rule was to always answer the phone, Amelia,” she told her daughter. Her facade of anger was cracking a bit as it gave way to acceptance. 

“Oh,” Amelia faltered. “Our music was kind of... loud.”

“Your music?”

“It was NSYNC if that makes it any better,” Matty added. Penny said nothing. Just shot Matty a dry look. “Yup, nope, the band wouldn’t really matter. Got it.” 

The stare off continued for another moment before Penny finally relented. Probably more to do with the fact that they hadn’t been doing anything wrong per say, and less to do with the fact that Matty was trying to offer up her saddest wounded dog impression. 

Actually, yeah, it had nothing to do with that. Matty was never very good at looking innocent. 

Whatever.

What was important was that Penny wasn’t too mad. Sighing, she just tossed her dish towel over her shoulder before waving her hands at them. “Alright, fine. Just go finish your homework please, Amelia? Sarah is coming in at seven and I can drive us home then.” 

Amelia’s shoulders sagged with relief. Then she grinned. “Great. Thanks!” 

She moved to walk away without saying anything else, and Matty, not being able to help herself, cleared her throat as pointedly as she could. In turn, the pre-teen paused. 

“Okay, fine. NSYNC isn’t that bad I guess,” she said as if that was the most important thing. Then she disappeared down to where her homework still sat. Matty watched in disbelief as the girl gathered everything up and promptly moved to the back deck where it wasn’t nearly as loud.

Scoffing as dramatically as she could manage, she turned to Penny, and told her, “I bought her, like, twenty dollars worth of food! I mean seriously, Pen, she just wouldn’t stop eating! And gave her a pair of sunglasses for free.” 

It seemed that she was complaining to the wrong audience. Penny had no sympathy to give.

“Ugh, whatever,” she muttered. “I guess it’s a thankless job or whatever.” 

“Kidnapping my daughter?”

“Ministering to the youths.” 

Despite her earlier mood, the absurdity of the statement cracked a laugh out of Penny. It almost always did—the woman could hardly ever stay mad at Matty. She liked to think it’s because Penny understood who Matty was on a spiritual level. In reality, it was just because Penny couldn’t believe someone with a trainwreck of a life like the Neven’s could still manage to function. 

It was pretty much free entertainment. 

“I think the idea of you ministering anything to my daughter is more concerning than the kidnapping.”

“It was hardly a kidnapping,” she joked, sliding onto an empty stool. “Other than teaching her about NSYNC, Amelia did most of the talking. Did you know that Abby told Kasey that she was only allowed to invite two girls to her birthday party but then Mary G. found out that she was actually just lying because she was still mad at Kasey for kissing Aidan when she knows that Abby still had feelings for him after they danced together at the Spring Fling?”

Penny, both impressed that Matty had been able to retain that sort of information, and bewildered by everything she had just said, asked, “do you know who any of those people are?”

“Not a clue,” she admitted. Shrugged. Snuck another cherry off the bar before Penny could swat her with the dish towel. “I think that milkshake had too much sugar in it. Lesson learned.” 

“Well, I’m glad that you two had fun. Is there a reason that you decided to take her out to dinner?”

“Actually, yes, thank you for asking. I came looking for something. When we were here the other night I think I forgot my—” before she could explain herself, Penny withdrew a pair of shoes from a shelf beneath the bar with an amused smile. “Shoes. What a wonderful surprise. Thank you, these cost me twenty bucks.” 

“I’m more worried that you went home without shoes than the fact you paid twenty dollars on those shoes,” Penny snickered.

Matty blew a raspberry. “Mock all you want. These babies have seen a lot. They were worth the money.”

Penny raised her hands and leaned back onto the bar. “I don’t even want to know.” 

“That’s probably for the best,” she agreed, grinning. “Not that I would tell you half of the stories. State secrets and all that,” she exaggerated while setting the shoes aside with a loving look. The look shifted a bit when she glanced back up at Penny; this time, she was the curious one. “Speaking of state secrets, where have you been all evening? I heard that you were out on a date.” 

She didn’t even flinch. “It wasn’t a date.” 

“Rendezvous, an afternoon romp, a tryst, whatever you want to call it,” she supplemented without missing a beat. Penny grew more exasperated with each word, much to her amusement, and as she stuffed another cherry into her mouth she raised both brows. “How’s Mav?”

“None of your business.” 

“Ooh, that good huh?”

Penny hit Matty with her towel, forcing the blonde to lean back off the counter and away with the cherries. She laughed as she did so, however. “We had fun. But, maybe you should talk to him.”

