#naval officer steel

[professional-yearner]

Can't Help Falling In Love With You 🤍

Pt. 1

Yandere! Cheater! Officer Clone trooper x Fem! Reader

Series TW!: cheating, mistresses, grief, murder, Evil-ish, being trapped, toxic relationships, forced relationship, obsessive love, obsession, general insanity, manipulation, disloyalty

A/N: I hope you guys like this first installment of my new-ish series! I do intend to finish it this time lol. I really hope you like it! :3

You sat in the dark, staring blankly at the messages. They were sweet, affectionate, and playful, with a deep sense of connection that made bile creep up your throat and your head light. You remembered when Steel used to message you like this, it seemed so distant now, but you could remember it almost vividly.

You hadn't realized you were crying until you had to sniff to keep mucus from dripping onto the data pad. It made sense why he had been so distant recently; staying out late on his leave instead of being with you, always on his data pad doing 'work', never really touching you anymore.

The name opposite his own messages seemed to be laughing at you, bold and victorious as it burned into your retinas;

Arah

Was that her name? It was pretty, like she must be. Was it just that, or was she funnier, smarter, more capable, more interesting? Maybe all of the above.

You cried out, pain racking through your entire body; you had thought he was your person. You thought he thought you were his person.

It had all come together when you met him, and now it had so rapidly fallen apart.

-

The morning following your discovery was bleak, but you had to keep it together, at least until he left again for the day.

It was a sisyphean task to hold back your tears without him noticing as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head before he went (something he hadn't done in a while), but you didn't think you could face him now, not until you got yourself together a bit.

You finally broke once he closed the door behind him, trying to take air between sobs as you did your best to move towards the bathroom.

Skincare didn't work, the tears and snot wouldn't stop long enough for any of your products to set.

Putting on a nice outfit didn't work either, you just found new ways to compare yourself to how pretty his new girl must be, making your crying all the more intense.

Finally, you found yourself in the kitchen, exhausted from a day that sped by you and stomach rumbling.

You had to climb the counter to get the ingredients that you needed, seeing as the it only reached your hip at the most.

Steel had insisted on you not "wasting your money" on a step-stool, going on about how he'd always be there to get things down for you. Remembering that made you grit your teeth, grief momentarily replaced with vitriol.

Karking liar.

Mixing and cleaning went by in a blur, you were so practiced by now it felt like a reflex. You looked down at what you were making.

It was both of your favorites; pancakes.

It was simple, basic even, but it had kind of been your thing. It seemed appropriate considering you had met in a diner.

You felt your eyes heat as you flipped the pancake.

You really thought he loved you.

You could remember the first time you had kissed, the first time you had felt so wanted and right with someone;

You giggled as he bumped your shoulder with his, the rough material of his uniform scuffing your bare arm lightly as he grinned down at you. The rain pattered on the two of you, your hair and his hat beginning to drip.

You paused your walking as you caught his eye, the look he was giving you catching you off guard; his brown-gold eyes shone more openly than you had ever seen them, soft affection following your every movement as his lips curved into a warm smile.

"What?" You smiled up at him, laughing lightly.

He stepped out in front of you, leaning down to push the hair away from your face and touching your nose with his,

"You're perfect, angel."

Your eyes widened as you took in the moment, a desire settling itself against your ribcage at his declaration. Stomach fluttering, you worked up every scrap of courage you had, finally leaning forward and closing the distance between the two of you, pressing your lips shyly to his.

He seemed to be in shock for a moment, making you pull back, only to give a small squeak of surprise as he shot out a hand to bring you back, capturing your lips gently, but passionately, against his once more.

You both stayed like that for a while, lips moving against each other in quiet tenderness before he pulled away slowly, rubbing your cheek with his calloused thumb,

He breathed softly, face only an inch from yours, "Sweet girl."

You bit back a silly grin, bringing your forehead to his and placing your hands at the sides of his face in a Keldabe kiss, one last show of your overwhelming adoration before pulling away.

"You want to come back to mine? I could make breakfast for dinner; your favorite."

He said nothing for a moment, looking at you as if you were the beginning and end of the galaxy, making you almost tear up before his face broke into a lopsided grin once more. He picked you up by your waist suddenly, causing you to squeal as he spun you around, laughing,

"Cyar’ika, you are the love of my life!"

You stared at the pan, watching the pastry grow black as you zoned out. The love of his life.

You sobbed, clutching the counter as the smell of burning pancake filled your nose.

Maker.

[arctic-hands]

Protip: if you're using a cane or crutch or rollator and an abled starts giving you flak or making fun of you, you now have a weapon in your hands

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Sunk Cost

Pairing: Tom Bennett x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of blood, death and injury. Mild angst and mentions of PTSD. Smut. Word count: ~4.8k

Summary: Following the Battle of the River Plate, she is deployed to the Falkland Islands to tend to the survivors of the HMS Exeter. Some of the naval officers are in better shape than others, and when one in particular makes it his mission to bed her before shipping back home, she decides to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Author's note: Based on this request. No tag list - please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. "Conchies" is slang for conscientious objector.

She had travelled aboard the SS Lafonia to the Falklands, accompanied by two doctors and eleven other nurses to treat the injured of the HMS Exeter following the battle of the River Plate.

Having qualified as a nurse almost five years ago, she was experienced in dealing with blood and injury and, in the days spent sailing across the South Atlantic Ocean, she had been steeling herself for the inevitable carnage she would be witness to.

Nothing, however, could have prepared her for the utter devastation she was met with upon arrival. Pulling back the canvas flap of the medical tent, the smell was the first thing to hit her, pushing her backwards like an invisible, oppressive force; burned flesh and the rancid, yet somehow sickly sweet scent of decay.

Everything from minor burns to missing limbs needed to be treated, but those sailors were the fortunate ones, they still drew breath. Seventy two British sailors had lost their lives defending against German forces.

It would be two weeks until a boat arrived to collect those fit enough to travel back to England, so those able bodied enough to do so assisted with dressing wounds and changing bed pans. She was grateful for the help as, despite there being fourteen medical staff to attend to their patients, it was overwhelming and she was tired, so tired.

She had smiled, though it had not quite reached her eyes, as she’d been introduced to the private that would be assisting her on her rounds.

“Name’s Tom, Tom Bennett,” he’d greeted her with an incline of his head and a lopsided smirk. 

“Nice to meet you, Private Bennett,” she’d replied as politely as she could, discreetly taking him in.

He stood around six feet tall, a mop of sandy coloured hair atop his head. He was classically handsome with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose, and carried himself with a self assured swagger that emphasised the fact that he knew he was good looking. She could have overlooked his vanity, were it not for the fact he was apparently cocky in every other respect too.

Her exhaustion had worn her patience thin, however, she was certain that the sailor assigned to helping her with her rounds would have grated upon her nerves even with a full night’s rest. She found his unwavering smirk and continual stream of flirtatious remarks wholly inappropriate, considering the situation they found themselves in. There was no doubt in her mind that he had fought bravely and his service upon the Admiral Graf Spee was to be highly commended, but it didn’t mean she had to enjoy his company, she merely endured it.

“Private Bennett, I need to give this patient a sponge bath, can you please dispose of these dressings?” She asked, keeping her tone curt as she seated herself beside a cot.

“My turn next, yeah?” He quipped cheekily, causing her to press her lips into a tight line to suppress the urge to sigh.

She lifted her eyes to meet his, her stern gaze wholly unaffected by the way the blue of his sparkled with mischief. “The dressings, Private Bennett.”

“You can call me Tom, y’know,” he said airily, the smirk on his face never faltering as he snatched up the dirty bandages and turned to walk away.

“I’d rather not,” she muttered wearily to his retreating form, turning her attention back to the sailor laid dozing in the cot beside her.

All of her rounds were much the same; Tom trailed behind her, flirting shamelessly, and every remark made her blood boil. For the patients yet to regain consciousness, she could mercifully ignore him. However, for the sake of maintaining a pleasant bedside manner for those who were lucid, she had to smile, laugh and remain polite.

As the days dragged on, she found herself wishing the boat coming to ferry Tom Bennett back to England would arrive sooner. Attempting to keep her temper in check and not give him a well deserved telling off in front of everyone was becoming as exhausting an effort as it was caring for the wounded. He was a pain in the arse.

It had been a particularly demanding day - several of the patients being treated for severe burns had developed infections - by the time the next nurse arrived to relieve her of her duties, she was desperate to be off of her aching feet. Sitting down heavily upon a bench in the rest area, she fished her cigarette case from her apron pocket, flipping it open and placing one delicately between her lips. Before her hand could reach for her matchbook, a flash of flint followed by flame ignited in front of her, illuminating the end of her cigarette into a bright, cherry red glow.

She blew out a tight line of smoke, her eyes narrowed in displeasure as she looked up at the smug face of Tom Bennett. The sight of him was enough to spoil the pleasant taste of tobacco that she usually revelled in upon her first drag. The corners of his mouth were upturned into a self satisfied smile, his eyes crinkled in quiet amusement as he looked down at her. He always looked like he was entertained by a joke that only he was privy to, it drove her crazy.

“Thanks,” she said curtly, taking another drag.

“Anything for you, gorgeous,” he winked, seating himself beside her and lighting up a smoke of his own.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she muttered darkly, gazing off into the distance, her lips pursed.

“Do what?” He mumbled around his cigarette, keeping it perched at the corner of his mouth.

She sighed, pressing at the point between her eyebrows with the thumb of her free hand, an absentminded gesture of exasperation. “Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it?”

Tom snatched his cigarette from between his lips, holding it between the forefingers of his right hand as he raised his palms in a defensive gesture. “Enough misery ‘round ‘ere, ‘int there? Jus’ tryna make you smile.”

“Well, you’re not,” she spat, taking a quick puff, savouring the short burst of lightheadedness that the nicotine rush afforded her.

He gave an easy shrug, fixing her with a dopey grin. “Well, I don’t see anywhere ‘round ‘ere where I can buy you flowers, so my witty charm will have to do.”

She scoffed, flicking away her butt, and rose to her feet, storming off.

“See you tomorra, yeah?” he called after her, “unless you want someone to help warm your cot tonight?”

Fucking prick.

Sleep evaded her that night. Tom had gotten under her skin. It made her furious that with so many men injured and dying around them, he failed to see the gravity of their situation. How could he be cracking jokes and making clumsy attempts to seduce her in the midst of a war? He needed to be taught a lesson, to be taken down a peg or two, and she decided she was the person to do it. Perhaps if the tables were turned on him, then he’d realise just how inappropriate his behaviour was and feel rightfully ashamed of himself.

The following day, as Tom accompanied her on her rounds, she laughed heartily at his flippant remarks, allowed her fingers to linger against his as he passed her bandages, and stared deep into his eyes every time she addressed him.

“Lucky sod,” he’d jested as she’d dabbed gently at the burns on a patient’s chest.

“You’ll get your turn later,” she’d quipped back with a wink, causing his jaw to fall agape. He’d been quick to close his mouth again, averting his attention to the floor as his cheeks had turned crimson.

It was obvious her being receptive to his advances was having an effect on him. All day she saw the way his eyes widened in disbelief, the slight blush that crept into his cheeks when she returned his flirty banter. He was uncomfortable with not being given the brush off, and she was enjoying every second of it.

“What are you playing at?” His voice came from behind her, as she was rifling through the medicine cabinet, searching for a bottle of iodine. It was a quiet corner of the medical tent, partitioned off from the sick beds for medical personnel to replenish supplies and dose out medicine.

“What do you mean?” She asked casually, not turning around as her hands continued to move aside brown bottles. She hoped the clink of the glass was enough to disguise the hint of amusement in her voice, and if not, at least he couldn’t see her smiling.

“You’re flirting with me,” he stated simply, though his voice didn’t carry its usual confidence.

“Am I?” She replied with faux innocence, casting him a glance over her shoulder.

He wasn’t standing as straight as he usually did, his brow was furrowed and he had his hands clasped in front of him. He was nervous.

Good, she thought.

“I–I think so, yeah…”

She rounded on him, closing the distance between them, delighting in the way his posture visibly stiffened as she pressed close, placing her palms against the broadness of his shoulders.

“I guess I finally figured there’s no use in denying what’s between us,” she cooed, “can’t fight it any longer.”

“Yeah..?” He asked, blinking rapidly, lips parted as he stared down at her with wide eyes.

“Absolutely. You deserve a reward, Private Bennett,” she said, reaching up to card her fingers through the softness of his hair. “You fought so bravely, it would be an honour for me to give myself to you. You’re a war hero.”

His face blanched, and for the first time since she’d met him, she saw the corners of his mouth turn downwards, a flicker between anger and sadness causing his brow to furrow and his gaze to dull. He grasped her wrists gently, moving her hands back to her sides, before quickly walking away.

She had expected to feel triumphant in managing to fluster him enough to get him to back down, but she didn’t. It was wholly unsatisfying, a heavy feeling of guilt sat like a stone upon her chest. There was something in her words that had utterly knocked the wind out of Tom’s sails, she had pushed too far. She hadn’t embarrassed him, she’d crushed him, and the worst part was she wasn’t entirely sure what she had said that had caused such an unexpected reaction.

He was quiet for the rest of her rounds, silently following orders, not meeting her eye when he spoke or was spoken to. It was as though all the light had gone out of him. He didn’t hang around for a smoke once she was relieved of her duties, so she was forced to follow after him as he strode back to the sleeping quarters reserved for uninjured naval officers.

“Hey, wait!” She called out, her feet hurrying to keep up with his longer gait, finally falling in step beside him. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

He stopped, huffing out a sigh as he turned his face upwards, briefly closing his eyes, before looking back down at her. “Forget about it,” he muttered, “message received loud and clear. I won’t hassle you no more.”

She was left standing there as he walked off, leaving her alone. Despite what he said, she knew forgetting about it was the very last thing that she would be able to do.

Her rounds were miserable over the days that followed. Tom didn’t laugh, he didn’t smile, he didn’t even speak unless spoken to. As reluctant as she was to admit it, she missed his jokey flirting. Whatever this was, the silence and sadness that hung between them, she hated it. She couldn’t question it in front of patients, and as soon as his obligation to her was fulfilled for the day, he hurried back to the naval quarters, making it clear he had no desire to speak to her.

