#(anyway the wild west was in full swing)

[marietheran]

No, you don't get it: the most tragic thing to ever happen in any of Lucy Maud Montgomery's books is that Anne would have been around 90 by the time The Lord of the Rings was published - and she would have loved it so...

And she absolutely did live to read it (look, I get to make the rules; it's canon from now on) but imagine her having access to it as a teen! Then, she definitely wasn't there to read The Silmarillion and these books were just written for her, you know...

(sad noises)

[reaveries]

▬  an admiration for perennials

summary: arthur meets a woman with an affinity for cliff maids

pairings: high honor!arthur morgan pov x female!reader

warnings: sad introspective arthur, sh*t word (:o), mention of mary, dying from flu, pollen (?? this thing is so fluffy, i'm grasping for straws here)

word count: 6.2k (estimated 26-minute reading time)

a/n: i have proofread this piece so.. many.... times... i'm so ready to finally publish it and get it the eff away from me. i hope y'all like it, i'm really happy with how it turned out! (i think, i can't tell anymore). i have a part two outline in the works so if you'd like to see that, please let me know by interacting w/ the post! also, this is categorized as a reader/self-insert but at one point there is very brief character description. i try to keep that to an absolute minimum and leave it generally gray enough to remain a self-insert fic. if that bothers you, i'm sorry, just overlook it! anyways, njoy, pardners <3

masterlist archive of our own

Revised for clarity 1/5/2024.

He takes a long drag from the cigarette between his lips, letting the harshness of the warm smoke enter his chest with ease. The cigarette had nearly met its end, so he knew it was getting to be that time. He jabs it into the ashtray along with the ashes from all the other bargoers and bids the barkeep a good night, leaving some change for his good company.

Unfortunately, Arthur hadn't found the solace he was searching for in the homely saloon. He’d filled himself to the brim with watered-down beer and a few shots of whiskey when he felt especially plagued by his thoughts. But as he pushes open the swinging doors and steps into the cool night air, his head still swarms with a myriad of upsetting things. 

His life is a complicated mess, though part of him knew it always had been. It just wasn’t until recently that he realized how unnecessary it was for it to be such. On the same street where he currently stands, he’d been responsible for putting lead in the heads of countless men a few weeks prior. He didn't even know their names, and he surely doesn't remember their faces. It was a wholly avoidable disaster. Not to say he’s bothered by the act of killing, for when he finds it justified to end a man’s life, there’s often no reason to dawdle. No, the mess of it all perturbed him the most. 

Undeniably, the land he calls home is becoming a different entity than the one he was born into, a land of law and structure that spits upon his way of life. The West is becoming a docile place, its wildness broken by the cracking whip of civilization. And if the West can’t survive, then all hope is lost for men like him. The only logical step to ensure that he, and the people he cares for, won’t meet their fates at the end of a rope is to adapt to this changing world. This meant mess would have to be a thing of the past. No more massacres over stolen oil wagons and certainly not wiping out an entire town to free a man he didn’t care for from a cell he belonged in. No more innocent bystanders gruesomely losing their lives over foolishly shallow plans like the botched ferry job in Blackwater. No more lives need to be taken for his benefit or the ambitions of the man who guided him. Somehow though, that man didn’t see things the way he did.

Whenever he brought up these concerns, Dutch always told him, “Don’t be so simple-minded, Arthur. Look at the bigger picture.” 

But the bigger picture was all he could see, and it was a terrifying sight.

His heels sink into the damp earth as he makes his way to Saint’s Hotel, crossing his fingers that a room is available for the night. He made the mistake of riding his horse with a stomach full of liquor before, and somehow it almost ended up with him drowning. How he ended up sopping wet and his horse dry as a bone is still a mystery to him. So, a room at Saint's is in order since he doesn’t particularly care to die tonight, even despite the pervasive thoughts that plague him.

Just as he’s about to step onto the hotel’s wooden porch, he hears a loud banging noise come from behind him. He turns around and, in the darkness of night, sees a woman knocking on the front door of the general store across the street. She raps her knuckles a second time against the door, just as loud as the first. The door opens and out steps the store owner, looking irritated.

“Hi, I know you’re about to close, but I’ll just be a second, I promise!” She says this with her hands clasped together.

“Alright, alright. Come on in,” the man says, stepping aside so she can enter.

As the woman moves past the older man, light from inside the store hits her, and he can see her more clearly. She’s dressed simply with her hair loosely pulled back into a plait that falls past her shoulders. These things are ordinary enough, but then the light catches on a dainty pink flower tucked behind her ear on the left side.

He stops in his tracks.

It looks identical to the one he keeps at his bedside, a memento of his mother. However, those flowers, cliff maids, he thinks they’re called, only grow out west in the rocky terrain bordering Oregon and California. He’s a long way from California and possibly even further from a level head, so he dismisses the possibility, chalking it up to the delusions of a drunken old man.

He heads into the hotel, and thankfully a room is available, the same one as always. He closes the door behind him and starts fumbling with his gear, letting it hit the floor haphazardly in a heap. As he stumbles over to the bed, he regretfully catches a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror. He usually tries to avoid looking at himself unless it’s absolutely necessary. Simply put, he doesn’t like the look of the man who stares back at him. There’s a residual yellow blotch fading away on his cheekbone from a dust-up he’d been in a few days prior. He doesn’t even remember the reason. His shoulder-length hair has tangles he’s had no energy to comb through, and his eyes are lidded for want of sleep. They have a far-out look even when he’s staring right at himself. 

“Maybe it’s you that’s the mess,” he mumbles, then gives way to his exhaustion and collapses against the mattress. His boots, spurs and all, remain on his feet. So remain his worn trousers and unbuttoned maroon shirt, and so does the dirt caked beneath his nails that never seems to leave. 

He checks out of his room early the following day and rides out beneath a sky as golden as dandelions. His mind feels clearer after a night’s rest, and he thankfully doesn’t feel as dreadful as he did when his head hit the pillows. Dew hangs in the chilled air and mists his face as he takes the beaten winding path leading back to Clemen’s Point, this new place his people called home. As he rides, he passes by some cottages and homesteads a ways off the path. He can recall the inside layout of a few of them, and even which ones filled his pockets the most back when he first arrived in the Heartlands.

Tall, thick-bodied oak trees loom over him and dance in the morning breeze. The way the sunlight flickers through them is beautiful but unfamiliar. It quickly becomes apparent that he’s taken the wrong path somewhere along the way, but just when he’s about to wheel his horse around and turn back, there lies a cottage beyond the tree line. 

It’s a quaint wooden home with a thin stream of smoke rising from the chimney. In the window of the cottage sits a vase of pink flowers. The closer he rides, the more confident he is that they’re cliff maids. There must be at least twenty stems in that one vase.

“I’ll be damned….” He says under his breath.

Suddenly, he hears the sound of a woman grunting coming from the side of the home. He presses his heels to his horse’s belly and trots toward the noise source. When he turns the corner of the house, he sees her, the woman he saw last night, pushing a wheelbarrow spilling over with dirt. She attempts to use her weight against the handle, but it hardly makes a difference, and the wheelbarrow doesn’t budge.