“About his sex life?” she deadpanned, making a face. “No thanks.” 

“About his work life,” Penny said with a pointed, if not, amused look. To this, Matty settled down a bit. She hadn’t been expecting the change in conversation, but any gossip was good gossip when it came to the life of Maverick. “Cyclone is pulling him out of Top Gun.”

“What?” she cried. “That’s ridiculous. Why?”

“Ice isn’t here anymore,” Penny told her, serious for the first time since they started talking. And, fuck, if that wasn’t a bitch of a sentence to hear even if it was true. Matty just hadn’t thought that things would change so quickly since the funeral. Hadn’t wanted to think about it, maybe. “Yeah. Cyclone doesn’t think he’s right for it anymore.”

“And what does Mav think?”

Penny was quiet for a long moment. Matty didn’t really need an answer. 

“Where is he?” she asked. And, when she got an answer, she didn’t hesitate to go looking for him. Even if they weren’t best friends, even if he wasn’t her godfather, she still owed him a conversation at the very least. Penny appreciated that; was happy to see it too.

And when Matty had pulled out of the parking lot with intent and Penny saw that she had left her boots on their stool, she could only shake her head with a sigh. 

“Note to self,” she muttered, stuffing the shoes back to their hiding spot beneath the counter, “don’t ever buy that girl anything expensive.”

---

The traffic on base was relatively nonexistent as Matty cruised through. Most people had gone home for the day, and the ones that hadn’t were slowly easing themselves along the roads without much hurry. It made her lift her foot from the gas pedal a little bit. It worked out well in the end; driving slowly kept away the MP, and it also gave her the opportunity to spot Mav on the opposite side of one of the training fields doing sprints. 

She parked, took the keys out, but didn’t approach just yet. Instead, Matty propped her shoes up on the dashboard, threw a stick of gum in her mouth, and started twiddling with the Etch N’ Sketch that she kept in her car for moments like this. 

Okay, well, really it was in her car because she never cleaned, but whatever. 

By the time that Maverick finally took a break from his self-imposed torture, the sun was low on the horizon, the air had a bit of a stickiness to it, and Matty was halfway through doodling a two headed dragon. Well, if you squinted. She wasn’t all that much of an artist. Still. 

“Did Penny send you after me?” he asked her, slowly making his way in her direction. Sweat was dripping down his forehead, his back, his legs. She grimaced at the sight before tossing him a half empty water bottle. He gave it a glance over before sipping on the lukewarm water tentatively.

“No. I was just on base, saw you running. Thought that you might throw out your back before the night was over. Didn’t want to miss the spectacle of you being shoved into an ambulance,” she lied seamlessly. Mav chuckled; she wasn’t sure if he believed her, but he didn’t call her out on it anyways. “Why would Penny send me after you?”

He squinted into the sunset. “They’re kicking me out of the program.” 

“They can’t do that.” 

“They can,” he said, blinked in a moment of thought, and then added, “I’m a little surprised that it took them this long, actually. I don’t think teaching is really my thing.” 

Matty rolled her eyes. “That’s a load of bullshit.” 

Mav, not quite expecting such bluntless, glanced at her. “Come on, Matts. You don’t need to coddle me. I’m a disaster in the classroom; I knew that twenty-five years ago when I tried this the first time around.”

“No shit,” she deadpanned. His lips drifted down into a frown, eyebrows furrowing into a tense line in the middle, and she tossed her Etch N’ Sketch into the backseat with a sigh. “Mav, obviously you’re bad at teaching in a classroom. You’ve never exactly been the sort of guy to sit down and read a textbook.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Oh, shut up, I’m not done,” she told him. The conviction in her voice was purposeful, the eye roll wasn’t. “Just because you can’t lecture well doesn’t mean you can’t teach. You have, like, decades of experience. Good experience doing things that no sane person would ever do. Bradley told me that he had never seen someone fly like you did during training exercises.” 

The light moved on Maverick’s face as he shifted on his feet, glancing at her in abate curiosity. “He said that?” he asked. Her mouth tightened into a scowl, however, and the conversation moved on with a cough. “Cyclone knows that I have experience. It was one of the reasons that he didn’t want me here in the first place. My file isn’t exactly…” 

“Short?”

He scoffed. “You could say that.” 

Matty shrugged, waving a hand around vaguely as she tucked her sneakers under herself. “What does Cyclone know anyways?”

“A lot,” Maverick said. “Being a Vice Admiral and all.” 

“Vice Admiral or not he doesn’t know everything.” 