Even the patients had started to notice it - of course they had - the stony silence that the pair worked in was a stark contrast to Tom’s usual annoyingly proud and jovial demeanour.

“Lover’s quarrel?” A private with a head injury asked playfully, as she pulled away his dressings to check on the wound.

Tom spoke before she had the opportunity to respond, his tone arrogant and steeped in annoyance. “Nope, just focusing on the job, mate. Got a ship coming to take me away from here tomorra, and the quicker I’m on it the better.”

She felt her heart lurch at his words. So preoccupied with the fact that Tom was refusing to speak to her, she had completely forgotten that he’d be leaving soon. Now his departure loomed imminently and the thought of it made her chest tighten uncomfortably. He couldn’t just leave and never speak to her again without giving her the chance to make amends, or to help her understand what she’d done wrong in the first place; that wasn’t fair.

He didn’t even look at her as she turned to him, instead he handed her the clean set of bandages he’d been holding and walked away, leaving her to finish up with her patient alone.

“Must be nice,” the injured private remarked, as she pressed the clean dressing to his wound and bandaged it up. “Wish I was leaving.”

“Me too,” she uttered softly, a sombre feeling settling over her as she realised she was talking as much about herself as she was the patient she was treating.

Tom was nowhere to be seen for the rest of the day, and she was left to complete her rounds by herself. She supposed she would grow used to it once he left. The strain they were under would be lessened by those fit enough to travel on the boat tomorrow being removed from their care. However, she felt like she was missing a part of herself without him at her side; like looking at the wall and not being able to see her shadow cast upon it. The weight of his absence would fade, but the hurt and uncertainty wrought from his disdain would not. She needed to put things right before he sailed away from her tomorrow, or she would forever live with the guilt of it.

She waited impatiently for the rest of the day for nightfall, deciding that if this was a conversation she was going to pursue then it was better to do so without witnesses - or at least when those witnesses were asleep - the canvas confines of both the medical bay and sleeping quarters provided very little privacy.

Once it was suitably dark, she made her way to the large tent that housed the cots of the naval officers. The humidity made the night air sticky and it clung to her skin, feeling as thick as the inky blackness of the sky above her.  A wave of nervous apprehension washed over her as she reached for the canvas flap - what if Tom was already asleep, or refused to speak to her? What if other sailors were awake and questioned her reason for being there?

A simple white lie of delivering pain relief could deal with the latter of those problems, but she had no idea how to deal with the former. Before her pounding heart and trembling hands could convince her otherwise, she pulled back the partition, greeted by darkness and the gentle snores of those who were asleep. A few kerosene lamps were lit by the beds of those who were still awake, their dull glow illuminated the men that were sitting up reading, smoking or playing solitaire with playing cards spread out across their blankets.

Her eyes searched the gloom for Tom, half expecting him to be fast asleep. Finally, she spotted him, and her stomach erupted into nervous flutters as she saw that he was still awake. She felt as if she was intruding upon something far too intimate, seeing him in the tight white t-shirt and briefs of his underclothes. He laid upon his front, the legs of his tall frame almost hanging off the edge of the cot as they crossed over at the ankle. The low lighting that glowed across the sharpness of his features cast long shadows across his corner of the tent, however, it was not dark enough to hide the yellow canary that fluttered around the small cage that he had balanced upon his pillow. His attention was so focused upon the bird and its shrill twittering that he didn’t even notice her as she stepped carefully towards him.

“Who’s this then?” She asked quietly, once she was a few paces away from Tom’s cot.

His head snapped up quickly, brows raising in surprise as he took in the sight of her, almost as if he couldn’t believe she was standing in front of him. He cleared his throat, shifting onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow before responding. “Her name’s Vera.”

“Vera…that’s a pretty name,” she said, offering him a soft smile as she fidgeted awkwardly with her fingers, forgetting everything she had wanted to say to him.

He lifted the cage, placing it gently on the floor between his cot and the tent wall, then looked back at her. “So what brings you ‘ere then?”

“You won’t speak to me,” she replied. Her voice sounded small, sad and vulnerable to her ears, and she loathed it. She had come here to apologise and then leave, not get upset.

“Usually, people take a hint when that happens, they don’t barge in on them when they’re going to bed.”

His reply hit her like a physical blow, and he must have seen the way her face fell, as he was quick to follow it up with; “But I guess I can’t blame ya for wantin’ a peek at me in me undercrackers.”

She felt instantly lighter as she saw the playful grin spread across his face, turning hers away as she felt her skin grow hot.

Silence fell between them once more and she drew in a steadying breath before lifting her gaze to his again. “I couldn’t let you leave without knowing how sorry I am,” she stepped closer, “I don’t know what I said that ticked you off exactly, but what I did I did with the intent to teach you a lesson, to humiliate you, and that was wrong. I was sick of your flirting, but I realise now that after all you’ve been through that you were just trying to make a horrible situation a lighter one. You’re so brave, and–”

“I’m not fucking brave,” he snapped, making her jump.

“What?” She moved to stand directly beside his cot, her head tilted slightly in confusion.

“I’m not brave,” he repeats, his voice turning to the hushed tone he’d used previously. He scrubbed a hand across his face and fixed her with a tired stare. “I’m not a war hero.”

She blinked rapidly, furrowing her brow as she perched upon the edge of his makeshift bed. “Is that what got you upset? Because I called you a war hero?”

“Do you know why I joined the Navy?” He asked, shuffling back to make more room for her to sit within the narrow space.

She shook her head, allowing him to continue speaking.

“Was avoiding the nick,” he uttered, sniffing. “I’m not a hero, I’m a coward dodging a stretch in prison.”

She was surprised by this, but not repelled. He was hardly the first man to join up to the draft to avoid the authorities, and he would be the last. She sighed softly, looking him in the eye. “That doesn’t change any of what you’ve been through, or how bravely you fought aboard that warship. You should be proud of yourself.”

“Well, I’m not,” he said sullenly, “I’m not going back. The minute I get back home that’s it, I’m done with this bloody war.”

“You can’t do that,” she told him softly, suddenly feeling afraid for him.

“Why not? It’s not my fight. I saw people fucking die. I don’t wanna give my life for something I don’t believe in.”

“You could be hanged for desertion,” she argued, a hint of desperation in her voice. Before she had time to think about it, her hand reached for his, grasping his fingers with her own.

“Dad’s a conchie,” he said, intertwining his fingers with hers, “I could be too.”

She glanced down to where their hands were joined, almost wanting to scream in frustration. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Well, what am I s’posed to do?” he seethed, snatching his hand back, leaving her to silently mourn the loss of the contact.

“I can’t convince you to do anything, Tom, but please talk to your dad before you make a decision you can’t take back.”

“Y’know, that’s the first time you’ve called me that,” he said, his expression softening.

“What?”

“My name. It’s usually always Private Bennett. I like it when you call me Tom.”

She averted her gaze, feeling her skin blaze with embarrassment once more. “I guess I should get going. Us talking’s probably keeping people awake.”

His hand shot out, grasping hers once more as she rose to leave, making her freeze in place.

“Stay,” came his softly uttered plea.

“There’s all these other people,” she protested in a quiet voice, though she sat back down.

“I just want you to lay next to me. We probably won’t see each other again after tomorrow, and I don’t wanna be alone tonight.”

“I dunno…”

“No funny business, I promise,” he said with a smirk that immediately crumbled her resolve. “I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

“Alright…”

Tom laid out straight and pulled the blankets up around himself, holding one side up in silent invitation for her to join him. She slid underneath, not realising quite how tight the confines of the single cot were until her body was pressed right up against his.

Wordlessly, he leaned over to turn out the lamp, then turned to face her, slinging an arm over her waist and closing his eyes.

She laid there with her eyes open, just about able to make out his features in the darkness. The humidity combined with the heat of Tom’s body and the blankets thrown over them made it uncomfortably warm, and it was an effort not to squirm. But that wasn’t her only means of discomfort. It was difficult to keep her breathing steady and her body from trembling in spite of the heat; she hadn’t anticipated being in such close proximity to Tom to have such an effect on her. The feeling of the long, lithe muscle of his body pressed against hers made her pulse race and her core throb with desire, though the sensation was intermingled with pangs of guilt. He was seeking comfort in her, and here she was lusting after him when she’d spent the last two weeks berating him for doing the same to her.

His breaths fanned softly across her face, and she was convinced that he had fallen asleep, until his grasp on her waist tightened slightly, his fingers digging into her flesh. She froze at the intimacy of it, ashamed of the way desire pooled between her thighs at the gesture, until he ducked his head to bury it into the crook of her neck.

“Help me,” he whispered against her skin, a desperate plea for something, anything to make him feel better.

She reached up tentatively in the darkness, her fingers stroking through the silkiness of his hair. He sighed contentedly in response, and the sensation made her shiver, causing an involuntary tug at his tresses, making him groan and grip her tighter.

“Please,” he murmured into her neck. His hips began to grind against hers, the evidence that he was just was affected by her as she was him more than apparent as it pressed repeatedly against her.

Before she had time to consider the absurdity of it all, she hooked her thigh over him, prompting him to roll onto his back as she straddled him. Her chest rose and fell erratically as she stared down at him. He looked back with wide, imploring eyes, his fingers flexing firmly against the swell of her hips, urging her into action.

The touch was enough to ground her, to give her pause to realise they were in a tent full of sleeping sailors, that she’d rebuffed all of Tom’s previous advances, that come tomorrow she’d never see him again.

She swallowed thickly, trying to move off of him. “We shouldn’t.”

“Please,” he repeated with more urgency, his grip upon her tightening, stilling her and preventing her from moving away.

It was the begging of a desperate man, a man who had seen awful things, who was afraid to die, who was sailing away tomorrow into uncertainty. How could she say no? And how could she deny herself? Over the last two weeks she had seen unimaginable horrors, worked tirelessly, didn't she deserve a little fun?

She allowed the throbbing between her thighs to guide her actions as she reached beneath her skirt of her uniform, tugging her knickers to one side. Tom’s breaths grew unsteady as his eyes watched her in the darkness, his own hands moving to push down his briefs.

As the swollen head of him pressed against her entrance she felt that she was aroused, though not wet enough to make his passage an easy one. She had to rise and sink down repeatedly against the upward thrusts of his pelvis before the tight muscles of her heat finally yielded to him.

Sinking all the way in to the hilt, Tom hissed loudly, earning himself a quiet scolding from her. “Quiet, or you’ll wake people up.”

He bit his lip as she rocked her hips gently, allowing herself to adjust to the intrusion. It had been a while since she’d been with anyone this intimately, and it stung slightly, though the pain was not unpleasant.

She gazed down at him, seeing the crease between his eyebrows as they furrowed against the intensity of his pleasure and the effort to stay quiet. Seeing his face contorted into such a state, even though the darkness prevented her from seeing him clearly, was enough to have her sensitive walls clenching with desire, and she took that as her prompt to begin moving in a steady rhythm, lifting up as she rocked forward, then down as she pulled back.

“Fuck…” Tom murmured under his breath, his fingers leaving indentations in the flesh of her hips.

“Does that feel good?” She asked, her voice breathless with exertion.

“Y–yeah…don’t stop.”

In that moment, none of it mattered; the sheen of sweat upon her skin, the other people asleep around them, it all faded to nothing. Her only focus became the man beneath her begging for more and the exhilarating ache each time the head of him brushed against a sensitive spot deep inside of her.

“You’re so brave, Tom, and you’re doing so well, making me feel wonderful,” she breathed, as she moved atop him.

His expression was one of utter submission and pure adoration, his eyes were glossy with pleasure, his full lips were parted. He clung to her as though he was a drowning man and she was his lifeline, and she supposed she was in a way. She served as a much needed moment of respite when all around him was fear and uncertainty.

She could feel her peak beginning to crest alongside his, his cock pulsed inside of her with each spasm of her core. She pulled off of him as white hot waves of pleasure crashed over her, stifling his groan of satisfaction with a hot, messy kiss - the first they’d shared - as she tightened repeatedly around nothing and he spilled himself across his lower abdomen.

He laid against her chest afterwards, once he’d cleaned himself up, and she cradled him to her breasts, gently ruffling his hair. A satisfied ache had settled between her thighs, and her eyelids felt heavy with tiredness.

“Will you write to me?” He asked quietly.

“If you keep your promise, Tom, then I might not know where to write to.”

He hummed quietly before falling silent.

“You will keep your promise, won’t you? You’ll speak to your dad?”

“Yeah,” he whispered back, almost thoughtfully, “I promise.”

Tom left the next day, and she didn’t see him again, though he often crossed her mind. Six months later, when she was stationed in a hospital in Paris, her heart stuttered in her chest as she looked upon the familiar, yet bruised face of a man laying unconscious in the ward she was working in. She smiled as she approached the bed and looked upon the sleeping form of Tom Bennett. He’d kept his promise. He was a hero after all.

[merlyn-bane]

Who's ready for day two of Merlyn's Coday Bingo fills??

Here's The Man, The Myth, The Legend himself once again, fill for "It's--It's Commander Cody with a steel chair!".

The prompt was too perfect not to just take it at face value, so please have a very literal Commander Cody with a steel chair. It's what he deserves. It's what the pain in the ass natborn Naval officers and Senate scum he deals with deserve. It's what we deserve.

Also--my friends and fellow Romans, you will I am sure notice that our dear Marshal Commander has been drawn on a transparent background. I am giving you standing permission (and in fact, encouragement) to take full advantage of this. Who's he swinging the chair at? It's up to you to decide! All I ask is that you tag me. I would very much like to see him turn into the meme he deserves to be.

Once more tagging @codyday2224 and @clonehavensotm for hosting the event and creating the bingo cards, respectively. Thank you for your service 🫡🫡

Bingo card under the cut!

[bethanydelleman]

what do you think would have been the most personally tragic (plausible) outcomes for each of the heroines?

Catherine Morland - She was somehow forced to ride in John Thorpe's gig for a third time.

Now I'll be serious. I refuse to imagine my dear Catherine in a tragedy.