He clears his throat to make his presence known to the woman.

“Jesus Christ!” She yelps and turns to face him, shocked to see she has company.

“Didn’t mean to frighten ya. D’ya need any help, ma’am?” He asks.

She looks him over with caution.

“Uh, I’m alright, thanks,” she says slowly, her brows warily drawn together.

Arthur nods his head with a tight-lipped smile and pulls the reins to head back to where he came from. He considers asking her about the flowers in the window but disregards it seeing as she doesn’t seem to care for company. As he begins back down the path, he hears a clattering noise and the sound of the woman cursing.

“Hey, mister!” She shouts. He looks over his shoulder and sees her standing with her hands on her hips and the wheelbarrow completely turned over, the dark soil spilling out onto the ground.

“I take that back.” She says with her head cocked to the side and a bashful smile.

He lightly chuckles at the sight and rides over, swiftly dismounting from his horse a few feet from the mild disaster.

“Could you help me scoop it back in?” She asks as she goes to the front of the wheelbarrow and picks up the dirt with yellow gloves.

“Sure,” he says, kneeling beside her. His hands are perpetually dirty as it is, so a little more filth couldn’t hurt. As he helps her pile the dirt back into the cart, he notices she smells earthy and sweet, reminiscent of the air before a storm.

“Alright,” she says, standing up and brushing her dirty gloves against her smock. “Would you mind wheelin’ it for me?”

He moves to grab the handles and pushes them down with ease so that the wheelbarrow can roll properly. 

“What’s all this dirt for anyways?” He asks the woman walking beside him.

“Just a project I’m working on. It’s back behind here, mister.” She points to the rear of the cottage, which quickly becomes dense with plant life the further they step. 

She crosses her arms over her chest as they enter the more secluded area.

“Don’t get any funny ideas, alright?” She says, looking up at him out of the corner of her eye.

He furrows his brows at the slight, but he can’t deny it makes sense she’s thinking that way. He looks the part of someone with foul intentions. The brim of his hat darkens his eyes, which would normally obscure them from anyone else. But, given that he's a head taller than the woman, she sees their darkness fine. He internally curses himself when he remembers he's wearing the one jacket stained with animal blood. It's still smeared dark brown across his shoulder. Of course, he looks like a damn menace. To top it all off, the rifle slung on his back casts a long shadow across her cheek like some twisted reminder of who he is, lest a single act of kindness threatens he forgets. 

He glances at her with a small smile that raises up on one side more than the other.

“Most of my ideas are funny, ma’am. But I ain’t gonna hurt you if that’s what you mean.”

Her shoulders drop from their tense position as she lets out a half-hearted laugh.

“I’ll take your word for it, mister,” she says, slightly more relaxed than before.

The grass starts to reach his knees, and all along the path are bushes and fruit-bearing shrubs with dangling under-ripe berries. Various species of flowers grow throughout the backyard in no organized manner, like they’d been living here long before anyone else. White bark trees stand tall amidst the entropic garden. Dark moss creeps up their trunks, and instead of leaves, canopies of draping blossoms erupt from the branches like something out of a storybook. They hang limply in the air, and when the wind tugs on them, they sway in synchronization while their blossoms flutter away in the breeze. It’s all so beautiful. He’s never seen an abundance of such natural beauty in all his life.

“Is this all yours?” He asks, turning to the lady with a near slack-jawed expression. 

“It is now,” she says, nodding her head. “My mama used to care for it, as did her mama before her. But uh- well, the flu took my mama a few years back, and as fate would have it, now my grandma’s flame is startin’ to flicker too. So it’s left to me to care for all this.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” he responds. Her voice sounds sad, and it reminds him somewhat of Ms. Adler, the widow staying with them for the time being.

“It’s okay,” she says, waving him off. “Sometimes in the darkness, there’s light, and this is definitely the light. I get to care for this thing, and in a way, it cares for me too. Gives me purpose, ya know?”

“S’Good to have somethin’ that makes you feel that way. Lord knows most people don’t.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that. Oh! I’ll hold the door open for ya.” She leaves his side and jogs ahead of him.

“Door? What door?” Arthur looks around, but he sees nothing but trees and plants.

Suddenly, she reveals an entrance blocked by the tall grass, and he realizes that a small building made entirely of glass is right before him. It camouflaged against the greenery and the vines that drape across it. Now that the door is ajar, he sees inside plants of all kinds strewn about in terracotta pots and deep soil beds.

“What in the….” He begins to say but trails off, caught off guard by the unexpected reveal.

A sort of giddiness takes her when she sees his expression, and she waves her hand excitedly to usher him inside. 

“Come in! Come in!” 

He rolls the wheelbarrow inside the structure, and once again, he’s greeted by the humble beauty of the natural world. Leaves spill out of pots hanging from the rafters, creating curtains that brush against him as he passes through. She gently closes the door behind him, and the air starts to feel thicker, heavier, like he’s being swaddled in a damp blanket.

The pots each have their own label, but the writing is so messy that he can hardly make out the names. Of the ones he can read, he recognizes names such as Sparrow’s Egg, Clamshell, and Dragon’s Mouth. They’re exotic flowers that the corset man in Saint Denis once asked him to collect, but he never got around to doing it. If only he had enough time to frolic through fields and pluck orchids. He’d prefer that over the menial errands he’s been consumed by as of late.

“Back here!” The woman shouts.

He can’t see her behind the tall plant-filled shelves that take up the center of the room, so he pushes past the vines and turns the corner to see her standing next to an empty plant bed. She looks at him expectantly because his task is clearly to dump the soil. But his mind is elsewhere. Behind her is another plant bed. This one is full and brimming with cliff maids so densely packed that he can hardly see the soil they’re in. He’s never seen so many of these flowers in one place. Whenever he found one in the wild, it was usually nestled between two rocks and sprouted three or four blooms. They weren’t nearly as impressive as the ones infront of him.

“What is it?” She asks when he remains in his spot. She follows his gaze and gasps.

“Why, are you a gardener too, mister?” Her voice gets high with excitement.

“Who, me?” He laughs. “No, ma’am. I’m no gardener. I’d make for a pretty awful one seein’ as I’m not too good at keepin’ things alive.”

“Oh, forgive me. I just- you seemed interested in the perennials. Most people aren’t, considerin’ how unassuming they look. Pretty things but nothing outwardly special about ‘em.” She moves towards the tall blossoms and reaches out her hand to stroke the petals. 

“You know, they don’t like it here,” she continues. “They like the sun, which would be easy enough if they liked the heat that came with it, but no, it’s the cool shade of cliffs and rocks they like. These little blooms aren’t easy to care for, but if you can figure it out, they’ll live all through the years. That’s what perennial means, after all. Anyways, these guys are my favorite. I think it’s cause they give me such a hard time.”