Maverick finished the last of her water thoughtfully. As he glanced around, down at his foot, out into the sunset, Matty could see the age lines deepening on his face. It was a bittersweet thing; oftentimes, she liked to think of her Dad and Maverick and all the other pilots as relics, sure, but also as untouched by time. They were so lively, so fun, so young and bold that it could be difficult to acknowledge that they aged like real people. Changed. 

Got sick. 

Died. 

She cleared the weight in her throat awkwardly. “Look, believe it or not, I didn’t come out here to give you a pep talk. You know what you’re capable of, and you know what this job requires. But…”

He lifted a brow. “But?” he asked pointedly.

“I’ve never known you to walk away from something.” 

The lines on his face tightened, the age deepening by a decade. Maverick tossed her empty water bottle into a nearby trash can with a beleaguered sigh. “Penny said the same thing, but some things are out of my control.”

“Since when?” she scoffed. “Ice told me that you ended up here because you crashed going Mach 10 over the desert.”

“Crashing wasn’t exactly my goal,” he told her dryly.

“Yeah, well, there’s consequences to everything. You know what you’re capable of. I guess you just need to figure out what consequences you can live with and which you can’t,” she said. It was oddly poetic, and maybe one of the most sensible things she had ever told anybody in her life. Maverick seemed aware of this as his mouth lifted into a smile. Cheeks reddening, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “now seriously are you going to put a shirt on or what?”

To that, he laughed. Glanced down at his bare chest, then to her, and then laughed again. 

“You know,” he told her while stooping down to pull his shirt out of the discarded bag on the ground. When she caught his gaze over the crook of his shoulder, his eyes were sparkling. “I bet if I was Rooster you wouldn’t mind so much.” 

“That’s—that’s not even—” she spluttered, mortified, horrified, and a little bit scandalized. “Shut up!” 

He made no promise, and by the time that he was climbing onto his motorcycle, Matty made sure that her volume dial was turned back to max so that she wouldn’t have to hear him if he didn’t. 

---

“I think I’m going to quit,” Matty declared suddenly as she flopped back onto the damp sand. It’s a declarative statement spoken loud enough to garner her friend’s attention, but oddly enough, not a single person believes the statement itself. To that, she stuck her nose up into the air. “I am! I’ve had it with this life. My back hurts like a bitch and I’m tired of never having a manicure last. Plus, I’d rather spend all my time at the beach like this.” 

“Sure, Sheila,” Boomer deadpanned, rolling his eyes as he catches a bright orange football that he and George have been tossing around to pass the time. Earlier, the group had indulged in a short game of flag football that had resulted in Matty getting knocked on her ass one too many times to count, but now it was just the pair entertaining themselves as they waited for sunset. Though the group had gotten to the beach around dinner to find themselves a little piece of sand, the rest of the beach had slowly but surely gotten fuller as night set out. It was the first annual night surfing event of the year—with the weather deemed good enough and the midnight swells tall enough—and the air crackled with anticipation as locals showed up. “I’d reckon you’d last all of two days before you come back to work.”

“Don’t think I can be a lazy body?”

“Think you’d run out of money,” he snorted. 

The others laughed and, as Matty considered it, she figured that he was probably right. Matty had a history of being bad with money. Not so bad that she was always paying off gambling debts like Boomer, mind you, but bad enough that she liked to treat herself when the moment struck.

“I’ll just marry rich then,” she said after a moment of consideration. Upon reaching that conclusion, Matty threw her head back into Claire’s lap—smiling when the brunette arches a brow down at her in challenge—and gave a wistful hum. “I don’t think I’d mind being a trophy wife.” 

“You’d have to be a trophy to be a trophy wife,” Claire chirped.

“Please. Men practically drool when they see me.” 

“And you’re so humble too,” Nick snarked from her side. He had busied himself with setting up a campfire before the night got too dark. Typically, that was Frank’s expertise, but he had elected to go out of town that weekend for a camping trip with some buddies, and so it was up to the young blood to do what no one else wanted to do. “Might have to work on that if you want to keep a guy around.” 

Matty blew a raspberry. “I’d rather work for the rest of my life than dumb myself down for some richie-rich loser.” 

“Two minutes,” Claire announced. “It took you two minutes to come full circle.” 

Matty rolled her eyes up at her friend as Nick laughed under his breath while adjusting the logs just the right way. She knows it’s all in good humor, though, and doesn’t feel particularly aggressive any which way so she just lets them get away with it all. 

“Do you need some help?” she asked him after a few minutes of watching.