Marianne Dashwood - Willoughby seduces her and she ends up pregnant and ruined. I've written this, twice. Also, she could have died from her fever

Elinor Dashwood - Edward marries Lucy Steele, she ends up resigning herself to a prudent but loveless marriage or never leaves home, occasionally hearing through her family that Edward is completely miserable

Elizabeth Bennet - marries someone she doesn't really respect and becomes a female version of her father

Jane Bennet - never gets over Bingley, eventually settles for a loveless marriage and it kills her inside

Fanny Price - Edmund marries Mary Crawford and Fanny watches in silent agony as she destroys Edmund's (weak) moral core and he becomes an entirely different person. William's ship is lost and Fanny never hears from him again

Emma Woodhouse - kind of cheating since it's in the book: Mr. Knightley does fall in love with Harriet Smith and stops coming to Hartfield as often, leaving Emma loveless and lonely

Anne Elliot - Captain Wentworth marries Louisa Musgrove out of duty, he also realizes his love for Anne but sees no way out. Anne remains within his sphere through her connection to the Musgrove family, she is aware that he loves her but there is nothing either of them can do about it. After a few years and two children, Wentworth confesses and Anne is forced to remove herself to the house of a distant family member. She eventually marries and Wentworth takes on more and more risks as a naval officer, leading to his ship being destroyed and his entire crew dying. He survives and feels so guilty that he eventually hangs himself, leaving his disillusioned wife and kids to fend for themselves (don't worry, Louisa has a great family and a good fortune).

Lady Susan - Sir James refuses to die and escapes all of her attempts like a clueless cartoon character who cannot be killed. Her daughter is also widely reported to be more beautiful than her.

[ltwilliammowett]

Naval Officer's Sword, Model 1816-1817, France

Made of steel, mother-of-pearl and brass. Total length: 95 cm ; Blade length: 81.5 cm

[reality-detective]

Military Intel & Covert Ops: Celebrities, The Judges/Olu Unit, Gitmo, Diego Garcia, Pine Gap, Naval Base Guam, White House & FISA Declassification

The hidden world of military intelligence and covert ops with elite units like The Judges/Olu, Gitmo, Diego Garcia, Pine Gap, and Naval Base Guam is about to unravel. The White House and FISA Declassification hold the key to exposing the secrets that have been shielded for far too long. What’s coming next will shake the very foundations of power.

We stand on the brink of DECLAS, where FISA documents are declassified, and the secrets of the elite are laid bare. The web of deceit and manipulation that has controlled the halls of government for years is on the verge of collapse. The Judges/Olu Military Unit in collaboration with US Forces is orchestrating a covert operation, shaping a new narrative that promises civil order, but at what cost?

At the heart of it all lies the Trump Administration and the secret locations—Diego Garcia, Pine Gap, Guam, and even beneath Washington, D.C. The whispers are growing: Gitmo is overflowing with prisoners of high stature, while hidden underground facilities prepare for something monumental. The political tension is mounting, and a storm is brewing.

As Trump’s era fades, a military government is stepping in, rewriting the rules of engagement. The Judges/Olu and US forces are shaping a grand narrative aimed at transforming society. But who’s pulling the strings behind this shift? Is this retaliation for the years of slander by the liberal elite? We may soon find out.

But the plot thickens. The final stage—FISA Declassification—promises to unleash a storm that no one is prepared for. Every signatory tied to FISA warrants is under investigation. The Steele dossier will be exposed for the fraud it was, and the dominoes will fall, taking down the deep state operatives who manipulated the system.

The global implications are staggering, with UK, Australia, and key international players embroiled in the surveillance operations. The truth will ignite diplomatic chaos, as alliances tremble in the face of this coming revelation.

It all leads to this moment: the specter of treason. Mainstream media won’t tell you, but they know Trump’s return is on the horizon, and they know what’s coming with him: vengeance. The storm is here. “The Plan” is unfolding, and soon, traitors will face justice.

The US Space Force (USSF) has been quietly capturing deep state operations since 2019. The global cabal, their data, their power, all documented, all ready to be exposed. The SCARE EVENT set to erupt in 2024 will send shockwaves through the entire system.

The countdown is ticking, and the world braces for what’s next. FISA will expose the corruption, the lies, and the crimes that have been hidden in plain sight. No one is safe. The question is, are you ready for what’s coming? The storm is real, and the truth is inevitable. Get ready. Be Prepared.

If you have been doing your homework... When Trump came into office, the military more than doubled the size of Gitmo and military tribunals began around the end of 2017 early 2018. The swamp was deep, it takes time to round up over one million people for their arrest. The last I heard there were over 400,000 pending indictments and what is about to happen is near. 🤔

[eelnoise]

seraphim

roronoa zoro x afab!reader c/w: bloodlust, consensual bloodplay, zoro bites, you scratch, religious themes, body worship, slight breeding kink, piv sex, creampie, manhandling, praise, post-murder sex (reader and zoro just killed a bunch of marines), public sex a/n: ? idk what even to say. i like my men bloody and i like when they bloody me. this is a rewrite of a previous fic which you can find here so if ur like "ive read this b4..." its because you kinda have banner by the lovely @buggyandthebartoclub!

Zoro isn’t a religious man.

No, he finds the very notion of reverence visceral.

Though as he turns back toward you, he’s dumbstruck. You face away from him, pulling the blade of your sword deep from the torso of a fallen naval officer and watching as the light fades from his eyes. Both of you had emerged victorious after a merciless and surprise assault from a group of marines in the middle of an open town square on some island that neither of you can remember the name of, where a large statue stands tall in honor of some long-forgotten hero at its center.

The scene is heavenly, you there - surrounded by the wages of spilled blood that pools beneath your feet, the remnants of singing steel permeating the now hallowed ground upon which you stand. There’s a certain beauty in chaos, and never has Zoro felt it quite as clearly as when he watches you tear into your foes with reckless abandon. The image makes him shiver - not in fear or revulsion, but something far more primal, deep within his gut.

He’s speechless as he observes you wiping the excess carnage from your blade, a sensation akin to delight igniting in his veins and fixated on you like a hawk. It’s beautiful, truly, a stunning vision that he couldn’t even dream up. 

“Well, we took care of that little rat problem, hm?” Your words are heavy with pride and exertion, but the sound of your voice only spurs him from a daze that he didn’t even realize he was in.

Then you turn to him, visage tattered and torn and stained with crimson. Zoro’s mouth goes dry, and words fail him, tongue tied tightly in a knot that he can’t seem to unravel. You’re immaculate, and for the first time in his life he’s fighting the urge to exalt, to sing your praise, to deify you.

He mutters something that’s beyond your field of hearing as he continues to stare at you like a starved man would a feast. Zoro’s seen you wield that blade countless times, watched on as you cut down enemy by enemy without effort or ailment, but never have you looked as angelic as you do now. Standing amid a symphony of battle and gore, covered from head to toe in splattered blood that’s both yours and that of the deceased around you, the look of delight and self-satisfaction twinkling in your eyes as you grin at him from across the square, fuck, it’s all too much. 

You’re right, of course, the two of you can and did handle these sin and sinew wrapped rats with ease, but the more pressing matter is the effect that you’re currently having on his heart. Zoro takes a step forward, taking in the beauty of your face, bloodied and bruised but not conquered.

Curiously, you leer at him, head tilted in question as you sheath your sword along your back, taking note of the lack of the usual snarky remark from the swordsman. “Zoro?”

His eye flickers to yours, lips parted in what could only be described as awe. He looks at you as if you’re a muse, descended from on high to grace him with your presence, one that’s stunned him into near silence. “Yeah?” Zoro manages to reply quietly, tone raspy and voice a barely audible whisper against the breeze - a timbre you only hear from him when he’s injured or exhausted, a weak and feeble inflection that almost has you questioning if the man was actually hurt.

Zoro’s jaw visibly tightens, his one open eye alight with the same burn that he eyes an opponent with, expression twisting into one that you know all too well. The face he only makes when -

He wants you.

Your war-torn, bloodthirsty appearance has overwhelmed Zoro, the innate desire etched on his expression like a fool in a daze. Lips twisting into a devious smirk, you’re keen on taking advantage of this rare opportunity of power that you’ve been given over him, and you know exactly how to proceed. With a step toward him, you do something he doesn’t expect, something that has his nails digging into his palms.

You lick blood from your lips.

Zoro’s blood blazes, a carnal, raw emotion swells in his throat with urges he cannot fight - will not fight. Ever a man of action, he’s upon you faster than you can react. Large, calloused fingers envelop your waist, pulling you close in an instant and slamming his lips onto yours in a starved, feverish, messy kiss. The metallic tang of blood on his tongue mixed with the taste of you drives him increasingly wilder each second you stay locked together in the embrace, hastening him further into devoted bliss.

You writhe as he leaves your lips to trail down your neck, lapping up the viscous liquid that coats your flesh in his wake. Zoro is fully prepared to kneel at your altar, to partake of and rejoice in each beautiful proverb that befalls from your sweet tongue, to bathe in every hymn you bestow.

Zoro's hands roam over your body, feeling the contours of your curves beneath the fabric of your torn clothing, tracing the delicate lines of your collarbone and shoulders before coming to rest on the small of your back, holding you firm against him. He feels like he could drown in this moment, in the warmth and passion that courses through his entire being.

Zoro grins wildly, a feral expression on his face as he feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the heat of your breath against his neck, and the sound of your voice washing over in melodic harmony. He wants nothing more than to revel in this moment, to lose himself completely in the intensity of the connection that you share.

“You wouldn’t believe how good ya look like this,” He growls into your skin, his chapped lips dancing across your collarbone and up to your shoulder. “I feel like I shouldn’t even be allowed to see ya. Feels…” words wane into a series of open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and into the crook of your neck, deeply inhaling the intoxicating scent of blood, sweat, and battle on your flesh, “...wrong.”

“Doesn’t seem to be stopping you,” You purr, allowing a soft, pleased sigh to slide from your throat when he adds his teeth to the wet assault upon your skin, gently nibbling and grazing at you in a manner that grows hungrier and more sporadic with every passing moment. 

“We both know I ain’t much of a rule follower.” Zoro’s husky voice is hot on your ear, his warm breath sending a jolt of longing right through your nervous system. The hand low on your back begins to wriggle its way through tattered tendrils of threads that once made up your shirt, fingers spread wide as it skims up your pliant softness, tracing along your waist and up between your shoulder blades.

Zoro's touch isn’t quite tender, a clear indication of his burgeoning lust you suspect, but there's honesty, sincerity in his newfound charge. He knows that you aren't fragile, the evidence fresh and red around you speaking well enough on its own, so why stay the hand that plys the sword? 

Men fall to their hands and knees in prayer to gods they’ve never seen, begging for mercy and crying out for deliverance that will not come.

But you - he can see you, he can hear you. 

He can touch you.

Taste you.

You're divine. A paragon of a twisted and bloodied form of justice. It's you that's stupefied him, luring him into a deistic high that has Zoro practically foaming at the mouth with innate desire.

His painfully hard cock strains against his thigh with means to worship you wholly, to partake in his own ideals of perverse, distorted devotion. He breathes in your salty-sweet scent once more and groans in longing, the taste of your crimson essence on his lips makes him feel like an offering to an idol., and every drop that drips down his chin only serves to heighten his senses even more.

He looks up at you through an eye glazed over with depraved adoration, and all he can think of is how good you look, how delicious you are on his tongue, how much he wants to please you, be consumed in your immaculate presence, and to offer himself up as a sacrifice to the darker and more nefarious desire within him.

The urge to claim, to take what he wants from you and find salvation surrounded by your benevolent hold. To act upon the impure aspiration that pulsates in his mind in ways that would make even the most vileindividuals gawk. He yearns to clean the blood from your sacred, championed skin, a lust filled ritual to send you both into sacramental euphoria. 

He’s in a frenzy, feeling and touching each curve and crevice across your body while pulling you impossibly closer to him. Before Zoro can even think, he’s sinking his teeth into your shoulder, overcome with enlightened debauchery and biting down until that deathly addictive taste of your blood is fresh on his tongue once more - a testament to the depth of his obsession and the power of your shared experience.

The pain burns hot, but brief - quickly dissipating away into a cry of raw pleasure, a moan so salacious and so absolute that Zoro feels the very last of his will slipping through his fingers. He laps over the decently deep mark, his saliva mixing into the cuts like kindle to flame and earning him another woefully delightful wail of exasperation.

He thinks himself safe for the interim, that he’s pulled some sense back from the brink - until you say the one thing that shatters him to pieces.

“Do that again.”

He doesn’t deny you, and without hesitation he obliges by drowning his teeth back into your shoulder, pressing deeper into the wound and savoring the way your blood flows across his lips and into his mouth, painting his face red in the process. He grinds his hips against yours in a primitive display of dominance, while his fingers dig into your flesh with bruising force as you dig your nails into his back through his sweat and blood damped shirt.

Despite the danger posed by your actions amidst the threat of more marines, there is something undeniably beautiful about this dance of life and death. In this fleeting moment, Zoro and you find a kind of transcendence - a place where boundaries blur and limits vanish, leaving only pure, unadulterated passion in its wake.

His lips return to yours, and soon enough you feel yourself being whisked off your feet. The open air of the square leaves little room for privacy, but you know he doesn't care. Zoro walks with you in his arms, lips locked together in a messy, bloody, passionate kiss, your legs tight around his waist before he eases you down onto the lip of nameless hero's memorial upon which he plans to ravish you.

Zoro releases his hungry attack on your lips and rips the remnants of your shirt in two, leaving you bare to him as if an offering of communion. To feast upon your body, to drink upon your wine.

You gasp, wincing just a little from the shock of the fresh air upon your chest. “Zoro-” you begin, his name emanating from your breathless lungs as you watch the fabric fall to the ground around you. 

“Y’can have mine,” He replies, leaning forward to pull one of your nipples into his mouth. “After I’m done with ya.” Zoro’s mouth suckles greedily, teasing your sensitive nub with his tongue before biting down hard enough to make you squeal and arch your back, but not draw blood.