She twiddled with the petals between her fingers as she rambled about the flowers. When she finally looks back at him, it’s like she has stars twinkling in her eyes. There’s a new liveliness about her, something that sparked when she was given room to air out her affinity for the pink blossoms. Arthur stands there, attempting to wrap his mind around the unlikely chance of finding someone who holds this particular flower as close to their heart as he does. He doesn't notice his aforementioned heart beating a little faster in his chest.

“I- I like ‘em too.” The words clumsily stumble from his mouth when he realizes she’s waiting for him to speak. He quickly gathers himself. 

“I mean, it was my ma that liked ‘em, but I guess she sorta rubbed off on me. They're pretty little things.”

“You’re kiddin’... what are the odds?” 

He can tell she’s thinking about something during the half-beat of silence that follows, but he can’t find any hint of what it is when he searches her face.

“I never got your name, mister,” she says abruptly.

“Arthur,” he says. “Just Arthur.”

“What, you ain’t got a last name, Just Arthur?” She laughs.

He considers telling her his real name but quickly dismisses it. On the off-chance she recognizes it from the bounty posters, it would mean that whatever was happening here would come to an unfortunate end. Of course, no harm would befall her, but he’d have to leave and go right back to his mess of a life. He’d rather stay here, in the sanctity of the greenhouse, with this person he strangely feels like he was meant to meet. 

“Oh, I didn’t realize we were on a full name basis, ma’am,” he says flippantly, but he can’t help the smile that forms when she raises her eyebrows at him.

“Well, Arthur, you have good taste,” she says playfully, but her gaze falls to the wheelbarrow he’s still holding, and her eyes widen. “Oh, that must be heavy. I talked so long, I forgot you still had that. Go ahead and pour it into that empty bed right there.” She gestures with a quick wave of her hand.

He looks down at the wheelbarrow he also forgot he was holding and does as she says, tilting the lip of it into the wooden frame and letting the soil spill out. 

She smiles at him and pats his shoulder before leading him out of the greenhouse. They step back outside, and the cool air is a welcome feeling. He props the wheelbarrow against the wall of the structure while she shuts the door behind her.

“Thank you again. I would’ve had a much harder time without you there,” she says.

He wipes his soiled hands on the front of his jeans and opens his mouth to speak, but when he looks at her, she’s already looking at him with a gaze sweet as honey. It makes his breath catch in his chest. Not many women have looked at him like that before, and hardly any were as easy on the eyes as her. A thread of sunlight catches her eyes and reveals faint traces of amber, like sap spilling from the source. Her long lashes flutter when she blinks, and they rest against the soft edge of her brow as she looks up at him. Her hair, woven into a braid, is loose, disheveled like she’d slept in it. Stray strands feather around her jaw and frame the angles of her face, not unlike ornate golden borders that surround paintings in a gallery.

He clears his throat upon realizing he’s been gawking at the poor woman like some boyish fool.

“Ah, it was nothin',” he says, directing his attention elsewhere as heat creeps up his cheeks. 

A dragonfly jitters down from above and lands on the stem of some thyme growing over a narrow creek. Water trickles over smooth stones into a basin where leaves float along the surface. Some of them sprout delicate white flowers that open up to the sky. A thought comes to him as he looks at them.

“If it’s not too much trouble, would it be alright if I draw a picture of this place?” He asks. He’s never had to ask anyone permission for this sort of thing before; it felt unnatural. But it certainly would’ve been more so if he’d asked her what he really wanted, which was to draw her alongside it.

She tilts her head and looks up at him curiously.

“How charming…” She says, then ponders it for a second. “I don’t mind as long as you let me see it after.”

He chuckles, “Alright, just don’t make fun of it.”

“I would never!” She says, feigning indignance. “My mama taught me manners, Arthur! That means if it’s bad, I’ll just make fun of it in my head. Now go do your thing. I also have some work to do.”

She waves him off with a smile and steps back inside the greenhouse, closing the door behind her. He lets out a sigh, the tight feeling in his chest relinquishing now that he’s finally alone. He walks over to a bench along the path and sits down, taking his journal from his satchel and flipping to a new blank page. Before him, tall pink flowers that smell of vanilla cast long, dark shadows over the smaller flowering shrubs surrounding them. If they weren’t so dainty looking, their height and the size of their leaves would give the impression they own the place. He gives them the most detail in his drawing. Then he starts to etch the dirt path, adding the indentation the wheel of the wheelbarrow had left behind and the imprint of the woman’s footprints next to his. Just as he finishes up the sketch, adding minute details in the leaves, he hears light footfall behind him.

On instinct, his hand moves to hover above his holster, but once he sees what’s behind him, he feels ridiculous for it.

“Hey,” she says quietly, a sheepish smile on her face. She holds nearly a dozen cliff maids in her hands, stems clipped and bound together with a thread of twine.

“I thought you might like to have these.”

He looks at her for a moment, unsure what to do or say. She’s giving him flowers. No one has ever given him flowers before. That was usually something a man might do if he were sweet on a lady, a gesture shared between lovers. But maybe for a woman who spends all day surrounded by them, it must not have the same romantic meaning he knows it does.

“Those are for me?” He asks. His hands hang loosely at his sides. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

She nods. “If you want.”

The talkative woman from earlier seems to have been replaced by someone different entirely, her sentences suddenly simple and sweet. He also struggles to find the right words.

“That’s too kind of you. Truly.” He reaches out to take them, and she places the bundle gingerly in his hands. 

His hold is gentle for fear he’d snap the stems if not careful. He knows he has to look a little silly. A man as rough around the edges as himself, with ammunition draped across his chest and pistols hanging at his hips, holding an overflowing bouquet of pink blossoms as a gift from a lady. If Dutch could see him now, he’d tell him he lost his edge. But if this is what it feels like to have gone soft, then he doesn't mind that much. The warmth in his chest is too comforting a feeling to let go of.

Her sudden gasp brings him out of his head.

“Is that the drawing?!” She points at the journal lying open on the bench. There’s no time to answer before she reaches over the seat to hold the leatherbound book in her hands.

“Wow… I- you captured it perfectly,” she says, her mouth slightly hanging in awe. “I didn’t expect anything like this.”

“You’re just minding your manners.”

She lightly thwacks him on the arm.

“You’d know if I was, I’m not a good liar. No, this is something special.”

He hardly knows a thing about this woman, and yet for some reason, her songs of praise feel so good that he wants to make ten more drawings. Hell, he’ll move as much dirt as she wants if it means she’ll look at him the way she is now each time. As her eyes flit between him and the sketch, he feels a fondness growing that he could’ve never anticipated when he first laid eyes on her. God, he almost feels like a boy again. It’s a feeling he hasn’t experienced in ages since he was last with Mary. Though, admittedly those feelings were guided by something less innocent than what he feels right now. What’s happening to him?

She clasps her hands together and takes a sharp intake of breath.

“Arthur, would you, um- would you like something to drink before you head out?” She asks. “I have just about anything.”