Nick arched a brow at her. “Do you know how to build a fire?”

“Well, no, but I’ve seen Frank do it before. It can’t be that hard.” 

Nick and Claire shared a look. She shook her head first, deciding that she was too close to Matty to say anything, which left him to think up some sort of bullshit excuse as to why no one wants Matty to get her hands on a pack of matches. He’s too nice, however, and maybe takes too long because soon enough George rather boldly told her, “I’d rather be cold tonight than have you attempt to build a fire.” 

“Um, excuse me. Rude much?”

“I’ve seen what you can do with a wrench and a can of oil, Mats,” George deadpanned. 

To that, she flapped her hand around at him, vaguely annoyed that he was involved in the conversation at all. “That was one time, and I apologized already. Plus, Cap made me sit through that stupid fire safety course afterwards. I think I’m probably the most qualified here to start a campfire if we want to get all technical about it.” 

The entire group shared a look.

“Listen, I’d love nothin’ more than to watch you bend over the campfire,” Boomer started. She immediately huffed at it, rolled her eyes, already considering smacking him for whatever bullshit he was about to spew, but he steamrolled on without even noticing. Nothing ever seemed to shut him up, really. “But you were just talkin’ about wantin’ to be a trophy wife, yeah? Let little Nicky handle the fire and you can just keep lying there lookin’ pretty for us all.” 

Matty feels mildly offended at everyone’s distrust in her skills, but does realize that Boomer has a point. She would have to get up off the ground and actually try if she wanted to follow through on her proposition. Lying prone in the sand sounded like a much better option. Still, Matty hated admitting defeat. 

“Sexists.” 

“Don’t loop me in with them,” Claire said as she nudged Matty’s head with her knee. “I’d like to see a woman show up a man any day. Just, you know, not you with a campfire.” 

Matty’s pout deepened. “I hate all of you.” 

“Yeah, well, the feeling is mutual,” Claire shot right back. It takes nothing more than for Matty to arch a brow in prompting to get an explanation. “I still can’t believe you invited some of the Top Gun idiots out with us tonight. Talk about a betrayal.”

“I didn’t invite them all,” Matty argued. It was true. She had invited Bradley earlier that day when they had run into each other at the mess hall. And by extension she had also invited Natasha and Bob because they were standing right there with him eavesdropping on the entire conversation. She hadn’t intended for anyone else to hear about the shindig, but he had shot her a text about an hour earlier warning her that a few more of the knucklehead pilots might be tagging along. “It’s hardly my fault that Bradley can’t keep a secret to save his life. Besides, it’s not just us here. It’s a community thing.” 

“Sure, but since when are the pilots part of our community?” 

Matty doesn’t let her interrogation go very far. Pointedly, she reminded Claire, “last I recall, you got along with the pilots just fine. I’m pretty sure you would have spent the entire night with Natasha if you hadn’t been dragged away. It was almost adorable how cute you two were together, all huddled up in the corner booth, drinking your beer.” 

Claire is unamused at Matty’s point, but doesn’t argue it. Although no one outrightly said anything about it, the motor pool had their suspicions that Claire might have heart eyes for Phoenix. 

“Whatever. It’s the fact of the matter. Just because you want to bang Bradshaw doesn’t mean we should be stuck with the others as babysitters.” 

“I don’t want to bang him.” 

“Fine, marry, whatever.” 

Matty shoved off of Claire with a glare to which the brunette grinned, pleased to have won the argument. She doesn’t get to say anything else about it though. Before she can, a crying whoop catches the group’s attention, and they turn to watch as a group approaches them from the parking lot. 

Fanboy and Payback are at the front; barreling across the sand, shoving one another on the shoulders, as they race to see who can make it into the water first. They spray sand over Matty and Claire, but are gone before they can be reprimanded. She doesn’t care to see who wins—though, if the way they are wrestling one another, she suspects that neither wants to admit to a loss. Behind them the others trail at a slower pace. Natasha ambles along with Bob, a cooler dangling between their hands. Bradley has a surfboard tucked beneath each arm, jean shorts this time traded for a more appropriate pair of low hanging swim trunks. Behind him, Hangman saunters forward with a beer already cracked in hand, looking much too smug for her liking. Coyote lingers in the far back as he struggles to pull his sweatshirt over head. 

“This isn’t much of a party,” Jake chirped smugly at them. 

“Well it was before you showed up,” Matty shot right back. She catches Bradley’s eye next, and he has the smarts to at least offer a shrug in apology for the blonde having somehow wormed his way into the invitation. She finds that she doesn’t mind all that much though. So long as Seresin watched his attitude. “Ever heard of being a party crasher?”