His free hand traces down your side, finding respite upon your inner thigh and squeezing tightly onto it, growling as the fresh wound on your shoulder trickles down your chest and right onto his lips and eliciting an absolutely lewd groan from Zoro as he laps it up.

He gazes up at you with an intensity that borders on madness, his eyes burning with an unbridled lust that has you keening. “Ya taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls between his assault on your chest, “God, I can’t get enough.”

“Then take as much as you want.”

And fuck, he does. In an instant does he pop his lips from you to slide your pants away, somehow careful enough to not rip them to shreds - something you’d have to thank him for later. Without even removing his swords from his hip, let alone his own pants - Zoro simply rushes to undo the clasps and push the waistband down enough to free his length, thick and leaking, to bounce out against your pelvis. 

You can feel it even through your underwear, warm heat radiating from what you desire most in this world at this moment. Zoro looks at you, gaze lingering on yours as he slides the fabric shielding your sex to the side and grips your hip with one hand and his cock in the other. He teases it over your slickness tantalizingly while sliding it between your folds and inch by inch are you filled so wonderfully, stretched and stuffed so marvelously full that each tense or twitch of him inside you makes the edges of your vision blur and has you wailing in pleasure.

As soon as your hips are flushed against one another, he gives you but a moment of adjustment before rutting his hips into you quickly, a rhythm so ruthless and wild that leaves you able to do little more aside from gasp out breathlessly and brave his savage ruin. You’re not even sure when your nails crept up his shirt, or when they burrow sharply into his shoulder blades until they’re etching down his back, the crescent shaped lines running his skin raw and bloody, scathing scores fueled by ferocious, crude passion.

He folds you then, one of his hands coming to grip over both of your wrists to pin them above your head as an arm forces your thigh downward. Zoro leans over you, your ankle now bouncing wildly next to his ear while he plows into you at a newer, deeper, more luscious angle. 

Skin slaps against skin in company with brazen indulgence, a foul yet righteous lament for the fallen mere feet from you. From this more cramped position, you’re all but forced to keep eye contact with him - and he’s looking nowhere else but at your face, enraptured by every sound and move you make as you squirm in his hold.

Your desperate pants mix, leaving patches of sweat to pool between your chests. Zoro’s increasing gasps and snarls of ecstasy ring loud in your ear, the sounds echoing through you like a quake and causing you to flutter around his cock. He hisses, harsh and shrill in your ear and with a throaty grunt he pulls out of you, letting your legs fall to the stone pavement and releasing his grasp on your wrists to firmly twist you by the shoulders, spinning you around and sprawling his hand on your lower back to shift you forward into an arch.

He’s sinking into you again, fingers tight and stinging at your waist and burying himself fully inside of you once more. There isn’t even a moment given for reprieve, the man continuing to fuck you as if he hadn’t even left your dripping heat and making you cry out in hypnotizing delight. 

Zoro smacks your ass, relishing in the ripple effect in your pliable flesh left in the wake of his blow. “Shit,” he exhales, adjusting his machinations of impurity to wrap his arms around your waist and lifting you from the ground, holding you in place mid-air and thrusting into you with less and less fluidity by the second. “Feel so fuckin’ amazin’, always do but god damn do you feel so fuckin’ incredible right now.”

You reach back to lock an arm around his neck seeking any leverage to keep yourself upright amidst his onslaught. You’re moaning something incoherent, words neither of you recognize due to the lust-filled haze that fills your minds, feeling the pull of release pit low in your belly as his balls slap against your clit at a rapid pace. 

Delirium bids its toll upon you, tears prickling at your eyes as the climb to your closely approaching high reaches its limit. Drool slides down your chin and onto your neck, and in an instant Zoro catches it with his mouth, once again dissenting on your flesh and gnawing his incisors into your neck - sucking and biting with brutal obsession and marking your angelic skin in devout defiance. The growing familiarity of the warm flow of blood trickling from the bruised indents in your skin makes you crack, flying over the edge with a scream of his name.

He doesn’t slow as you ride out the waves of pleasure coursing through your body, still slamming into you a breakneck speed. You twitch and twist in his arms, the hard beating of his cock keeping a state of hyperstimulation over you, the whimpers and cries of weak will and breathless joy beginning to tip him over the edge. 

The only thing in Zoro’s fogged head is his need to flood you with his spend, to pack you to the brim with his cum until it drips out of you and onto the stone below. He doesn’t even care if you’re bred full of his brats after this - if anything it would show just how he reveres you, claiming you as his own personal magnificence. 

His jaw tenses, still attached securely on your neck, as he cums. Loud groans and grunts and sighs of relief vibrate against your skin, Zoro’s dick leaking and draining into you as your walls milk him for all that you can manage. 

A few final, slow motions and he slides out of you, gently placing you on the ground and instantly rolling his shirt from his shoulders to hand it to you. “As promised,” Zoro says, a deviously weak grin on his face, moving to wipe his brow after you’ve taken the clothing from his outstretched hand. “Want me to patch ya up when we get back?”

“If you don’t mind, yeah.” You reply as you toss the shirt over yourself gently, minding the wounds that line your body as you do so.” Would rather not be asked any questions I don’t want to answer.” Zoro nods, chuckling softly before helping you clean up, using scraps of your ruined shirt as makeshift bandages and rags before he lifts you into his arms for a third time, though this one with the intention of carrying you safely back to the others - a soft apology for his brutality on your flesh, but one he knows he doesn’t need to say.

[copperbadge]

Pictured above: the Amerigo Vespucci, a three-masted tall ship, encounters two US aircraft carriers: the Independence (black and white image, 1962) and the George H.W. Bush (color image, 2022). 

Built in 1930 for the purpose of sail training, the Italian Training Ship Amerigo Vespucci is designed after 18th century 74-cannon "ships of the line”, naval warships common to the Age of Sail. She carries a standard crew of 16 officers, 70 noncoms, and 190 sailors; she has an overall length of 101m/331ft and a maximum width of 15.5m/51ft with a steel hull and a top speed of 10 knots (19km/h). The masts are steel but carry traditional canvas sails and use only hemp rope; mooring lines are synthetic per port regulations. Currently she carries both diesel and electric engines. More details and specifications at Wikipedia. Her sister ship, the Cristoforo Colombo, was given to the USSR as war reparations after WWII. 

There is a commonly-repeated story that when the Amerigo Vespucci encountered the USS Independence in 1962, the Independence signaled the Amerigo Vespucci to ask, “Who are you?” 

The ship replied, “Training ship Amerigo Vespucci, Italian Navy.” 

The Independence then is reported to have responded:

“You are the most beautiful ship in the world.” 

Well, they weren’t lying about that. 

Wikipedia’s only truly useful citation for this encounter is a YouTube video of the USS George H.W. Bush meeting the Amerigo Vespucci in 2022.  

This encounter was also documented in a US Navy press release from September 2022, which has better information for the initial exchange. The 1962 photo leaves no doubt the Independence and the Amerigo Vespucci did encounter one another, but the exchange of communications does not have strong visible documentation. The press release states that the NHHC website has a record of the encounter, but does not link to it. 

The NHHC website, which is a massive pain in the ass to use, has a records page for the black and white photo above, but that appears to be the extent of its documentation. Presumably there’s a logbook for the Independence or the Amerigo Vespucci or both, but that’s beyond my ability to locate. I have not been able to find a record that isn’t embedded in 21st-century documents which don’t have strong citations. There is no record of who on the Independence felt the need to compliment the Amerigo Vespucci, or how the ship responded. The Italian Navy’s history of the Amerigo Vespucci, now available only through Archive.org, does not mention the encounter.

The earliest record I could find of the Amerigo Vespucci referenced as “The most beautiful ship in the world” comes from a post at VisitVenezia, which Google believes was posted in 2004 (there’s no date on the post itself). The earliest reference to the actual meeting of the two ships is a vague reference in a blog from 2012, which merely states that “another ship once radioed, you are the most beautiful ship in the world.” There is no citation for the story’s origin at that post. If the exchange did happen, the story of it appears to have surfaced to civilians only in the 21st century. Most other records 2012-2022 eventually trace back to Tumblr, actually. 

The USS Independence’s Crew Book for 1962 has been digitized; reading through it there is, as they say, a lot to unpack, but despite numerous pages dedicated to the sights of the Mediterranean, there is no mention or photo of the Amerigo Vespucci that I could find. It does list the two commanders of the Independence, Melvin R. Etheridge and Bob J. Robison, as well as the full 1962 crew. And if you like men in uniform, 60s military technology, or poorly printed photos of Europe in 1962, it’s a fun way to spend an hour or so. 

In any case, the Navy says it happened, and it’s a great story. We do have documentation, both in the video above and in the September 2022 press release, of the 2022 encounter. The USS George H.W. Bush, captained by Capt. David-Tavis Pollard, asks via radio, “Sailing vessel on my starboard side, please identify yourself.” 

The ship responds, “This is Italian Navy ship Amerigo Vespucci.” 

The US ship asks, “Are you the one that sailed by the USS Independence in 1962?” 

To which the Italians reply, “Yes we are. We are the senior national vessel in active duty.” 

The US ship responds, “Amerigo Vespucci, you are still after 60 years the most beautiful ship in the world.” 

To which the Amerigo Vespucci answers, “George Bush, we are flattered and express fair winds and following seas for your deployment.” 

I’d love to know who sent the original messages, and where it might have been recorded; if folks have access to documentation or know sailors who served on the Independence or the Amerigo Vespucci in 1962 who might remember it, please feel free to let me know. After all, I’d like the story to be true. 

And she is, then and now, a beautiful ship.

[alex99achapterthree]

Phantom Friday...

Pardo's push.

An epic story of guts and ingenuity. Captain Bob Pardo used his own damaged Phantom to push his wingman's crippled aircraft to an area safe for ejection. From Wikipedia: (they write it better than I could...)

Captain Bob Pardo (with Weapon Systems Officer 1st Lt Steve Wayne) and wingman Captain Earl Aman (with Weapon Systems Officer 1st Lt Robert Houghton) were assigned to the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing, 433rd Tactical Fighter Squadron, at Ubon Royal Thai Air Force Base, Thailand. In March 1967, they were trying to attack a steel mill in North Vietnam just north of Hanoi. On March 10, 1967, the sky was clear for a bombing run, but both F-4 Phantom IIs were hit by anti-aircraft fire. Aman's plane took the worst damage; his fuel tank had been hit, and he quickly lost most of his fuel. Aman and Houghton then determined that they did not have enough fuel to make it to a KC-135 tanker aircraft over Laos. To avoid having Aman and Houghton bail out over hostile territory, Pardo decided to try pushing the airplane. Pardo first tried pushing the plane using Aman's drag chute compartment but turbulence interfered. Pardo then tried to use Aman's tailhook to push the plane. The Phantom, having been originally designed as a naval aircraft for the U.S. Navy and U.S. Marine Corps, was equipped with a heavy duty tailhook for landings aboard aircraft carriers and for emergency arrestments ashore. Aman lowered his tailhook and Pardo moved behind Aman until the tailhook was against Pardo's windscreen. Aman then shut down both of his J79 jet engines. The push worked, reducing the rate of descent considerably, but the tailhook slipped off the windscreen every 15 to 30 seconds, and each time Pardo had to reposition his plane to do it again. Pardo also struggled with a fire in one of his own engines and eventually had to shut it down. In the remaining 10 minutes of flight time, Pardo used the one last engine to slow the descent of both planes. With Pardo's plane running out of fuel after pushing Aman's plane almost 88 miles (142 km), the planes reached Laotian airspace at an altitude of 6,000 feet (1,800 m). This left them about two minutes of flying time. Both crews ejected, evaded capture, and were picked up by rescue helicopters.

Initially Pardo was reprimanded for not saving his own aircraft but the case was re-evaluated in 1989 and all four crewmembers were awarded the Silver Star.

Epic!

[professional-yearner]

Steel is coming back. No stopping it. He is approaching as we speak.

[sporadicthingcollection]

Would You Rather...?: Part 1/2 (LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader)

Summary: In which you make an occupational switch and a clown grows covetous. In other words, a different sort of romance dawn. Prequel to "Kiss, Marry, Kill." Pairing: LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader Rating: General. Word Count: ~4.5k Warnings: Reference to past abu$e, canon typical violence.

A/N: And now for something a little different! There's no smut in this one, but the seeds of pining are planted. 🌲🌲🌲 I originally posted this this morning, but was having some technical difficulties. Take two!

I knew right from the beginning

That you would end up winning

I knew right from the start

You'd put an arrow through my heart...

---

PART 1: TROOPER'S TRIBUNAL

You start the week getting thrown in the brig by your commanding officer. You end the week helping some goofy pirate kid and his not-friends beat said commander up and legging it on a stolen boat.

All in all, it could have been worse.

Right now, you’re sitting in the cabin of said little boat, hands bound, legs crossed, and your mouth politely shut as the redhead -- Nami? Nami. -- finishes giving the men a geography lesson.

“So, now that that’s out of the way...” She casts an icy glare in your direction. “What do we do with her?”

“Toss her overboard,” the bounty hunter says -- Zoro, you’re pretty sure his name is.

Luffy is the only person who’s been giving you any grace all day. All week, even. “She helped us out and that’s how you want to repay her?” He shakes his head like a parent scolding a child. “As your captain, I’m disappointed in both of you.”

Eyerolls all around, but only Zoro speaks. “You’re not my captain and she’s not my crewmate. Between kidnapping a Marine and stealing the map, we’ve got a huge target on our backs.”

Your voice croaks as you speak. You haven't said anything in a few hours. “I deserted,” you say. “They probably won't send a goon squad or anything after you--”

If Nami’s glare was cold steel, his is titanium in a blizzard. You click your mouth shut before he decides to use those swords on you.

Luffy frowns. It’s an unnerving look on him. “Well, whatever you were before, you’re with us now.” He pauses. “Eh, what’s your name, by the way?”

More annoyed groans from the other two. Nami pinches the bridge of her nose hard enough for you to worry she might bruise it. Zoro turns away, so nonplussed that he might as well be a subtraction sign.

You think to yourself. What is your name? Your parents gave you one name, then it got changed on you, and then you got rid of that one and picked out a new one.