Without giving it much thought, he opens his mouth to answer, but a ringing noise sounds before the words can come out. It’s a clear jingling sound of a bell, and it’s coming from the house. 

“Oh, never mind. It seems like my grandmother needs me,” she sighs and hands back his journal. “Maybe another time?”

“Another time,” he agrees with a thin smile, deflating slightly at the abrupt goodbye.

She walks briskly to the back door and slips inside the house, the door swinging shut loudly behind her. He approaches his horse he’d left hitched to the woman’s front porch and goes to find a place to secure the flowers. As he’s slipping them through a notch on the saddle, the front door flies open.

She steps out, looking grateful he hasn’t left yet.

“Hey!” She calls out to him. She stands at the edge of the top step with one hand on her hip and the other shading her eyes from the sun.

“I’m sure you know already, but those can only last so long now that they’re cut. Perennials live all through the years but only when they’re planted,” she says, shifting her weight on the step.

Arthur’s mouth parts slightly as he searches for the words to respond.

“Oh. Alright.”

She sighs and brings her hand to her forehead in an exasperated motion.

“Okay- what I’m trying to say but failing at, is that when those flowers start to wilt, you come and find me.”

He tilts his head down, so the brim of his hat hides the smile forcing its way onto his lips. He hadn’t been sure if she was just being polite before, if every word was mere courtesy. But now, part of him felt that maybe some of it was more than that. He could at least tell for certain that she liked him, and that was enough.

“I’ll do that, miss. You take care of yourself, now.”

She then waves him goodbye before heading back inside.

The sun has risen high above his head by the time he returns to camp. Everything seems to be just as he left it a few days ago. Dutch is sitting outside his tent with a book in his hands, a finger pensively to his lips. Some men are sharpening their weapons or cleaning their guns and talking to one another while they work. Over by the campfire, Micah gestures wildly to Bill and Javier, who sit on the log by his feet. 

“If we leave at dusk, they should be sittin’ pretty at the station a while before leaving for town. So once things get movin’, I say Javier handles the lockbox, I’ll deal with Walton and his lady wife, and Bill, you hang back in case anyone else shows up.”

Javier looks up from polishing his pistol, “You don’t think Walton’s going to have any extra protection? He’s carrying a lot of goods, it’d be stupid for him not to.”

“Well, that’s what Bill’s for. Ain’t that right, Bill?”

Bill nods his head with a serious expression. “Damn right.”

As Arthur listens to this conversation, it’s as if he can see a dark thread spinning and tangling itself into a knot. A knot on top of a knot, on top of another. Soon enough, the thread will become one giant, twisted mess so tightly entwined it’ll be nearly impossible to unravel. The way things are headed, this seems like the only plausible ending for his people. But before that happens, the Pinkertons will likely find them again, and they’ll be packing their things again, only prolonging this mess of things a little bit longer, letting it become bigger than it ever needed to be. People will keep dying for nothing like they always have, and maybe he’ll be one of them, an unfortunate tally added to their death toll, necessary for the bigger picture.

The young woman had the right of it. Her words still echo in his head even now. 

Perennials live all through the years, but only when they’re planted. Only when they’re planted. 

The world won’t open its arms to drifters, even with a pistol pressed to its head. It’s past time they grow some roots, start living like people, and stop living like wild animals backed into a corner. Sure, there’s no glory in honest work but there sure as hell isn’t any in dying. Arthur had given this idea some thought before. He wouldn’t mind settling, living a simple life working odd jobs, or even finding work on a ranch somewhere. A peaceful life, a predictable one; it sounded just fine in his head.

He passes by Mary Beth and Tilly, scrubbing clothes on a washboard and laughing. Tilly looks up from her busy hands and waves at him.

“Hey, Arthur!”

“Hey there, Miss Jackson,” he says with a friendly nod.

He finds his tent and sets the bundle of flowers down on the cot before reaching into his satchel. 

“Are those flowers, Arthur Morgan?” 

He jumps as Tilly’s voice is suddenly right behind him.

“What the hell! Don’t sneak up on me like that, girl,” he says, turning to face her and Mary Beth standing just outside his tent.

“My goodness, they are!” Mary Beth says, her hand flying to her mouth. “Where did you find those?”

“A lady,” he responds, biting his cheek to force away a smile he doesn't want them to see. He doesn't want to be stuck rattling off every detail to the excitement-starved women. 

“Like, you purchased them from a lady?” Mary Beth leans forward and raises her eyebrows.

“They were… given to me,” he reluctantly admits as he places the stems inside a gin bottle on the table. He moves a few of them around so they look nice.

“Don’t tell us they’re from Mary, Arthur.” Tilly's voice goes low with disappointment, no longer seeming excited.

He grimaces at the thought. “No! No, they’re not from Mary. I met a woman earlier today, and she gave them to me, that’s all.”

The two women quickly glance at each other and share an enthusiastic look.

“Arthur Morgan, you’re in love!” Mary Beth nearly squeals.

He scoffs loudly, “I am not in love. I hardly know the woman!”

“Well, she’s surely in love then. What kind of person just gives someone flowers if they ain’t sweet on’em?” Tilly says matter-of-factly.

“Exactly! So when are you gonna see her again?” Mary Beth asks.

“I don’t know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. He should’ve known this conversation would happen. He should’ve sucked up his pride and said he purchased the flowers for himself to have avoided it entirely. “She told me to come back when they start to die, so whenever that is, I guess.”

Mary Beth hums and looks past him at the flowers in their makeshift vase. 

“Hmm… well, they look a little limp if you ask me. Dare I say… dead even? What do ya think, Tilly?” 

Tilly nods her head dismally, but even she can’t hide her smile, “Yeah, look at ‘em. They’re all sad-lookin’. Seems like you’ll need to head over first thing in the morning. Just to be sure.”

He shakes his head and laughs, “Alright, out. Both of ya. I can’t take it no more.”

He takes both women by their shoulders and guides them away from his tent despite their protests.

“We just want you to be happy, Arthur! Is that so bad?” Tilly cries out.

“I know, I know. Thank you, ladies. But I’m happiest when people ain't meddlin’ in my private business. Now go on.”

“This ain’t the end of it, Arthur!” Mary Beth calls out as they both walk away. They start talking animatedly as they return to work and keep throwing glances that he can only shake his head at.

Later that night, Arthur sits alone at one of the tables, eating his stew and staring off into the water. Most everyone else is off doing their own things, evening chores, and such. He's in the middle of bringing the bowl to his lips to get the last bit of broth when Mary Beth sits down beside him.

She keeps her word, not letting him hear the end of her numerous questions. Some of them he entertains, like when she asks what the garden looked like, and if she can see his drawing to get a better idea. He can practically see the story forming behind her eyes.

"What's she look like?" She asks, leaning against her hand on the table. "I'm picturing a sort of Isabelle Standish type in my head."

"Ah, come on now. You can't ask those sorts of things."

"Oh, Arthur! Please! This is the most exciting thing I've heard in so long. Just give me something to work with!" She gives him a pleading look, to which he dramatically rolls his eyes at.