“Nah.” 

“Course not.” 

“Every party wants me. I’m part of the experience.” 

Matty can’t help but roll her eyes as the others join the group. Claire and Natasha share warm smiles. Bob seems timid as always, but he still offers the pair of women cold beer from his cooler that they accept with appreciative smiles. “Whatever. Maybe you can keep Booms’ attention, huh? The pair of you two are so cute together. Like little best friend puppies or whatever creepy box you came out of.” 

This time it’s Jake who is rolling his eyes. But… 

Well, when he catches Boomer’s eye and realizes that the man has a football in hand, he’s instantly more interested in whatever that might entail than he is in trading barbs with Matty. He splits from the group without saying anything else, and somehow he manages to round Payback and Fanboy out of the water without much prompting. Coyote trails after them as well as Bradley takes a seat beside Matty. 

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.” 

“Long time no see.” 

“Oh, sure. It’s been a whole, what, four hours now? I can’t imagine how you could have survived going that long without seeing me. The withdrawal must be getting pretty bad by now.”

“It’s been hard, not gonna lie,” he teased. Smiled when she pokes her tongue out at him. “Pretty excited to see how bad you are at surfing if I’m being honest.”

“I’m amazing,” she told him.

He clearly doesn’t believe her touting. “Really?”

“You better believe it, Bradshaw. You’re going to see some real talent tonight out on those waves. If you can even keep up.” 

His gaze brightens at the challenge, but also at the way that her voice has adopted something—dare she admit—flirtatious to it in all of five sentences. She’s almost surprised at herself, really; even more surprised that she really doesn’t mind. In fact, Matty is simply happy to sit there talking with Bradley about anything at all. She’s starting to worry that it’s his attention that she can’t get enough of and not the other way around. 

“Yeah, yeah, well I think I’m finally getting used to your smack talk, Neven. It’s not nearly as scary as you think it is.”

“God, say it ain’t so. I must be going soft around you, Bradshaw.” 

“The horror,” he joked.

She smiled, he grins, and in response something happy and soft opened his features up even further. She has caught glimpses of the expression before—in the parking lot when he brought her coffee, at her house when she finally talked to him about her past, on the beach when they were eating tacos in their own little world—and she marks it down as something that she likes seeing. Likes being the cause of. Likes knowing, at least a little, that it’s for her. 

Matty opened her mouth to say something back, to try and tease the expression for a little bit longer, when she came to the horrifying realization that she is surrounded by her friends while falling into some sort of mystified trance. It’s all so high school, really. The way that she seems to forget everything else when Bradley smiles at her. 

Clearing her throat, she turned to find that Claire is already watching her with an all too smug look. Matty arched a brow at her friend sharply. “Don’t you want to play football with the boys?” she prompts. 

It does nothing to scare her off. 

“Nope,” Claire tuts, popping the ‘p’ for extra emphasis. The smugness has gone and grown a head of its own as she slides her gaze towards Bradley. She even makes a show of stretching her legs out in the sand. “I’m plenty comfortable right here. What about you, Nat?”

Natasha, having now joined the group on the ground, seems to understand that she’s in the middle of something. She doesn’t seem to mind though. “All comfy, cozy,” she chirped as well. Her own gaze darts to Bradley. He rolls his eyes at her from behind his beer, but says nothing at all. 

It’s Nick who—once he finally gets the fire going—provokes the group of four from their silent standoff. 

“Anybody feel like playing cards?” he asked them. 

They all peer at one another for a moment. Matty at Claire, Claire at Natasha, Natasha at Bradley, then Bradley over at Mats, before coming to the same conclusion. 

“Yup,” Matty chirps as Claire says, “why not?”

Nick knows nothing of the war that he’s just stepped into. Neither does Bob who somehow manages to plop himself down right between Claire and Matty. When he catches the looks that both women are shooting him—as well as Natasha’s mute look of disbelief—he frowns. 

“Did I miss something?”

----

The water is cool against Matty’s skin as she dangles her legs on either side of her surfboard. She’s sitting far enough out from the shore that she’s no longer in anyone’s way but not so far that she’s at risk of being swept out. It helps as well that someone had been smart enough to pass out glow sticks in mass. There’s a bright pink one wrapped around her neck, as well as a dainty blue one on each wrist. She likes to watch as they leave behind luminescent trails in the dark with each movement of her arm. 

Mesmerizing, like the ocean that gently sways her. 