You give him that one. You're fond of it and it rolls off the tongue well enough.

He repeats it back and his smile returns. “Great! So that’s four of us. Good starting number--”

The crack of cannonfire splits the air, followed by an explosion.

It’s a little gratifying to see something other than annoyed disinterest on Nami’s face. “Marines?” she asks.

“Told you she’d be trouble,” Zoro says.

They run on deck. Luffy helps you to your feet so you can follow. Streaks of red rain down upon you like the boughs of a willow. It's beautiful in a concerning way, like a poisonous frog.

You’d be more concerned if you had any idea what you were looking at. Naval smoke bombs are usually a searing neon orange to better stand out against the sea and sky. Not to mention that they’re next to useless at night. This is... well, you’re not sure what it is. But whatever it is, it’s bad news.

A whistle splits the air, followed by another plume of red smoke. A powdery scent hits your nose, accompanied by something familiar. But what? Smells like talc and the anesthetic they use on pack animals...

...uh-oh.

“Kids," you say, "find something soft to land on."

Too late. Nami drops to her knees, then hits the deck with a painful thunk. Zoro fares no better and you really hope he didn’t land on his swords.

Well, no use in fighting it. You barely manage to make it back into the cabin, slumping against the bench before your legs give out. Darkness edges at the corners of your vision, and your eyes droop shut.

Footsteps make you open them. Luffy scrambles for the map and, after a moment of contemplation, tips his head back. Perhaps it’s the gas hitting you, but you can’t help but be awed as it disappears, little by little, down the kid’s gullet.

He swallows, grimacing. He then notices you.

You look at Luffy. Luffy looks at you.

“Cool,” you mumble.

Your eyelids come crashing down, and all you see are kaleidoscopes.

---

Well, that was a fucking disaster. Started out well, everyone hit their marks, and then that guy in the spot booth fucked his grand entrance up. Again. He's gonna strangle that fucker.

But that's a Tomorrow Buggy problem. Right Now Buggy has something more important to deal with: four upjumped little shitstains who stole his boat and his map.

“I've been scheming for weeks to get that map from old Axe-Hand--” Ooh, this one’s good. This'll knock 'em dead. “Moron!”

He pauses for a beat. Miss Ginger does not react, just stares at him in fear and disgust. He’s a little disappointed, but whatever. Can't land 'em all.

And then he hears it. A loud snnnnnrrrrrk, the tell-tale sign of a repressed laugh. He turns.

He'd gotten a look at all four people on the ship as they'd been hauled aboard, but you'd completely slipped his mind. A sliver of your smile flashes in the light before your eyes go wide and you slap your hand over your mouth. You look everywhere but at him, eyes darting around.

He gives you a quick appraisal. Tall, dark, in uniform. Interesting. He’ll grill you later.

Which comes sooner than expected. Miss Ginger pulls a fast one and tries to escape. He’s already got a bead on Rubber Boy and the bounty hunter, so now it’s your turn.

“Ya know, I've always found some small charm to a woman in uniform,” he chirps as he approaches you.

You stare dead ahead -- right at his nose -- and swallow stiffly. You rattle off a name, rank, and a string of numbers he doesn’t care about. He’s too busy studying your face.

And what a face it is. Roundish, but not plump. Tanned, but not burnt. The beginnings of lines crease the space between your brows. Eyes as dark as the sky opposite the dawn stare right through him and you’ve got thick, black hair to match. Damn shame you have to put it up in a cap.

Despite standing at parade rest, you spin one of the many rings on your fingers -- those don’t look regulation. You’re nervous about something, something that isn’t just the fact you're being stared down by Buggy the Clown.

You start to rattle off your identification number again. He waves his hand at you. “Just tell me where my map is, Miss Gyrene,” he says.

You bristle like an old toothbrush. It's cute. “You want that map, you’ll have to gut him--”

You clap your hand over your mouth again, eyes darting back and forth. Rubber Boy flinches slightly.

So you and Rubber Boy know where it is, and the bounty hunter and Miss Ginger don’t. Good to know.

Speaking of which, they haul her back inside soon enough. She gives him an earful and he continues to not care. He dismisses her and the bounty hunter, but stops his goons before they can haul away you and Rubber Boy.

“Not them.” He points at the two of you and crooks his fingers.

Rubber Boy wanders over with no prodding -- not an ounce of self-preservation in this one -- but you struggle as they drag you closer. He likes that little spark of fight. Makes it all the more fun to snuff it out. 

"I'm gonna have a chat with my stretchy new pal. And as for you..." He gives you his toothiest, showiest smile. “Well, there’s always a place in my show for a beautiful woman with a sense of humor.”

---

Now ya done it, ya dumb bitch.

Maybe if you'd stayed quiet, you wouldn’t have had Barry Buzzy Buggy getting up in your business. Maybe you wouldn't have missed Nami's cue to leg it -- not that she got far. Maybe you wouldn’t have been voluntold for the position of lovely assistant.

But no. You had to be so nervous and jittery that you couldn't help but laugh at the dumbest thing you ever wished you'd thought of yourself.

Axe-Hand Moron. Heh.

And so here you stand, cranking a wheel on demand, assisting in the torture of the only person who's been nice to you all day. All week, even.

Not that it's really torture. Luffy seems mostly fine. Ish. He screams a bit whenever the rack stretches him, but it quickly gives way to laughter. Good to know that at least one person isn't miserable in here.

Blinky Biggy Buggy is eerily calm. He conducts himself like a shrink, probing for reasons to slap his patient with a Section 8. Or a man of the cloth, urging a stray member of his flock to self-reflect. Or a prehistoric high priest, preparing the sacrifice for slaughter.

"Oh, Miss Gyrene, dear?" he calls in a sing-song voice. "Give us another... I dunno, ten feet?"

Definitely a high priest. Definitely a sacrifice. And here you are with no choice but to twist the ceremonial knife.

...but you do have a choice. Your medical satchel hangs heavy at your side. Do no harm. You wonder why they let you keep it.

Regardless, you give the wheel a crank. Sorry, kid.

"Thanks, sweetheart." The clown returns his attention to your little buddy. Tormenting him. Grilling him. Finally finding an exposed nerve and striking out at it.

You don't listen to what they're saying. Your sanity, heavy as a sledgehammer, hangs on by a rapidly fraying thread. 

What have you done? You threw away your life on a lark. Again. Why do you keep doing this to yourself?

Because you were miserable, that's why. You were miserable before. You were miserable again. So instead of dealing with your problems, you left. Coward.

Didn’t you try, though? You talked to them. One threw you in the brig. The other popped you in the mouth. So you went above their heads. One wrote you up. The other slapped you down. Only then did you burn the bridges -- absent without leave on one count, a mysterious abduction on the other.

The clown is having a moment, yelling at Luffy's hat. You wish you had a hat to yell at. But no one in either of your lives was big on headgear.

You know what? There’s no gun to your head. No threat of being thrown in the brig. Death is certain, sure, but... If you go through with this, if your saving grace dies because of you, is your life really worth living?

The clown orders you to crank the wheel 'til Luffy snaps. It registers somewhere in your mind, but you’re too caught up in your internal spiral to acknowledge it. Take a ticket and get in line with all of the other demands.

"Hey!" the clown barks. "You deaf?!"

Tiny little strands of your common sense, snapping and spinning and fraying, one by one. Just leave. Simply walk away. Or give that fucker a piece of your mind. You’re free to backtalk for once. 

The clown huffs. "So hard to find good help these days," he mutters. "Gotta do everything my own damn self..."

You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You're a pirate now. The worst that could happen is death and after the times you've had, that doesn't sound too bad today.

Bitumen Blitzen Buggy stands opposite from you. He grabs the handles and gives the wheel a turn.

The thread snaps. The hammer drops. Your sanity and your last shred of self-preservation shatter like a dropped vase. 

Your grip on the wheel tightens, stopping his cranking. You look him dead in the eyes.

"No," you say. 

The clown stares at you, gaze wide and bright as a searchlight. "Excuse me?"

"I said no." Grabbing the bottommost spokes, you heave the wheel upwards, slackening the lines. 

The glare Buoy Bursary Buggy levels at you flickers a moment. To what, you can't tell, but it returns to normal soon enough. He grips the wheel and pushes against you.

“I offer you a place of honor in my show," he says, voice rising with every word, “and you repay me with a no?”

You push back. “I'm not gonna help torture a kid. Not today. Not ever.”

After a moment of a push-pull stalemate, he loosens his grip just enough for you to lurch forward. Taking advantage of your stumble, he tightens the line. "I could find a geriatric, if that's more your style. Mister Mayor is getting up there in years."

You regain your grip. You reach deep inside yourself to summon the strength you need. Summon all the rage you've kept buried. All the fire and fury.

"I--" You grab one spoke. "--said--" Then another. "--no!"

With a mighty heave that hurts your shoulders and makes your elbows pop, the clown loses his grip and the wheel spins out. The lines lose all of their tension and Luffy hits the ground with a smack and an "oof."

You glare at the clown. In his face, you see every person who ever made you do something you didn't want to do.

Morgan. His spawn. Your birth family. Your marital family. And now a literal clown.

You spin the wheel hard. The spokes whack Blasphemy Bathymetry Buggy in the chin a few times, knocking him back a step.

You throw your Marine hat down, freeing your mane from its prison. You pull the bobby pins out and shake it like a dog coming in from the rain. With a mighty toss, you let it fall down your back.

You feel freer already.

You don't expect him to be cowed, but you'd at least hoped he would look a little taken aback by the sight of an ex-Marine with eight fingers full of rings ready to throw a punch.

But no. He just straightens up, rubbing his jaw. You can't read his face in this light. Scorn? Pity? Interest? You have no idea as he peers at you with pale eyes.

He speaks. With the gentle tone he uses, he sounds almost genuine. "Gotta hand it to you, Miss Gyrene: you've got balls."

Genuine enough to knock you off-balance. "Say again?"

"Standing up to someone ready to kill you," he says. He takes a few steps towards you. "Awfully brave. You done this before?"

He's not wrong. That sudden burst of spit and vinegar came from a decade of pent-up misery. "Kinda," you admit.

He steps a little closer. From far away, all you could make out of his face was his makeup. But now you see features you weren't expecting. Strong jaw. Cleft chin. Eyes you can't tell the color of -- blue? Green? The dim light is no help.

"No stage fright on you, kid."

He reaches towards you. You flinch, but all he does is tuck a strand of hair behind your ears with a gentle touch. He lingers on your cheek.

He's not much taller than you, but when he's this close, you have to lean back to peer up at him. His gaze is soft, his lips curled into something close to a smile, head tilted just so.

Your heartbeat quickens. Why? You have absolutely no idea. 

Now he smiles, albeit thinly. He's close enough for the peak of your breasts to touch his chest. He radiates warmth, even through all of his clothes.

"Who was it that hurt you?" he asks quietly. "Was it one person? Or a whole troupe of terrors?"

You swallow. Names and faces swirl around in your head. Aunty Yoko. Sakazuki. Uncle Arun. Morgan. Mama Shruti. Nezumi. Mr. Jaswinder Rajendra. Helmeppo. Dowager Chambeli.

Your voice trembles like a harp string about to snap. "Too many to count."

“Sorry to hear that.” His lips purse. "Don't suppose one of them was ol' Axe-Hand Moron?"

Your traitorous mind still finds that funny. You manage to keep your lips shut, but the snnnnrrrrk escapes through your nose all the same.

You try to look away, but he touches your chin and tips your head back towards him. 

The clown is smiling. A real, up to his scrunched eyes smile without a hint of malice. A giggle bubbles through his lips, light and airy. It almost sounds cute.

Your heart flutters again. Like a hummingbird trapped in a birdcage, tickling your ribs and making you want to vomit all over your shoes. "Morgan's a jerk," you say.

He nods. He takes your hand in his own, clutching it as he raises it higher. "I'll tell you what, sweetheart: if you tell me where my map is..."

He leans in. His warm breath tickles your ear. He smells like a tube of fancy lipstick you can't afford and sea air that blows through a bar window.

"...we'll go blow that old geezer and his base to kingdom come," he whispers, a smile still in his voice. "You and me and all my freaks. I'll even call in some favors. We'll have a whole fleet. And your little friends can come too, if they play nice."

Now that's a thought you'd entertained more than once over the years. Blow up Morgan. Stab Morgan. Feed Morgan to sharks. Set Morgan on fire. But it only ever remained a thought.

You're not sure how to feel about that. "You'd start a war over me," you state.

"What can I say?" He pulls backwards, eyes twinkling beneath his lashes. He strokes your knuckles with his thumb. "A face like yours deserves to launch a thousand ships."

Raising your hand to his lips, looking into your eyes, he places a lingering kiss on your knuckles.

For the briefest of moments, the hummingbird breaks free and zips right into your throat, stuck there between your trachea and your heart, still flapping hard. Your chest burns with a fire you haven't felt in a long time, flames licking up to your cheeks to scorch them red.

And then you're catapulted back in time, back to when a handsome man kissed your hand and smiled and made promises and you fell head over heels down the stairs.

It all changed in time. The kisses stopped. The smiles vanished. The promises were forgotten and shoved into the back of the closet. You started falling a lot more often.

Never again.

You yank your hand back. "Nice try," you growl, "but I'm not stupid."

He has the gall to pretend to look hurt, his smile slipping from his face and the glimmer in his eyes winking out. But his gaze hardens, and his cruel smile returns.

"Shame," he says. "Guess I'll just throw you on the rack instead."

You try to jump away, but he strikes like a snake, wrenching your arms at awkward angles and gripping you so tight you worry you might bruise.

“Let her go, Boogie," Luffy growls.

Grip still firm, Boogie Bouffant Buggy whirls around with you. Luffy is on his feet, free of his shackles and glowering. It's still unnerving to see anything but a smile on his face.

"It's Buggy," the clown spits. His grip on you tightens, and you cry out. "And why should I? We were hitting it off so well! Weren't we, darling?"

He simpers the last word and grabs you by the waist, pulling your hips right against his. He places his head on your shoulder, his stubble scratching your cheek.

"We were about to start picking out flowers and sending out invites and everything."