"Alright. Well, she gives them girls on cigarette cards a run for their money, I'll tell you that."

She giggles, and asks him, "So when are you gonna see her again?"

He shrugs his shoulders, "I don't know yet."

“You don’t want to keep her waiting too long,” she says, in warning.

“Nah, I think she’ll be plenty busy without me. I’ll give it a few days.”

“A few days? But what if tomorrow another man comes by and sweeps her off her feet? What if she gives him flowers and forgets all about you because you took too long?” Her voice gets higher as she spitfires these potential events. 

“Mary Beth. If I visit her tomorrow, I’ll look like an idiot.” His face scrunches up, cringing at the thought. "And if that's really what happens then I can't do nothin' about that."

“Well, if I were her, I’d find it romantic,” she says and pats his hand on the table.

“Yeah, well, you find a lotta odd things romantic,” he chuckles, thinking back on the strange things in her novellas that have made her kick her feet.

For a second, it looks like she can’t tell if she should be offended. But then she joins him in laughter, giggling at herself.

“You might be right about that!”

Following his talk with Mary Beth, he retreats to his tent and slumps in his cot. He closes his eyes and turns to face the side of the wagon, but sleep doesn't come easy. The cot creaks beneath him as he shifts, trying to get comfortable. He groans and rolls over, opening his eyes to stare into the darkness. Against the dark canvas of his tent, he can make out the silhouette of the cliff maids standing tall in their bottle. He traces the outline of their leaves and thinks back to the woman and her garden, the tranquility of her home, and the opposing restlessness of his heart whenever she looked at him. Before he’s ushered into unconsciousness, a strange thought enters his head that he can only explain away as the delirium of drowsiness. It was that in the distant future, he could see himself settling down, working odd jobs, or finding work on a ranch, sure. But maybe, the preposterous idea of taking care of flowers wasn't so bad neither.

[italiansteebie]

Love on Screen

Episode Five, four, three, two, one

It had been months (gaining on a year) of content and collaboration from the two creators now, and they hadn’t made any move to announce that they were together. Dustin began to think they really were just friends, but the way they called each other ‘babe’ in passing and he honestly thinks Eddie has moved in with Steve because he never seems to leave, and the guy even tells Eddie to ‘go to his room’ sometimes. Does that mean he has a room in Steve’s house? Ugh, what does it matter anyways, the content is flowing and still, Dustin is loving it.

He walked through the halls of his highschool, slumping against the wall and sliding down it. He was on his lunch break, and look, he would eat in the cafeteria, but that place was like the wild west and he just… Chooses to not get involved. His friends all had a different lunch period and he really didn’t feel like sitting with…. Well, no one. So he settled in against his usual spot against the wall near Mr. Clark’s class, and grabbed his paper bag lunch out of his backpack and chomped into the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he packed. He scrolled through instagram carelessly, looking for any source of entertainment, really. A few pictures of Eddie, a few pictures of Steve, some of Robin and Nancy, he’s really seen them all. He can’t blame them, not every aspect of their lives are going to be recorded for his entertainment but damn. He was fucking bored. He sighed and put his phone down, deciding to focus on his lunch.

“Hey, Dustin. Another floor lunch I see?” It was Mr. Clark. He knew Dustin sat outside of his classroom and made it a point to check in almost every day. It was nice, even though it made Dustin feel kind of like a troubled loner or something. (If he was being honest, he kind of was). He looked up at Mr. Clark, “Yeah. I usually watch these youtubers… I think they went here, actually. Uh. But they haven’t uploaded in a few days. You know what youtube is, right?” Mr. Clark laughed, throwing his head back, “Yes, Dustin. I know what youtube is, and you must be talking about Steve and Robin. Boy, they were two peas in a pod. It’s nice to see them so successful nowadays. I taught them one year actually. They weren’t the best students when they were together.” Mr. Clark explained, effectively blowing Dustin’s mind. Could he have sat in Steve’s seat? He felt like a proper fan girl at that moment.

Dustin nodded along to Mr. Clark, eventually saying their goodbyes as Dustin returned to his lunch. Dustin let his head fall back against the wall, it was times like these when he really wished he had lunch with his friends. He usually got by okay watching Steve goes to Hell and corrodededdie’s compilations but when there wasn’t any content, the loneliness really began to set in.

He was just about to make the studious decision to work on his homework when his phone buzzed, ‘Nancy and Rob have uploaded a new video titled: Gays throw a party.’ Hm. It wasn’t what he usually liked to watch, but at least it was something. He tapped on the video, earbuds firmly in place, it opened with Nancy running around the house, trying to get it organized, while Robin laughed at her meticulousness. Five minutes into the video, the party was in full swing, many youtubers and various friends in attendance, including Steve and Eddie who seemed to be hanging off each other for most of the thing.

The video was pretty entertaining, there were interactions between people Dustin never thought would happen, for example, Jim Hopper, who made nature survival videos, was there for some reason, and the younger creators seemed to be pretty close with him despite the… Oddness of it all.

The 10 minute mark of the video was when he saw it.

In the dark background, he could softly make out Steve and Eddie dancing in the corner. It was sweet, a little close for a couple of friends, but sweet nonetheless. And then, oh and then, he watched as their lips met in a way that was too practiced to be a drunken mistake. Holy shit. “Holy shit!” His outburst caught the attention of a nearby teacher to which he whispered an apology. He rewound the video and watched the same clip about 19 times. Holy shit, holy shit he was fucking right, he was right! He began screen recording the video and zoomed in on the… moment between his two favorite youtubers. This might be the best day of his life, and he’s not kidding. Them being together, and living together? Oh man. It made his cynic heart believe in love again. (Look, Suzie had broken up with him a few months ago and he was a little tender, leave him alone). He did what any fan would do, and immediately posted it, pointing out what he had seen. He also sent it to Mike, with an ‘I fucking told you so,’ because he did.

He also sent it to Will with a winky face and a rainbow emoji. He knew that Will occasionally watched ‘Steve goes to hell' and thought that he might like this news. And based on the 15 smiley faces he sent back, Dustin decided it was a good call on his part.

—

“Steve, oh my god. I am so sorry.” Robin’s anxious voice filtered through the phone as soon as he picked it up. “What are you talking about?” He responded, he wondered if what he was about to hear would ruin his life only slightly, or in a more major way. He hoped for the first option, Eddie had just moved in and they really didn’t need another big change so soon.

“In Nance and I’s most recent video…”

“Just tell me Rob, do I need to flee the country or?”

“Oh, no! Nothing like that, just. In the background of my party vlog, you can see you and Eddie kissing. Like, pretty clearly.”

Steeve felt himself relax, he and Eddie were both publicly out, respectively, and they were recently considering making an “official” announcement because apparently that is what you do when you’re in the public eye and dating someone who is also in the public eye. He pondered for a moment before deciding that this was actually a good thing, it was a great segway into their relationship becoming public. (Even though he knows their viewers were always really suspicious of them).