“Given up?” Bradley calls towards her. She has to squint her eyes to see him. The pilots only brought two surfboards and had been taking turns; it seems that he had handed his off to Coyote and instead was swimming out to hers. 

“Just watching the show.” 

He treads closer until his movements set her board swaying a bit. Matty narrowed her gaze at him, but she doubts he can see it in the dark. She can see only a swath of his features from the moonlight and the orange necklace he’s wearing as is. 

“You shouldn’t have swam out here without a board,” she chides when he’s close enough that she doesn’t have to shout. 

“Why?”

“Pretty sure it’s unsafe.”

“It’s plenty safe,” he chirps. She knows there’s something else coming before he moves, and Matty barely manages to keep her balance as he climbs onto her own surfboard with a grin. It shifts beneath them—threatening to throw them both over—before they manage to find their balance. He sits as a mirror image to her on the other end. Close enough to touch, though, if she tried. “See? We can share. It’s not like you’re using it, anyways.” 

“How presumptuous of you.” 

“That I thought you’d share?”

“That you don’t think I’ll drown you for touching my board,” she says.

He shakes his head with a laugh. She wonders how he would have reacted to something like that a few weeks ago. After they had met at the bar but before they had come to any sort of reconciliation. If he was smart, she supposes that he wouldn’t have even approached her in the dark. But Bradly Bradshaw never struck her as a coward. 

“Come on, Mats, we both know you like me,” he teases.

To this, she arches a brow. “Oh, I do, do I?”

“Definitely.” 

Matty hums as if the whole thing is a conspiracy, but she also flounders a bit. She’s hardly ever spent time in a relationship. Usually, she was more of a fuck-em and dump-em kinda girl. When that was the case, she didn’t have to worry about what sort of thing she might say. She just needed to be confident enough to win their attention. Then, the next morning, she would sneak home and never have to worry about it again. 

But with Bradley…

Well, she found that she didn’t necessarily want that sort of thing. She liked having inside jokes with him, liked having him come back to her, liked the attention. More than that, she wanted it to continue. 

It left her stranded in unfamiliar waters. 

Literally. 

“Whatever, Bradshaw,” she says, sticking her nose up in the air with as much feigned disinterest as she can manage. It was neither convincing nor mean. Awkward in her own skin, she throws her wet hair over her shoulder with a huff. “Okay, so I guess you’re not as horrible as I thought.”

He clutched a hand to his chest. “That might have been the nicest thing you ever said to me.” 

“I could still drown you,” she points out, narrowing her eyes at him. There’s a glimmer of something amused in her gaze that she can’t manage to shake, though. “Besides, that hardly means what you think it means.” 

“You know, despite what I first thought, you’re a pretty horrible liar.” 

“Um, I am not!” 

“And you get offended at the weirdest stuff too,” he added. She scoffs, rolled her eyes, twisted on the board a little too quickly and then went ramrod stiff when it threatened to topple them both over. He seemed amused at all of this. Flustered, Matty glares at him until he gets on with the conversation. “Alright, fine, fair enough. You’re the most brutally honest person I met. Is that better? A compliment for a compliment.” 

She considers it, then nods. “I’ll take it.” 

“Good,” he said, nodding. She nodded back once more, feeling pleased, until the moment that he opened his mouth again to speak. “Then I want you to be brutally honest right now and tell me that I’m imagining things and that you aren't interested in me. At least a little bit.” 

Well. Fuck. That backfired spectacularly. 

How had she let that happen?

“What are you drunk?” she blurts, not really sure what else to ask after hearing a declaration like that. 

“I’m not drunk. I’m being totally serious here, Mats. Look, I know how you felt about pilots and all of that, and I get it, I do, but I’m leaving soon and I’m tired of ignoring this thing between us—whatever it is. I want you to be honest with me. Alright? Just once, right now.” 

“I—” she hesitated. It was dark, but the longer they sat there together, the more details on his face she could make out. Like the way he arched a brow at her in challenge, or the way that his eyes were wide and earnest, or the way that there was a little dent between his eyebrows like he was nervous to hear what she had to say. “I don’t—I don’t date pilots.” 

The earnest expression gave way to something exasperated. “I didn’t ask if you would date me, I asked you to be honest about how you felt about me. Because I’ll be honest with you, Mats, alright? I like you. A lot. I like that you’re honest and open and not ashamed of who you are.” 