This man has triple backflipped right off the deep end. You keep struggling. You manage to hook your leg behind his, but the angle is too poor for a takedown.

He kisses your cheek. A big, ridiculous mmmmmmwah, but a kiss nevertheless. You gasp. He laughs and throws his arm wide.

"Screw the RSVPs! Everyone is invited to the Fabulously Flashy Wedding of Buggy and--!"

Two things happen at once. Luffy reels back a punch, the stretch of his skin audible. You grab Buggy’s arm, finally in a position for a takedown.

And then two other things happen. Luffy's arm snaps back like an elastic cord and punches the clown’s head clean off. You crash to the ground holding a severed arm.

Someone screams. It was you. You drop the limb like a bad habit and scramble away.

You look at Luffy. Luffy looks at you.

You both look at his fist, at your hands, then back to the headless clown, still standing.

---

Buggy didn't go into this intending to get up close and intimate with you. It just kinda happened.

Who can blame him? You flexed those big strong muscles and let down that long pretty hair and you looked so hurt and frustrated. Like an angry little kitten in need of some TLC.

So he threw you a bone. All the while, you gazed at him with those deep, dark eyes, hanging onto his every word.

He meant them as much as he could. He doesn't have the firepower to take on the whole Marine operation, but he could swing something. You seem like the kind of woman worth blowing up Marine bases for. Or a battleship, at the very least.

Shame you threw your lot in with the rubber punk.

Your skin is so warm beneath his gloves, your body so supple against his. And your hair smells very, very strongly of vanilla and... Is that cinnamon? It can't be. It's too citrusy. Regardless, it's hypnotic.

He just can't help himself. This might be the only chance he's got. He tips your head to the side and kisses your cheek.

And it's everything he hoped it would be. Your skin is so soft, so warm, so sweet beneath his lips and squished against his nose. He wishes he could linger there forever. But everything good must come to an end, and he pulls away before he overstays his welcome.

Next thing he knows, he's flying through the air. Well, just his head. He lands in an audience member's lap. She screams, of course. He plays it off with a wink and a quip.

He zooms back to his body and reattaches with a pop. Seems his arm is gone as well. He gives it a flex and clenches his fist, making you scramble away and to your feet. Terrified is a cute look on you.

"You ate a Devil Fruit?" Rubber Boy asks. He sticks his arm in front of you like it would actually help.

"Sure did!" Buggy chirps. He recalls his arm and shucks his coat, one sleeve at a time. "The Chop Chop Fruit. So you can slice me and you can dice me, but I'll always pull myself back together."

He separates his limbs from his torso and his head from his neck, just because he can. It's worth seeing the shock on your faces. Especially yours. Open-mouthed and wide-eyed. Good look on you.

It takes all of his self control to not grin as he folds his arms behind his back. "Wanna see what else I can do?"

He sends his hand skittering up your back and onto your shoulder. You scream as it jumps at Rubber Boy's face, and he yelps as well. His other hand positions itself to the side.

When you're both suitably distracted, he grabs both of your heads and slams yours against Rubber Boy's. With a sharp crack, out go the lights and you both crumple to the ground.

"Sorry, dear," he says. “Never would have worked between us.”

---

All this going unconscious is going to scramble your brains, you think as you stir. You shouldn't make a habit of it.

You open your eyes. A thin light shines right on you, burning your vision. Are you dead? Have you died?

No, your head is throbbing. Pain means you're alive. At least you've still got your medical satchel. Its presence against your side is a small comfort.

You sit up. Next to you lies Luffy, stirring slowly.

You nudge him. “You okay, kid?” you ask.

He gives his head a shake as he sits up. He smiles and it's like putting on a comfy sweater. “I'm bouncy. I can take a hit." He tips his head like a puppy. "What about you?” 

"I'll have a migraine in a few hours, but I'll survive."

You go to touch the lump on your head -- only to take Luffy's wrist with you. You're cuffed together, two metal shackles connected by just enough rope to hang yourselves with. He pulls at his own shackle, but it’s stuck fast.

"I can't get it off," he says, eyes wide. "I can't stretch!"

“Of course you can't. It's lined with Seastone.” 

A spotlight switches on. Buggy the Clown sits atop the edge of a large box draped in candy-striped fabric. He kicks his legs like a child sitting on a bench, twirling Luffy's hat in his hand.

“The essence of the ocean, compressed into a pretty little rock." Slowly, he pulls a yellow straw from the hat. "So not only do you have to worry about getting your feet wet, all those wonderful powers are completely useless when you least expect it.”

Besides you, Luffy bristles. You grab his hand to stop him from charging. He tenses, but squeezes back.

Buggy examines the straw, then flicks it away. “You gonna give me my map?”

Luffy scowls. “Never.”

"Not sure what I was expecting." He rolls his eyes, then turns them on you. “And what about you, sweetheart?”

You don't appreciate being patronized. "I'm gonna make you eat your hair," you spit.

“Aw, c’mon. Where do you have to go? You deserted. You’ll never be safe again.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Join the crew of the future King of the Pirates, and you'll have all the protection you need.” He gestures broadly. “Hell, if it really matters, your little buddy can come too. The more the merrier."

You enunciate every letter of the word. “No,” you say.

The calm interrogator evaporates, replaced by a petulant child. He slams his fists against the top of the box. “Well, why not--!?”

The box rocks and rattles violently. He yelps and hangs on for dear life, succeeding in staying atop it as the shaking stops. He huffs. “Fine. Have it your way."

He climbs to his feet and shoots his hands off to grab the corners of the tarp. Raising them reveals a black, rancid-smelling cavern.

“My kitty cat's been restless lately,” he says. “Lucky that I have a new pair of toys for him."

A low growl vibrates the very air around you.

You look at Luffy. Luffy looks at you.

“That wasn’t your stomach, was it?” you ask.

He shakes his head. "Was it yours?"

Another growl. Out from the darkness emerges the biggest lion you’ve ever seen. Mangy. Mean. Saliva drips from his bloodstained mouth as his eyes fix right on you.

Luffy swallows. "I think we should run," he says quietly.

You nod. “I think you’re right.”

The lion roars.

---

⬅⬅⬅ | To the "Curious Courtship" Masterpost | To the Mastahpost | Tip Jar | ➡➡➡

[flotuslover53]

Hey.. I'm that quora guy from earlier, I was scrolling for a little while before i found stuff that I think will pique your interestxdd

What did JFK think of Richard Nixon?

Congressmen John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon in 1947.

JFK is age 29 (one month shy of 30). Nixon is age 34.

JFK liked and admired Nixon. Their friendship continued throughout JFK’s life.

“On New Year's Eve 1959, two days before he announced his candidacy for the presidency, Kennedy made an admission to his neighbor, journalist Charles Bartlett, that was so startling Bartlett wrote it down the following morning: "Jack says if the Democrats don't nominate him, he's going to vote for Nixon."

“Few men had observed Nixon's gifts - his ambition, his perseverance and his intellect - from the intimate vantage point afforded Kennedy. In early 1947, a civic group in the steel town of McKeesport, Pa., asked their congressman, Frank Buchanan, to invite the two congressional freshmen with the brightest futures to come debate the Taft-Hartley labor bill. Buchanan picked Kennedy and Nixon, both just elected after naval service in the Pacific.”

“On April 21, 1947, the first Kennedy-Nixon debate was held in the ballroom of the Penn McKeesport Hotel, with Kennedy getting the more sympathetic proposition. Some of the blue-collar steelers booed Nixon's warnings about encroaching union power.”

“Boarding the overnight Capitol Limited train back to D.C., the 29-year-old Kennedy and the 34-year-old Nixon drew straws for the lower berth. Nixon won, but the bed went largely unused as the awkward grocer's son found an unexpected common denominator in the handsome playboy heir to one of America's great fortunes.”

"We sat up late talking," Nixon recalled. "Neither of us was a backslapper, and we were both uncomfortable with boisterous displays of superficial camaraderie. He was shy, and that sometimes made him appear aloof. But it was shyness born of an instinct that guarded privacy and concealed emotions. I understood these qualities because I shared them."

“In 1950, Nixon planned his run for the Senate against Hollywood actress-turned-Democratic Rep. Helen Gahagan Douglas, longtime mistress of Texan Lyndon Johnson. During that campaign, Douglas branded Nixon with an epithet that would stick for life: Tricky Dick.”

“In the infamously mean-spirited race, Nixon got a psychological and a financial windfall from an unexpected source.”

“Kennedy dropped into Nixon's office and handed an envelope to administrative assistant Bill Arnold. "This man brought a personal check for $1,000," Arnold would recall. "He explained that the check should be used in Nixon's campaign for senator." Kennedy's contribution amounted to approximately one-third of the average American's annual income.”

“After Kennedy's 1952 election to the Senate, Nixon offered a different sort of help. The membership chairman of the exclusive, all-male Burning Tree golf club in Maryland got a letter from the new vice president: "I have known Senator Kennedy for a number of years as a personal friend and I feel he would make an excellent addition to the membership."

“In the Senate Office Building next to the Capitol, Kennedy was given Room 362. Nixon was right across the hall in Room 361. For eight years, there would be an easy camaraderie not just between Kennedy and Nixon but also between their secretaries. Kennedy's assistant Evelyn Lincoln would recall, "Rose Mary Woods and I were very friendly."

“In the summer of 1963, he took his wife and two daughters on a six-week overseas vacation. In a hotel room in Rome, Nixon picked up the ringing phone and heard the operator say that the president was calling. Five days after making his "Ich bin ein Berliner" speech, an ebullient Kennedy was in town.”

"Sounding happy and relaxed, he said that he heard we were in Rome and just wanted to say hello," Nixon said.”

“It was the last time Nixon and Kennedy spoke.”

Is it true? Thats beyond me XD But it's cool nonetheless.

Wow thank u for this!! I can confirm at least most of these are true.

The story about them sharing a bunk on the train after their first debate is from this article which I would recommend to everyone who is interested in the Kennedy/Nixon dynamic. They really had the most perfect meet-cute!!

It's also true that JFK gave Nixon $1,000 for his campaign against Helen Gahagan Douglas, as he says in this interview. The money came from JFK's father, but as Nixon says, he wouldn't have received the check unless JFK also supported him. (This video has some other very cute anecdotes in it, I've rewatched it so many times hehe)

Nixon and Kennedy did have offices directly across from each other, and as my source I'll just show this adorable cartoon Nixon gave to JFK:

I'm also extremely sure that the Rome story is true, and I'm also sure I've seen it mentioned in multiple sources, but for some reason the only source coming to mind right now is this fictionalised horror story about Nixon I read a few months ago where the phone call between them was included in one scene. (I'll look for a better source on this lol)

I love all these little anecdotes about the JFK/Nixon friendship, even though they may not have been the closest of friends it's fascinating to me that they had this longstanding relationship that lasted over a century and spanned just about the entire time that the two men were involved in politics. Truly they were drawn together by fate so many times!!

[ersatz-ostrich]

Wolffe x f!Officer!Reader: One and Only

[A/N]: Bullying sucks, and for some reason, a lot of anti-bullying campaigns seem to make bullies nastier. I can't say if those campaigns succeeded, though, because I feel like the term 'bully' itself has been beaten to death. This oneshot is an edited, old work that I had deleted a few years ago. My younger self wrote this hoping for a cathartic escape from my past experiences with bullies. If it's a little overdone, that's why - but I hope some of you know what it was like, too. I hope you got the support you needed during those times, but if you didn't, I genuinely hope you will, sooner better than later.

Summary: Y/N, a naval officer spending most rotations on a Venator-class star destroyer, has loved and cherished Commander Wolffe as a partner for months now. They've always managed to stay in touch and pretty much nothing could break their bond—that is, other than the scathing comments of the critical and envious.

Warnings: Bullying and self-esteem issues.

read it here on ao3

"Ugh! How did Y/N ever get promoted to naval officer? She’s such a bitch ," A voice hissed from beyond the steel corridor of the Venator-class star destroyer, namely, the Reverence.

"It's unbelievable! And they say she's Commander Wolffe's girlfriend." Another voice added. 

From the far end of the hallway, you sighed, keeping your eyes glued to your datapad. The snide comments of gossipy subordinates and snarky superior officers were starting to eat away at what little confidence you held onto. The fact that they'd even mentioned Wolffe twisted their dagger-like insults into the very flesh of your psyche. 

Taking a sharp left into the control room, you wished that their eyes could refrain from boring straight into your back and following your bowed head past the glowing table to where the Admiral stood. 

"Admiral." He nodded in acknowledgement of your entrance.

"L/N. Have you received word from General Koon about our strategy for the offense?"

"I just received the transmission, sir. I came to inform you that he has approved our strategy and is willing to put it to the test." You answered, handing him your datapad.

"Thank you, officer. You may go now." You nodded and strode right out of the room and right into a gaggle of medbay nurses—civilians from a volunteer corp, terribly patronizing and unbelievably annoying—who immediately scattered, tittering with laughter. 

"Maker, I’m so glad I don’t have to wear the Navy uniform. Y/N L/N takes the olive out of olive-drab." One of the medbay nurses remarked as the group disappeared down the corridor, your full name rolling off of her tongue harshly, each syllable pronounced in repulsive mockery. You instinctively clutched your datapad, focusing on the deep black of space from outside the Reverence. Somewhere out there, Wolffe is waiting for me, you thought to yourself. Let's hope he hasn't forgotten about me.

Somewhere, several systems away, Commander Wolffe ducked into a canvas tent. The sound of LAATs soaring overhead, the revving of speeder bikes, and overall commotion filled his ears—but he paid no attention to the din as he quickly punched a code into his holoprojector. After a few minutes of dialing, a familiar blue hologram finally appeared in the palm of his hand.

“Wolffe?" Your voice, although crackling with signal static, was music to Wolffe's ears.

"Y/N!" He smiled for the first time in days, the smile reaching his eyes that had become shadowed from many sleepless nights. "How’s work on the Reverence?" You shook your head.

"Well, it's been a lot like the usual." You answered, sighing. You didn’t feel like lying to Wolffe anymore—’good’ just didn’t sum up your experience at all. "I don't think a whole lot of people like me on this ship." Wolffe's smile immediately disappeared. 