“Steve?” Robin’s hesitant voice came through the speaker, and that broke Steve out of his thoughts. “Oh! Sorry, got lost in my thoughts, uh. This is actually a good thing, me and Eds were just talking about making an announcement or whatever so… Like perfect timing.”

He heard Robin sigh in relief, “Oh thank god. I really am sorry though, I thought I caught everything during editing.”

“No big, Robs. I’m gonna call Eddie.”

He said his goodbyes and tapped Eddie’s contact, waiting for him to pick up. “Hey baby,” Steve loved the sound of his boyfriend’s voice over the phone. “Hey Eds. So look. In Rob's last video, y’know the party vlog?” Eddie hummed over the phone. “In the background of one clip we can be seen kissing.” He waited for Eddie’s answer. He knew he was fine with it but a small part of him was nervous Eddie would completely freak out. “Oh okay. That’s like perfect timing.” Steve felt his shoulders drop in relief, “That’s exactly what I said! Okay cool. I’ll see you when you get home baby. Plenty of kisses waiting for you here.” He said. “I’m looking forward to it.” And Steve could practically hear the smirk.

So it was settled. They’d be recording their official relationship announcement tomorrow. (They know it won’t come as a surprise).

[honeyglz]

YALL KNOW COWBOY MHA IZUKU AND BAKUGOU BUT HEAR ME OUT- Haikyuu.......Cowboys......... AND LIKE INSTEAD OF VOLLEY TEAMS THEYRE WILD HORSE WRANGLERS OR SUMTH??- (I dont know anything about american (??) or western cowboy stuff aside from media bare with me) BUT LIKE IMAGINE

Each team has their own little section where they reign in the horses. Sometimes they cross into each others terf which ends in a full fist fight more often than not (Most teams arent bug fans of guns.) And guess who's town is smack dab in the middle of all the wild terf???? Yours!!! Lucky you !! IMAGINE LIKE UR THE SHERIFF AND YOUR CONSTANTLY HAVING TO RING THEM UP FOR SHIT?? Like you travel out of town only to see the younger members setting something up on the west side of the valley Now you know damn well they aint supposed to be around here, much less messing around alone in these parts so being a good sheriff you get to work You call out to them, greeted with the timid gaze as the two boys both freeze as they spot your familiar unamused gaze. Hinata starts to walk over to you before Kageyama pulls him back trying (and failing) to subtly nod towards their ties horse. You watch as they slowly scoot towards their horses before hoping on and trying to untie them and run. You pinch your nose brigde before hoping on your own horse, taking a different route to cut them off. Safe to say they shit their pants when they see you at the end of the road. You ride towards them and tbh they dont even try to run this time. You hold your hand out and they sheepishly hand over the reigns as they get off (you do too.) Hinata smile's trying to ease his nerves but you only scowl down at him causing the boy to shirk into himself. Kageyama only trains his gaze to the dirt on his boots as he prepares himself for a tongue lashing. You sigh before turning on your heel, the two boys turning to each other confused. You get atop your horse before turning back to the boys. "C'mon, better get moving before someone spots us." They both let out a breath of relief before trying to get back on the horses. You laugh catching their attention again before smiling down at them, causing them more unease. "Oh no ya don't, you had your fun riding, now you gotta walk." An hour into walking and the argusing starts.| "This is your fault Kageyama" "Shut up!" "No you shut up!"

Yea this is gonna be a long ride. A vry long time later you make it to their ranch. Only to be greeted w/ Leader!Daichi standing there, arms crossed, lil wheat thing in mouth typa beat. Anyway's he walks to meet the three of you before telling the boys to scram, Suga at the barn waiting for them. Hinata sends Kageyama a glare before they both run back into the barn. You break the big bad sheriff act for a bit, laughing abit at the boys before swinging your leg over your horse trying to get off. Daichi being so kind helps you off with ease, arms wrapping around your side before lifting you down. He's so silly sometimes lmao Anyways you settle your horse abit before turning your attention back to the man before you, who by now is intently fixed on you. You clear your throat and his eye's snap back up to your own, bold smile hiding behind his tinted blush as he chuckled. "Well sheriff, what brings you to my humble abode?" He's pulling your leg, you know this. You also know that by the way he's looking at you dumbly with those big brown eye's that your not gonna call him out for it. He smiles down at you, crossing his arms against his chest as he leans back against the fence post near by, waiting for your answer. "I found your boys a lil far from your turf. You wouldn't know anythin about that would you Daichi?" Its smooth, the way you say his name, it almost makes him forget his place. Key word- Almost.

He puts on the fake'st shrug you've ever seen before speaking, this time not even trying to hide the sly look on his face. "Wouldn't have a clue hun, but if ya wan't some advice, I'd look over by Nekoma's territory. Real trouble makers those ones." He takes his weight off the post by now, instead opting to tower of you (hes tall ok shut up). His hands are dug into the deep hem of his pockets and his shoulders are slack. He tilts his head down abit, now eye to eye with you. He's not shy about most things, infact, by the way he has you pinned against air Im sure he's feeling anything but shy right now. "Is that so? And how do I know your not a trouble maker then, huh Daichi?" ANYWAYS LMAO I think Ill cut it here and write another thing idk dont like how this is going.

[werewolfetone]

Spy Nozy

Right. The Spy Nozy incident.

The setting: Summer, 1797. Holford, Somerset, South West England. William and Dorothy Wordsworth have been reunited after their childhood spent mostly apart, and are living together in Alfoxden House, a few miles away from where Samuel Taylor Coleridge lives with his wife, Sara, and infant son, Hartley, in Nether Stowey. Here's a picture of Alfoxden from a 1920s:

Wordsworth didn't own it, he was only renting.

The wider political context is also important to this story. William Pitt the younger is the Tory Prime Minister, and his crackdown on 'radicalism' as backlash to Jacobinism in the UK due to the French Revolution, is in full swing. People are expected to report on any 'radical' happenings that they witness, and there are government agents everywhere, which made the whole country tense and paranoid. It's even remarked on in Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey, with a comment on how it's impossible to keep secrets with the spy network.

This is also three years after the Treason Trials of 1794, which were a whole other wild affair, but for the purposes of this post let's just say that basically, the government was like "WE ARE GOING TO DRAW AND QUARTER EVERYONE WITH EVEN SLIGHTLY LEFT WING VIBES" and then everyone was acquitted, and they had to content themselves with simply obsessively spying on everyone else. Godwin was at the Treason Trials, as was Coleridge (he was thrown out for heckling the judge), and so was this guy, John Thewall.

He was a radical speaker, writer, and the guy who pioneered British speech therapy, for some reason. He met Coleridge, who invited him to come stay with the him for a while, and inevitably this led to him also meeting and hanging out with Wordsworth.