“Bradley—”

“And I like that you are hard-working, that you don’t let people push you around,” he continued. She licked her lips as he didn’t show a sign of stopping, eyes darting around as if looking for some way out, but it seemed that he was smarter than she gave him credit for. Cornering her on a surfboard with no way back to shore but an embarrassing swim as one way to go at it. She would have commended such a bold strategy if, you know, she wasn’t on the defensive side of it. “And I like that you understand me.” 

Matty latched onto that as quick as she could, not sure what else she could do. “See, okay, that’s the thing. You don’t like me, Bradley. You just like that I know about your past, that I went through something similar, alright? What’s the saying—misery loves company or whatever.” 

“That’s not it and you know it.” 

“It is,” she said, but, if she’s being honest, she’s not really sure anymore.

He fixed her with a look. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel, Matts.” 

“Come on, be serious,” she pleaded with him, slapping her hands in the water. His shoulders tightened a little bit at it. Her eyes drifted, unwillingly, to his bare chest, before she reminded herself that there were more important things to worry about. “I’m a horrible person. Okay? I am.”

“You’re not.”

“You just think that I’m fun. It’s happened before. I’m quirky and honest and whatever but pretty soon you’re going to hate that about me. Pretty soon you’re going to leave and you’re going to forget me and that’s—that’s okay. That’s how these things go,” she said. 

But once she said it she came to the startling realization that it’s not okay and it shouldn’t be how things go. Matty realized, stuck out on that board with him, that she didn’t want him to forget about her. She liked the idea of being known to the core by someone—known for all her misdeeds and deeds, for her history and her family name—yet not judged for it. She liked not having to worry that someone might be into her because of the ties of her Dad or Iceman brought with them. 

Fuck it. 

She fucking liked Bradley Goddamn Bradshaw.

“Come on, Neven,” he prompts. “Talk to me about this. Don’t shut me out.” 

“God, you’re such an asshole,” she said without thinking. 

That surely caught his attention, though, and this time when he sat back even further, she could make out the hurt that flashed across his features. Somehow, it spurs her on. Frustration tints her voice as she finally, at long last, is exactly what he wants her to be. 

Honest. 

“I have a rule about this kind of stuff, okay? Everyone jokes about it all the time, makes fun of me for it, but I’m serious. You think that I made the rule because it was funny? Or that I just didn’t want to follow in my mom’s footsteps? I don’t want to like someone that’s just going to leave, okay? That’s it. That’s the truth. You wanted me to be honest so I will. I don’t want to feel like I do about someone like you because you’re just going to leave me behind.” 

He blinked at her, silent.

“Well?” she asked. “Are you happy? Yes, I like you. Yes, I feel something here too. But…” 

“What?” he prompted her. “But what?”

“When you leave, I’m still going to be here. So what’s the point? Why even bother at all? So we can go out on one date, fuck, and then never talk to each other again? I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s worth it.” 

“You think that I would do that to you?”

Matty hadn’t expected that question. When she caught him staring, bewildered almost, she gave a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t know, yeah, I guess. We barely know each other. I’m not saying that you’re a bad person or anything for it. I just think it’s normal.” 

Bradley was silent for a long moment that felt like an eternity. She didn’t like pensive silences, didn’t like stewing in her own thoughts. It was one of the reasons that she talked so much. Matty felt powerful when she had attention on her because it meant that people weren’t sitting there thinking about all of the reasons that they didn’t like her. Okay, so what if she wasn’t the super confident person she pretended to be all the time? Is that a crime? Everyone had things that they weren’t proud of or things that they wanted to pretend didn’t exist. 

Matty Neven was a lot of things. Constantly striving for approval was one of them. Struck with the fear of being abandoned was another. Big fucking whoop. It wasn’t the secret of the century. Hardly a secret at all for anyone who had an inkling of training in psychology.

Bradley didn’t have that sort of training. That’s why, just as she was considering drowning herself in the ocean, he was stuck on one single thing when she had already gone on three different downward spirals. “You really think that you’re so forgettable?” he asked her, dumbstruck. 

“Um... what?”

“You said that I would just forget you,” he pointed out. It seemed that her own lack of awareness astounded him. But, like, sue her. There was a lot going on right now. “Do you really think that?”

“I don’t know, maybe... Yes? Look, I’m just going to swim back to shore—”

“Matty,” he interrupted her with such exasperation that she snapped her mouth shut before she could say anything else. Probably a good thing too because if she got back to her car she most certainly was going to break several different speeding laws that night in her desire to run away. “You are probably the most unforgettable person I’ve ever met.”

“Right, stunningly gorgeous and all that,” she muttered in a poor excuse of a joke. 