"What makes you think that?" 

"It's just...I always hear this mechanic or that nurse talking behind my back. It's like they don't bother to hide it anymore." You rambled. "I hate it. I wish they'd issued me a bucket like yours to wear so I wouldn't have to show my face in front of a bunch of people who absolutely detest my ugly face!" You clenched your fists, making wrinkles in your olive-drab uniform pants.. Watching you hold back tears, Wolffe solemnly wished that he could be physically present to comfort you and hold you in his arms. 

"Y/N..." He averted his eyes, the cogs turning in his head. "I wish I could just tell all of those di'kuts to stop—"

"Wolffe, you don't have to." You interrupted him, expression caught between twisted despair and an apologetic smile. "I'm used to it, but all of this bantha shit gets to me sometimes." Wolffe chuckled quietly, sending butterflies fluttering into your stomach.

"I'm sorry you have to go through all of this, Y/N. I promise we'll be together soon." His eyes were sincere, despite his cybernetic eye. As he spoke, Sinker poked his head into the canvas tent. 

"Commander? We're still waiting on bacta. Do you really think we should consider buying bacta from the locals?" The clone inquired, jerking his thumb to where the medical tent was pitched.

"They know that we can't tell the difference between real bacta and watery jelly..." Wolffe grumbled. "Give me a moment." Sinker ducked back out of the tent, and Wolffe returned to his call. 

"What was that about?" You inquired, cocking your head in questioning. 

"Sorry Y/N, Sinker just popped in with a question." Wolffe paused, thinking quickly. "Say, Y/N. We're running out of bacta at the camps, but the locals cultivate and sell it. I don't know if we should buy it, 'cause we don't know if it's legitimate or not, and if it's actually medical grade." You pondered for a moment, searching your memory for whatever had been scribbled into the reg books of years past about Wolffe's particular dilemma.

"Hmm...what you can do is check samples of the bacta they sell to make sure it's legit. Real bacta has a thin but slimy consistency, like that of sticky porridge rations, you know what I mean? Make sure it isn't watered down.” You stated. “Oh, and the preferred kind of bacta that we typically use is mostly clear or tinged blue from the added drugs. It should also have a certain smell, kind of pungent because of the bacteria cultures in it but also kind of like the chemical additives it contains." 

Wolffe listened intently as you listed the specifications of medical-grade bacta. He enjoyed hearing you talk, especially about something you were well-versed in or passionate about—he could see the admiration glimmering in your eyes, and what confidence you had finally began to show itself. You could read him a whole reg book and he’d be riveted. 

"So, as long as it meets the requirements for standard bacta, you can buy it. As long as it doesn't cost an LAAT and a few DC-15s, I guess." You concluded with a quiet chuckle.

"That's all I need to know, Y/N. You're a life-saver, I mean it." Wolffe answered with a sincere smile. He clambered off of the munitions crate he had been using as a seat and shifted his gaze to the commotion outside of his little canvas nook. From within the hologram, you saluted. 

"No problem, Wolffe. I'll see you around, I guess." 

"I'll be with you as soon as I find time, Y/N. I promise." Wolffe murmured, eyes softening. 

"I'll be waiting."

Wolffe did end up striking up a bargain with the planet's natives, heading back to the camp with crates full of bacta. He'd memorized your instructions from the beginning to the end—check the viscosity, the color, and the smell. With your trusty advice, Wolffe inspected the bacta carefully with his medics.

       "This is some good bacta." One of the medics whistled, hauling the last of the load into the rather haphazardly set up medical tent. “How much did you say you bought it for, Commander?” Ducking under the coarse fabric, Wolffe nodded in agreement and replied absentmindedly, thoughts wandering to the many misfortunes that could have unfolded had you not been there to guide him.

Many, many parsecs away, you gazed at the stars through thick transparisteel with forlorn eyes. Your many tormenters—one of which included your own conscience—taunted you, but their voices became muffled as you diverted your focus to a different, more uplifting hypothetical, wondering on about the pit of shame you would have been wallowing in had Wolffe not picked you up out of the pile of bantha shit you'd gotten yourself into simply by introducing yourself to a crew that wished you'd never existed. 

Every minute he had to spare, he was attempting to patch through a transmission in hopes of cheering you up. He could have picked anyone to surrender his love to—someone more beautiful, more confident—but he had to pick you.

       "Officer L/N. The Admiral wants you on the bridge." One of the OODs' voices crackled onto the comm on your sleeve, snapping you out of your star-studded reverie. Peeling your eyes away from the glimmering beauty of space, you dashed for the elevator.        

       "Tell him that I'll be there in a few." You called out while slipping into the lift. The door opened to the command bridge, where the admiral stood admiring the vacuum of deep space as you had a couple of floors below.

“L/N." He began. "General Koon has informed me that the offensive against Separatist blockades has succeeded. Moderate to minimum damage and little casualties." Excitement began to bubble from within you. "He states that no other officer could have created an attack plan as brilliant and niche as yours, L/N. He considers you to be one of his best tacticians."

"I am honored to receive such praise from General Koon, Admiral. I only consider this a part of my duty as a strategic officer." 

"You certainly should be, L/N. This assault was one of our campaign's most successful by far. We have scheduled shore leave in two rotations, L/N. Keep up the good work." With a curt nod, you pivoted on your heels and exited the bridge.

Every inch of Wolffe's body was tingling with electric excitement. He couldn't possibly wait a second longer until he could finally hold you in his arms, unlike the incorporeal hologram he'd been speaking to for endless rotations. As the Reverence entered the atmosphere and his ship neared the hangar's tractor beams, he felt as if he could feel your Force signature on the ship, even though he wasn't Force-sensitive. 

The ship slowed to a stop, backing into the hangar bay. Wolffe was quick to jump down the ramp and onto the hangar, much to the surprise of his brothers and commanding officer still on board.

"Are you in a rush, Commander?" Quipped said commanding officer. The Kel Dor Jedi was making his way down the ramp, watching amusedly as Wolffe searched the bustling hangar for what seemed to be nothing in particular. 

"Yeah, where are you going so quickly?" Comet inquired, appearing from within the ship with Sinker and Boost on his heels. "Maybe he's looking for his girlfriend ," he whispered to the two, who cast knowing, side-eyed glances at each other.

You were cloistered away in your office, agonizing over several datapads and a rather large and complicated star map. Anxiously running a hand through your hair, your eyes flitted from one barrage of glowing blue Aurebesh to another. 

"Our campaign, our offensive." You muttered frantically. "I can feel the dark circles under my eyes growing." You pulled up yet another intricate star map, this time depicting a different sector. "Intel says there's a blockade here, here, and here...there, too..." 

Your thought process had already been set into motion as you first inspected the loose estimates of the Separatist numbers. Then, according to that, you instinctively began to formulate the optimal course of action—after months of long nights of studying for exams and even longer nights of strategizing aboard the Reverence and formerly the Triumphant, formulating battle strategies like so had become second nature to you. 

"The last two-pronged 'bident' attack might have been successful upon deployment of the Y-wings, but can we really guarantee the success—or predict the failure—of a Y-wing bombing run or a Torrent fighter attack?" You mused. 

"Oh my Force, she's back at it again..." You heard a fellow naval officer groan from across the office. “Karking hell, shut the kriff up!”

"Back again at what, exactly?" A familiarly gruff voice nearly made you trip over your abandoned desk chair from standing up so quickly. The big-mouthed officer from the other side of the office shut himself up immediately, standing ramrod straight and saluting stiffly. Prying your eyes away from the star maps, you saw the most welcome sight of all—Wolffe, tossing his helmet to the ground with a clatter as lurched over your desk to cup your face in his warm, gloved hands. You shimmied around your closet-like office space to throw your arms around his neck, closing in for a passionate and well-deserved kiss, filled with all of the emotions that had lost themselves in all of the sleepless nights you'd spent apart. 

"You don't know how happy I am to see you again." You breathed, melting in his embrace. Admiring the facial features that had been the object of ridicule by your bullies, Wolffe showed an air of concern at the dark shadows making themselves prominent under your drained-looking eyes. 

"You don't look too good, mesh’la. Have you been getting enough sleep?"

"Sleep can wait when an entire fleet is at risk." You answered, slipping out of his arms and making your way out of the office. You sat yourself back down at your cluttered desk, putting your head in your hands. Wolffe opted to lean against the doorframe.

"I heard from General Plo that your strategy was a success." Wolffe began. "He thinks very highly of you, Y/N."

"And so I've heard." You droned sardonically, peering at the clone commander from over your hands. "The Admiral told me all about it. How was your ground campaign?"

"Well, your advice worked wonders for our medical team. Your instructions alone saved dozens of good men out there, Y/N." 

"I'm just doing my job, Wolffe. It's all in a day's work. Any other borderline competent naval officer could have told you how to buy bacta." You replied. Wolffe sighed, taking a seat atop your desk and grasping your hands.

"You've gotta be bluffing. I can't think of any other officer who takes control of a situation like you do." 

"Really? I'm not that special."

"Are you kidding me, Y/N? Have you really been listening in on whatever those grunts are saying? Look at you." Wolffe released your hands and reached over to let a hand graze over your cheek. "Look at the wit in those eyes. You're smarter than what you give yourself credit for." Before Wolffe could continue, your comm chirped.

“Officer L/N speaking,”

"Officer?" The Admiral’s voice made you jump. "I wanted you to know that General Koon and I have put in a good word for you on the subject of promotion to a higher rank that is to be determined." 

"Really?" You sat up in your office chair, staring incredulously at your comm.

“Congratulations, L/N. Keep up the good work.”

"Need I say more?" Wolffe cast you a lopsided smile, eyes twinkling. "You're one of a kind, Y/N. Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise." He pulled you in for a kiss. 

"One of a kind, huh?" You mumbled into the kiss.

"That's right." Wolffe firmly believed that there wasn't a single person in the galaxy that could compare to you. Your ingenuity, astuteness, and acuity illuminated the black-and-white, never-ending crusade he had been born into.

“You’re my one and only.”

Thanks for reading - I really appreciate it.

Let me know if you want to be a part of my general or Star Wars taglists.

[birrdies]

the art of ship burning

2.6k, smalletho / boat boys ficlet set in my pirate au (reading the original fic is not required to understand this)

If you asked Joel, ship-burning was more an artform than a science. The matters weren’t as simple as a few dry pieces of timber and a spark to light them. To Etho, those matters probably extended into levels of moisture and the direction of the wind. However the objectively correct and all-around better matters— Joel’s matters— lay entirely with one thing: presentation.

Swords clashed on the deck. Streaks of silver cut through the midnight black sky, rivaling that of the moonlight hidden behind a thick weave of clouds. The ocean roared beneath the hull, waves thrashing the side of the ship this way and that— a storm was coming. The electricity danced in the air, teasing and coy. Gods, what a lovely night for a ship to burn.

Joel threw himself at the starboard side of the military ship, climbing up onto the rusted deadeyes to reach the shrouds. His heart hammered in his chest as the song of gnashing blades and pained yells accompanied his great climb. His sweaty palms gripped tight onto the rope, but with one violent lurch of the ship to the right, Joel lost his grip. Terror swept through him, a coldness sinking in his gut like he’d swallowed a cannonball. Perhaps it was his heart.

His legs, tangled in the rungs of the shroud, caught his fall. He dangled upside down from the ropes, all the blood rushing to his head. The frantic beat of his heart pulsed in his temples. Below him the deck’s action continued to brew. In the center of it all: Etho. He fought wildly through a crowd of butter-spined men who, by uniform alone, could be considered naval officers. They came for him at all angles, but whereas the King’s men relied on brute force, Etho relied on something far stronger: strategy.

He weaved between jabbing elbows and sweeping swords, slipping through gaps in the onslaught of soldiers. One officer lunged with his blade aimed at Etho’s chest. He side-stepped it and grabbed the officer by the sword-wielding arm, pulling the both of them backwards until the officer’s blade pierced one of his own men in the shoulder. Without missing a beat, he disappeared from the space between them. They might’ve out-numbered him about a dozen to one, but to keep Etho locked down was like trying to bottle lightning up in a jar. You simply couldn’t, and you looked ridiculously stupid if you tried.

Joel’s vision grew spotty. He’d been dangling too long, his head overfilled with blood and his legs tingling and numb. He heaved himself upright, gripping the shroud and hauling himself the rest of the way upright. Heat rushed down his spine, through his limbs, as the blood returned to its rightful place. He waited for the spots in his vision to clear before continuing his climb up the shrouds.

Usually, Joel liked to let things simmer for a bit before bringing them to a boil. It was nice to savor their targets’ panic, to watch them scurry across the decks like headless chickens as the water filled up to their ankles and they hauled away every valuable thing they had to their name. But there were more of these peacocks than either of them had anticipated; Etho was good, but he was only so good. If Joel didn’t speed things up he wasn’t sure he’d still have a partner to split his earnings with at the end of the day. Good for his wallet, but bad for the ship. Upkeep and raids were much easier when you had someone to split it up with.

So, Joel reached the top of the shrouds, swaying back and forth with the rock of the sea and wind alike. He dug around in his pockets for his flint-and-steel. It was powerful enough to take down the thickest of sails. Tongue stuck between his teeth, Joel leaned out as far as his arms could stretch, sparking the flint-and-steel inches beneath the fabric of one of two large, layered sails. It caught instantly, orange and gold flecks turning into small yet promising flames. A flash of heat kissed Joel’s face; he grinned madly.

If they thought those ridiculously oversized crimson sails stood out, stark and proud, then they weren’t ready for the show in store.

The flames consumed the sail stitch by stitch, fiber by fiber. Joel climbed down the shrouds to keep himself out of the fire’s reach but kept close enough to feel the heat of it. He should’ve quickly moved on to the other sail, to the ratline, to the sacs of flour and fruit on deck— anything to get the flames to catch quicker and get him and Etho both out of there. But don’t blame him for wanting to admire his own handiwork. They didn’t get to do this often, especially not against a military ship. This was a special treat. Etho would be fine for an extra second. Or ten.