The incident: John Thewall, was, as I said, very radical, and Wordsworth and Coleridge were in their radical era (well, Wordsworth was in his liberal era, Coleridge was just coming out of his "I'm a Jacobin who hates France" era), so they wanted to talk to him about it. There was a lot of such talk, including one famous incident where they walked among the fells, which were beautiful, and Coleridge said "What a wonderful place this is to talk treason, Citizen John," to which Thewall replied with, "why, Citizen Samuel, this is a place to forget that there is any need for treason at all." They were definitely talking about radical politics a lot, and predictably, the government spy network found out about it.

So a guy was sent, probably by John King, Under Secretary at the Home Office, and the guy's name was either G. Walsh (no idea what G would be for) or J. Walsh (J probably for James), it's unclear. There's no depiction of him, and I can't find a picture of John King, so just uh. imagine them.

So this guy, Walsh, basically had the job of stalking Wordsworth and Coleridge for the next three weeks, trying to find something that would mean King could arrest them and throw them in jail. And he did a damn good job of it, too, at least according to Coleridge, even managing to stay within earshot when they were indoors. He had also "repeatedly hid himself, he said, for hours together behind a bank at the sea-side, ([Wordsworth and Coleridge's] favourite seat,) and overheard [their] conversation." While there he overheard them talking about "Spy Nozy" and became briefly convinced that they were talking about him, until he realized that that was just the philosopher Spinoza.

More things Walsh did:

Posed as a traveller to speak with Coleridge as Coleridge was walking back from his friend's house, which was when he basically was like "hi. are you a Jacobin yes or no" Coleridge's answer apparently "plainly made it out to be such a silly as well as wicked thing, that he felt ashamed though he had only put it on," so he went away and left Coleridge to return home and be like "hey Sara there was this weird guy I met today. he was wearing a fake nose? yeah anyway he asked me all about Jacobinism and I told him I think it's fucking stupid so he left. yeah it was really annoying. anyway" without suspecting a thing, which is further proof that Coleridge had no more than two active brain cells when not writing

Interrogated the local townspeople, including getting an account from a local man by the name of Thomas Jones who said that he was a serving man at a party held by Wordsworth, where Thewall stood up and spoke with "such a passion" he was too freaked out to go back

Flip flopped with the local person he was reporting to (a barrister? I think? Coleridge doesn't make it very clear) between "yeah they're cool nothing to worry about" and "revolution is imminent because of these guys" seemingly on a daily basis

Thewall left at the end of July, but there was still suspicion, especially because briefly a lot of energy was put into trying to find Thewall a house in the area (it didn't happen). Walsh wrote that the Wordsworths and their friends were a "violent sett of Democrats," and continued to stalk them.

\Walsh watched as they did normal Romantic poet activities, including going out at night and writing poetry under the stars, but was rather than impressed by the literary developments absolutely convinced that they were French agents from Bristol. They were apparently interested in a local brook, so he decided that they were trying to get French soldiers to sail up it, and wrote this back to King, who took it deadly seriously as well. In fact, who knows what would have happened to Coleridge and Wordsworth had Coleridge's landlord not noticed Walsh listening to their conversations for hours at a time at the beach and been like "hey. what the fuck."

The landlord set him straight by saying "why, folks do say, your honor! as how he is a Poet, and that he is going to put Quantock and all about her into print!" which made Walsh realize almost immediately how much he had fucked up and sent him running back to the Home Office with his tail between his legs.

Coleridge, of course, couldn't have known all of this, but he did know a fair amount, and he knew enough to joke that if he had written a planned poem called The Brook, which was what what Walsh overheard about the brook was actually about, he would have dedicated it to the Home Office: "to our then Committee of Public Safety as to containing the charts and maps, with which I was to have supplied the French Government to aid their plan of invasion."

[lovedeceptions]

🎼 any of them

arthur & kathryn — untouchable 

it's half full, and I won't wait here all day / i know you're saying that you'd be here anyway / but you're untouchable, burning brighter than the sun / and now that you're close I feel like coming undone

arthur & mariana — sad beautiful tragic

distance, timing, breakdown, fighting / silence, the train runs off its tracks / kiss me, try to fix it, could you just try to listen? / hang up, give up and for the life of us we can't get back / a beautiful magic love there / what a sad beautiful tragic, beautiful tragic, beautiful

benny & hayley — run

give me the keys, I'll bring the car back around / we shouldn't be in this town / and my so-called friends, they don't know / i'd drive away before I let you go / so give me a reason and don't say no, no / there's a chain 'round your throat, piece of paper where I wrote / “i'll wait for you" / there's a key on the chain, there's a picture in a frame / take it with you

celeste & leon — peace

and you know that I'd / swing with you for the fences / sit with you in the trenches / give you my wild, give you a child / give you the silence that only comes when two people understand each other / family that I chose now that I see your brother as my brother / is it enough? / but there's robbers to the east / clowns to the West / i'd give you my sunshine / give you my best / but the rain is always gonna come / if you're standing with me

charlie & matteo — don’t blame me

my name is whatever you decide / and I'm just gonna call you mine / i'm insane, but I'm your baby / echoes of your name inside my mind / halo, hiding my obsession / i once was poison ivy, but now I'm your daisy / and, baby, for you / i would fall from grace / just to touch your face / if you walk away / i'd beg you on my knees to stay

finnley & barbara — dancing with our hands tied 

i, i loved you in spite of / deep fears that the world would divide us / so, baby, can we dance / oh, through an avalanche? / and say, say that we got it / i'm a mess, but I'm the mess that you wanted / oh, 'cause it's gravity / keeping you with me

gigi & mariana — cruel summer

I'm drunk in the back of the car / and I cried like a baby coming home from the bar / said, "I'm fine," but it wasn't true / i don't wanna keep secrets just to keep you / and I snuck in through the garden gate / every night that summer just to seal my fate / and I scream, "for whatever it's worth i love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?"

jacob & hayley — invisible

there's a fire inside of you / that can't help but shine through / (s)he's never gonna see the light / no matter what you do / and all I think about is how to make you think of me / and everything that we could be

 yasemin & knox — i think he knows

i think he knows / when we get all alone / i'll make myself at home / and he'll want me to stay / i think he knows / he better lock it down / or I won't stick around / 'cause good ones never wait // lyrical smile, indigo eyes, hand on my thigh / we can follow the sparks, I'll drive / “so where we gonna go?" / i whisper in the dark / "where we gonna go?" / i think he knows

[strabbyshortcake]

champy’s charhouse

Gramble and Boots meet for the first time.

tw for mild violence.

Champy’s Charhouse sat smack dab in the middle of a whole lot of nothing, along a lone strip of highway that ran east to west through vast cornfields and strips of forest and swampland. True to its name, the steak was always overdone, but the potato skins were to die for.

Gramble usually went with one or more of his housemates, but Wambus was tired, Triffany was busy with grading papers, Yosie had a cage match tonight and Bronica had plans with her girlfriend already. That was alright, though. Gramble could have a good time on his own.