He didn’t seem to hear it. Just steamrolled on ahead. “I’m sorry that there’s been people who make you feel like you’re not worth remembering before, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get you out of my mind even if I wanted to. Which, to be clear, I don’t.”

“You… don’t?” she hedged nervously, almost scared of the answer either way.

He shook his head so violently that it shook the board they were sitting on. “Fuck no, I don’t want to forget you. What I want is to take you out on a date, and then another, and then another one.”

She had never considered that option. The one where he didn’t forget about her or get bored of her. That’s why her response was nothing but a dumb, “oh.” 

“Yeah, oh,” he reiterated. She blinked at him, then at the water beneath them in thought. The ocean rippled around them as their board twirled listlessly in the ocean. She had never been so bewildered before. “I like you. Okay? That’s that. You can tell me to get lost if you don’t like me, and I’ll respect that. But I don’t think you want me to leave you alone. So... let me take you out on a date. A real one. Not just coffee in the parking lot or tacos outside The Hard Deck.” 

“That’s different. We were just hanging out.” 

He gave her a weird look. “Do you think I woke up at six am because I just wanted to talk to you for five minutes in a parking lot?”

“Well, I mean…” she trailed off, not even sure what she had thought. And as he watched her beneath the moonlight it was obvious to them both that she wasn’t any good at this sort of thing.

“Just say yes,” he instructed her, a proverbial life raft in the waters. 

She swallowed. Cleared her throat. Tossed her hair to the left and then to the right. “...okay.” Bradley had a look pinched halfway between excitement and annoyance that she couldn’t even do that right. “I mean, yes. Yes, I will go out on a date with you. A real one. One where you can pay and hold the door or whatever guys do.” 

He grinned. Sighed. Then bent closer. “Good. I’m going to kiss you now.” 

“You’re what—?” 

Bradley stifled whatever pot of emotions that threatened to boil over with a warm, sound kiss. It had all thoughts evaporating from her mind like drops of water beneath the sun. And, oh, if it didn’t make everything better to have his hands shift around her bare waist as his mouth slanted against her mouth. It silenced everything she had going on inside her rat’s nest of a head—she could admit that her mind was more like the scene of Spongebob where his mind workers caught everything on fire and then started running around with sirens blaring than anything organized—but Bradley Bradshaw seemed to bring order to the chaos with nothing more than his touch. Goosebumps pricked up along her bare legs as she kissed him back, and when their teeth clacked against one another, they weren’t above it all to laugh. 

She giggled into his lips. He smirked against her mouth. 

And then, in a swift movement, something tipped their board over from underneath and the pair was promptly dunked under the water. She swallowed salt water as she blubbered, confused, and half afraid that a shark was about to eat her right when her life was starting to get interesting.

When she surfaced, spluttered like a drowning fish, and push the wet streaks of blonde hair out of her eyes, however, she realized that the reality was much less exciting as she spied two heads with neon necklaces in the near distance. It was dark, but not so dark that she couldn’t make out the matching grins that Claire and Natasha wore as they howled with laughter. 

Nat paused when she met Matty’s eyes. “Oh, shit, she looks pissed!” 

The girls turned tail and paddled as fast as they could towards Claire’s surfboard that had been abandoned in the water not too far from Matty’s. They giggled as they went, though, and she figured it wouldn’t be all that hard to frame their drownings as accidents. 

“I’m going to fucking kill you!” she shrieked after them. 

“You have to catch us first!” Claire shouted back. 

She would. She wasn’t even that fast of a swimmer, but she would. Before she got the chance to take off after them, however, something latched onto her wrist and tugged her in the opposite direction of the shore.

A few soaked curls flopped on Bradley’s forehead as he smiled over at her. 

“Um, excuse me, they’re getting away!” 

“You can kill them later,” he said.

“But—” 

He kissed her again. It was sloppier as they were now both treading water, and she was pretty sure that she swallowed even more salt water in the mess of it all. This time she didn’t care nearly as much.

*** taglist (thanks for asking!)  @callsignbarb @coyotesamachado   @shanimallina87  @luckyladycreator2 ​ @olivethenerd16  @the-winter-marvel33 @hiddleless @momc95 @alanadetigy​ ​@obsessedasusual  

Okay, i kinda can’t believe how this story basically ran so far off course my my original idea, but i love where it’s ending up. i’ve been feeling less enthusiastic about writing just bc it’s taking me so much longer to update this story than it did to update old habits die hard but then i realized that this story is so much longer, with so many more scenes, and i’m very proud of that. hope you enjoy! 

one more chapter to go xoxo

[tmkutawrites]

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!

J

***

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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