The skin of his hands buzzed. The ropes under him shook, a rattle carried down the entire length of the shrouds up towards the nest. At the base, a broad-chested soldier climbed the dead-eyes and climbed after Joel. He was only a few feet away, a sword in his hand.

“You’ve got to be bloody kidding,” Joel groaned.

The flames quickly ate a hole in the center of the front-most sail. The further they traveled, the closer they got to the central mast. They’d start eating away at it any second now. Once the mast gave out, there would be nowhere else to go. Joel needed to get off of the shrouds, preferably before that happened and he got crushed in a mess of wood and embers.

If he got lucky, the Gods would quit toying with him and let the storm break. If lightning struck, it’d either knock this guy off and give Joel some breathing room, or it would strike the ship and fan the flames that much faster. The latter ensured almost certain death, but Joel couldn’t exactly afford to be picky. He’d rather die at the hands of some spiteful god than a military peacock who wore wigs at dinner parties for fun.

But said peacock had him cornered. There was nowhere for Joel to climb except for up, closer to the flames where the fire would burn him and the smoke would suffocate him. He had not one weapon on him aside from the fire-starter, and Joel wasn’t so stupid as to burn his literal life-line while he was still on it, suspended forty feet in the air above solid wood and thrashing blades. That was probably second on his list of least preferred ways to die.

The soldier growled and reached for Joel’s ankles. He kicked like mad, hoping he could at least crunch a bone or two under the force of his steel-heeled boots. But the soldier was tougher than he looked. He took each kick without so much as a wince, and in a second he grabbed Joel’s ankle with one hand. He balanced precariously on the shroud, one hand dragging Joel down and the other raising his sword.

“Shit!” Joel threw an arm up to shield his face from the worst bite of the blade.

But it never came. Instead, a much sweeter sound: the soldier’s cry of pain as a bolt whizzed through the air and buried in his neck. Blood sputtered from around the arrowhead; he immediately lost his grip on Joel and the shroud alike, rolling over. With him, the shroud twisted, but this time Joel was ready.

He hung on tight as it flipped over like a tangled hammock, dumping the soldier’s body unceremoniously onto the now still deck beneath. Several bodies were either dead or unconscious, stacked unceremoniously in piles where they’d fallen. The rest were either tied at the wrists and ankles or cowering with their foreheads pressed into the wood like they really thought any sort of god was helping them.

Beneath him, Etho held a crossbow still aimed at the sky. His cheek bled sluggishly.

“You sure took your sweet time up there, Joel!” he jeered, breathing heavy. “Should I grab you a pillow? Rub your feet?”

“Shut up, Etho!” Joel yelled from where he dangled overhead. “The bloody thing’s already lit, we just need to— woah, woah, watch out!”

It was close. Etho spun right as a cutlass swept through the air over his head. But not close enough. Not fast enough— a blade caught Etho in the shoulder. His pained sound was quiet, but to Joel it might as well have sounded like cannonfire. Etho staggered as the general who had snuck up on him reached for the back of Etho’s collar, hauling him back.

The cannonball he’d swallowed turned into hot, active steel. Shot directly out of a cannon, Joel slid down and leapt from the shrouds when he was confident he was low enough not to break both his ankles.

“Nope, no you don't!” His pulse pounded furiously in his ears as he snatched a sword from one of the bodies at his feet. All it took was a single lunge. A dangerous, incredibly stupid and risky lunge. But a successful one nonetheless. Even with Etho held up between them like a human shield, Joel slipped the tip of the sword in the gap under Etho’s armpit, burying the sword in the general’s gut.

He fell into a heap of limbs on the deck, blood bubbling up between his fingers where he clutched at the wound in the center of his stomach. Joel sneered and kicked him as far away from Etho as he could manage. Which wasn’t very far, he was a lot bigger than Joel, but it was about the principle of the thing.

Furious, sweaty, and buzzing with fear, Joel whirled on Etho. “You bloody idiot, what were you thinking, turning your back?! Let me see—”

Etho swatted his hand away. With the other hand he clutched at the wound. “Next time I’ll let someone poke you full of holes, then,” he said, voice strained.

It bled from the junction where his neck met his shoulder. Blood slicked his hands and dripped down the front of his white shirt, but he wasn’t bleeding as much as the guy he’d shot did. It was bleeding, but it wasn’t oh my gods I’m going to die bleeding. Which was a comfort to Joel, no matter how little. He’d be hurt and whiny, but he wasn’t going to die. He could deal with that.

Joel tilted his head back to admire his handiwork. The red sails blazed a brilliant gold and orange. Embers and ash rained from the sky, a storm of their own making. They didn’t need any gods. The ship went up like a torch, more beautiful than any damn lighthouse or painted sail on the seven seas. It was a mark to be made permanently in the way of ash. It won’t be faded by time or bleached by the sun. Joel’s grin grew wickedly sharp.

He put a hand on Etho’s back. “Let’s get the goods and get the bloody hell out of here.”

***

“Ow! Joel, careful!”

“How can I be careful if you aren’t holding blummin’ still?” Joel snapped, grabbing the back of Etho’s neck forcefully. He sat on a stool behind Etho, armed with a rag doused in drinking alcohol. He examined the wound that bit the worst into the back of his shoulder. It wasn’t as deep as Joel initially feared. The wound’s edges were puffy and oozy (everything Joel detested), but the worst of the bleeding finally stopped. Not that that spared Joel’s sleeves any; he looked forward to burning his shirt as soon as Etho was bandaged and put to bed.

He kept one hand on the back of Etho’s neck while the other dabbed at the edges of the wound. Etho shivered with each touch, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end every time so much as Joel shifted his hold. Cold air wafted through the ship's calm hull, the steady rise and fall of the sea like a lullaby. A gift for their hard work today (as if the gold and diamonds hadn’t been enough).

“It stings,” Etho complained.

Joel sighed. “You’re the one who told me to do this part.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Sure, but it still hurts.”

He was a great partner to fare the seas with, but by the gods, Etho could be bloody annoying when he wanted to be. How could a man who was capable of cutting down an entire naval crew be capable of complaining so much? Little about him made sense, and while Joel gave up long ago trying to piece him together, it didn’t stop the puzzle from grating on his nerves often.

With a groan, Joel draped the rag over his thigh, feet tapping a restless, agitated beat on the floorboards. “Alright, it’s clean or whatever,” he said, then hesitated. “… You don’t need stitches, do you? I am not poking a bloody needle through your skin.”

“If I don’t want it to scar, probably,” Etho said, and Joel understood what he meant.

Etho was no stranger to scars. It wasn’t the first time Joel had seen him without a shirt, but it was the first time seeing things this close— close enough to touch. His back was littered with them. Thin cross-hatching lines covered the expanse of his back, some silvery and pale with their age, from a time before Joel, others still red and fresh. As fresh as scars come, at least. A gash on the right flank, a spearhead Etho caught with his body during a rowdy raid on a clan of fishermen. A long, straight cut down the length of his spine. A burn scar to his left shoulder. That one was Joel’s fault — don’t ask.

What was one more to the collection? Besides, Joel wasn’t going to complain about not having to sew Etho’s skin shut. Instead he, without complaint, reached for a roll of bandages he had set out on the table. He called it a roll of bandages, but really it was one of the finer shirts they’d stolen among one of the officer’s luggage cut up into long, thin strips. He was proud of himself for the innovation, even if Etho had pursed his lips at the side of it. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. Etho would have to just get over it.

As he wound the makeshift bandages around Etho’s shoulder and under his armpit, Joel held his breath. Etho didn’t say anything, only lightly wincing when Joel lifted his arm too quickly, which happened every time he needed to reach under the wrap the bandages around. But he endured it without much more complaint. Suddenly, Joel wished he would. Just so he didn’t have to be the one to start talking.

“That was bloody stupid what you did,” he said. “I’ll kill you if you die pulling something like that again.”

“No promises,” Etho said, and by gods Joel could hear the mischievous smirk in his voice. “Someone’s gotta watch your back, Joel.”

Joel scoffed and tucked the edge of the bandage into itself, patting them down. This time Etho groaned and recoiled from his touch, protecting his shoulder with his hands as best he could. “Now you’re just being mean.”

“I’ll stop being mean when you stop being useless and annoying,” Joel said, quickly climbing to his feet and rummaging around in the armoire (another fixture they’d stolen on a previous raid, a rare and expensive mahogany piece that both Joel and Etho found incredibly ugly but both refusing to be the first to admit it). He pulled out a shirt, wadded it up, and tossed it against Etho’s bare chest.

“Cover up before I throw up,” he said. “More ships to burn, more stuff to steal. Up and at ‘em.”

[magnolia-among-the-stars]

I Never Told You (natasha trace imagine)

PAIRING: Natasha 'Phoenix' Trace x Female!Reader

REQUESTED FROM ANON: Purple 4. "I've never met anyone like you." With Phoenix please, greatly appreciated. 😊

The sunshine washed over the horizon, seeping onto the beach as waves softly lap at the gritty sands. Mud squishes beneath your toes while you walk along the surface of the bubbling water, taking in the peaceful and cool morning of the Island. Stopping for a moment, you rolled up my khaki linen pant legs and enjoyed the graze of a breeze against my bare ankles. 

A dizzy spell rolls over you, slamming through your skull and rattling your brain. It sends you sinking to the ground. Spits of sand splash out from underneath your bum while your fingers through absentmindedly as your mind wanders to last night’s haze events. There had been a welcome home party for your aviator friends, returning from a war ridden country. 

They were tired, clearly. Bob and Mickey were slouched at a high top table and Jake’s typically perfect blonde coifs were deflated. Instead of his usual attire at the Hard Deck of a blaring Hawaiian shirt and slouchy jeans, Bradley hadn’t even bothered to change from his khaki uniform. 

And then there was Nat. You had stood on the steel structure of the stool from your spot at the bar beside Penny, stretching as much as possible to see your favorite aviator. You searched each and every set of dark circles under your eyes to no avail.  When everyone seemingly had crowded into the bustling crowd, you deflated slightly. Where was she? Where was the rising Phoenix with her quick wit and sharp pool skills?

You stepped off the stool, ankles wobbling in my prettiest wedges as you stumble toward Bob to find out what’s going on. “Bob,” you call out, noting the way his spine straightens and his face turns to search yours. He seems relieved when you finally fit yourself into his side and give him a big hug. His hands are warm along your back, heat seeping through the material of the new dress you’d bought for the occasion.

“Hey there,” his already gentle voice is softer than it had been three months back. “I’ve missed you Y/N.”

“I missed you too,” you whisper, holding his waist tightly, afraid that the fragile look in Bob’s eyes would drip into his bones and shatter him entirely. “I missed all of you so much…” Bob must see the look in your eyes, must see the questions on your glossy lips.

“She’s okay,” he answers, immediately relaxing the kink in your shoulders as you catch your breath. The tightness, the pain in your chest disappears as you nod rapidly, tears welling up in your eyes. Alive is what Bob wants to say but okay feels more publicly acceptable, less harsh in the reality of what had occurred on their mission. 

“She’s outside getting some fresh air,” he nods to the double doors leading out to the parking lot. The sun had begun to set through the windows in the back of the bar, painting the pool table in oranges and pinks in reflection of the sky. “It was a rough couple of months.”

You nod again, taking in his words. You try incredibly hard not to think about the possibility of what could’ve happened out there across oceans and mountainscapes. It feels a bit hard to swallow as you detach from Bob, zipping around the crowd of aviators and naval officers to get to the front door. Pushing it open, you note Nat’s form easily in the sparkling colored lights strung up above the porch and against the railings.

Her hair is snuggled twisted into her classic bun, her face covered beneath her fingertips and her freshly manicured nails. Small whimpers find their way through the air as you move closer and try to approach her without frightening her too much. “Nat?” your voice is cautious and small as you continue to approach, hands writing together as you take in her stiff nature. 

She sniffles a bit and it breaks your heart as you move closer, placing a hand delicately onto her back as you smooth it flat against her. Rubbing up and down, you start to coo as her whimpers become louder as she covers her mouth. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” I jump slightly as she suddenly moves, wrapping her arms snuggly around your waist.

Nat nuzzles her nose and presses her lips into the column of your neck, wet slicking along the skin. Her tears stream beneath the sweetheart neckline of your vibrant green dress as she sobs. Her grasp is strong on your hip bones, grabbing at your soft flesh. You try your best to ground her, whispering sweet nothings into her perfectly sculpted bun and against the shell of her ear as your lips pepper kisses against the crown of her head.

“You are safe,” you whisper, rocking her back and forth.

“I was so scared.”

“You’re safe,” you repeat, humming as you squeeze her tighter. 

“You don’t understand,” her voice cracks against your chest, rising up to stare deeply into your eyes. Her vibrant green orbs are lined still with tears collecting on your lashes, brows knitted as she wipes her face harshly. “I’ve never met anyone like you.” Her words cause your heart to skip, eyes widening at her intense gaze.

“Nat,” your face starts to warm up, heating up as she clutches your hands before one soft palm comes up to cup your jaw. 

“I can’t give you many details about what happened while we were gone, but we came close to burning in. I lost control of my plane during one of our missions and the first thing that I saw was your face. Your laughter while we kick Bradshaw and Hangman’s ass during pool or your wide grin when we go to breakfast on Sundays,” she takes a shaky breath, leaning her forehead to touch yours.

“Nat, you’re making me blush,” you murmur. Her thumb smoothes over the silk of your cheek, dragging along your bottom lip.

“I couldn’t burn out without telling you how in love with you I am,” her words blossom in your chest, radiating out in all directions as light sprouts from inside. Your heart swells and your hands get shaky at her confession. Leaning in, you capture her soft lips in a heated kiss. Tugging her hips toward you with purpose, your mouths move against each other. 

You breathe her in, hands sliding along the seams of her uniform until they are just below the curve of her breasts. She pulls your face close to yours as her tongue dances along the pout of your bottom lip. Nat moans slightly when you pull away. “I love you so much,” you press another wet kiss to her mouth, fingers sliding around and down her spine. They dance at the small of her back before grazing the roundness of her ass. “Let me take you home,” you search her eyes for any concern, any displeasure. 

You find none. “Let me help you forget.”

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