He borrows Triffany’s car, pulling up in the dusty parking lot as the sun’s about to set. The parking lot is already full of various mud-splattered beaters and pickups, many of which he recognizes. Funny that he could think of himself as a local now and feel a hit of pride about it. The bright orange neon sign buzzes above his head as he walks in, heading right for the bar to find a seat with a good view of the stage. True to form the place smells like burnt meat, but even as a vegetarian, it’s a comforting smell, mixed in with sweaty fur and soil and beer.

Triffany had gotten him into one of her favorite rock bands, the Velvet Knives, so he’d borrowed one of her old band tees to wear for the sets some of the local bands were playing tonight. He settles in, orders his potato skins and a coke, and watches as the first band gets their equipment set up. Once the music starts, everybody seems to be having a great time, clapping or singing along. That is, until the front row starts getting restless.

“This sucks!” calls a bright orange grumpus from the bar several seats down. His buddies laugh, a few of them hurling their own insults to the irritation of the other patrons. Several of them wear jackets with the letters of a nearby college fraternity on them. Rowdy college kids were nothing out of the ordinary though. Gramble was sure they’d be kicked out if they kept on heckling.

The band, in good humor, plays on, finishing their song before the singer decides to address them. “Sounds like we got a couple ornery hogs in the audience,” she says, grinning, showing her fangs. “Well, ain’t nobody keepin’ you here. If you go on squealin’, someone’s liable to shut you up.”

One of the frat kids hurls a bottle. It smashes against the back wall of the stage.

“Hey, now!” the band’s drummer calls, ducking. “C’mon, there’s no need for that!”

The grumpus next to Gramble, who seemed to be a part of that group, grabs his own bottle and starts to move his arm back. Gramble grabs him by the wrist, using his other hand to yank the bottle out of the other grump’s paw. “Cut it out!” he tells them, baring his own teeth. Out the corner of his eye he can see the two coolers the bar employed moving toward the bar. They’re both big, but so are the frat kids…

The guy he’d grabbed snarls, ripping his arm out of Gramble’s hold. He’s got golden fur, and two sets of slightly-crooked fangs. “You want me to throw you instead, pipsqueak?”

“You wanna lose a hand?” Gramble snaps in return. “Quit actin’ like you were raised by raccoons, you goddamn fool!”

He hears glass shatter as one of the other frat kids jumps off their stool, swinging a paw at the cooler who’d reached him. The rest of them seem to take this as a sign to do the same, converging on the coolers with teeth and claws bared. However, Gramble doesn’t see what happens next as the grumpus next to him grabs him under the arms and slams him onto the bar. Gramble yelps, coughing as the wind is knocked out of him.

“You hicks take everything too personal, you know that?” The frat kid growls, looming over Gramble. “Ain’t even worth it to bite you. I’d probably get some kinda disease.”

Gramble kicks him in the chest. He grunts and staggers a little, enough to give Gramble a second to sit up, only for the frat kid to come back and punch him directly in the nose. Gramble sees stars, reeling and nearly tumbling off the bar, digging his claws into the marked wood of the counter to keep himself from falling. Blood dribbles from his nose and lip, bitter and metallic. Hopefully the jerk had cut his knuckles on one of Gramble’s teeth.

Still dizzy from the punch, he feels strong hands seize him by the shoulders and twists around, blindly snapping his jaws shut over frat kid’s arm. The frat kid curses, grabbing Gramble by the neck with his free hand. He digs his claws into the thick ruff surrounding it, either to try and yank Gramble’s jaws off or strangle him. Gramble had let his fur grow long and shaggy around his neck and shoulders and it thankfully keeps those claws from getting in too deep.

“Asshole! You’re gonna wreck my jacket!” he hears the frat kid cry as they struggle together. Maybe, Gramble thinks, he should have thought of that before starting a bar fight. In the darkness of the roadhouse he can see the other kids still embroiled in a brawl with the coolers and several of the other patrons, though it’s impossible to tell who’s on what side by now. Nothing he can see but a lot of flying fur and flashing fangs under the neon lights. He shoves the frat kid’s arm away from his neck, wincing as those claws tear some of his fur out.

A building roar from outside catches the attention of some of the patrons, who extract themselves from the brawl and look towards the door. It’s the guttural growl of a motorcycle, a huge one from the sound, drawing closer until it stops in the parking lot and sputters out. Most of the patrons scurry back to their tables, leaving the frat kids standing by the bar, puzzled and disheveled. The guy holding onto Gramble lets him go so he slides off the bar and falls onto the floor with a thud, knocking one of the stools over.

“What?” he hears one of them grunt.

The doors swing open as another grumpus enters, ducking slightly just to get through the doorway. Even from the other side of the room, Gramble can see she towers head and shoulders above most of the other patrons and is broader by at least half, and these were not small grumpuses. Each thump of her dinner-plate-sized paws on the floor makes the cutlery laid out on the tables jingle musically as she approaches. Her fur is the color of pine needles. The bar lights glint ruby in her eyes.

She frowns down at the frat kids, at their neon orange leader. “Is there a problem, here?” Her voice is a deep, husky growl, the sort you could feel in your ribs. In the bar lights Gramble can see the glimmer of a badge pinned to her leather jacket.

“No problem,” the leader holds his hands up defensively, a cowed smile on his face. She doesn’t even have to bare her own teeth. Her sheer bulk is enough. “We were just havin’ a good time.”

“I know your kind. You’re too stupid to have a good time.” She lashes out, grabbing a fistful of his scruff and dragging him towards the door like a kitten. He briefly tries to struggle before giving up, letting her hurl him out of the roadhouse like a sack of stale hamburger buns. As she turns back to the rest of the group, they sheepishly file out, the one Gramble had bitten clutching his bleeding arm.

“Thank you so much for comin’ by, officer Timberheart,” Gramble hears the bar’s owner (not Champy himself, but his son, Shester) say as he emerges from the office he’d been hiding in. Timberheart, huh, Gramble thinks to himself. So that was her name. It sounds so sturdy. A perfect fit for her.

“Aw, it’s no problem,” Ms. Timberheart tells him. “I was already in the neighborhood.”

“Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

“Maybe next time, but thanks.”

With the commotion now died down, the conversation of the other guests begins to filter back in as everyone takes their seats again, resuming whatever they’d been doing before the fight had started. Gramble starts to pick himself up but stumbles, grabbing for one of the barstools. Maybe he’d been hit harder than he thought…

The noise gets Timberheart’s attention. She turns towards him, picking up the downed stool as she crouches. Even now she towers at least a good two feet over him when he’s standing. He blinks up at her concerned expression. She’s got a very soft face, now that he can see it clearly. Her eyes are big and gentle, her features framed by her thick, fluffy coat. Her nose is even shaped like a heart.

“You alright there?” She asks him. “Looks like they roughed you up good.”

“Ah…” Gramble’s not sure if he’s still reeling from the punch, but his stomach for sure feels knotted up, and he hadn’t even been hit there. “…y-yeah, I’m alright. I tried to stop one of ‘em from throwin’ stuff at the band. He didn’t appreciate it...”

“Good of you to try.” She grabs a handful of napkins from the counter, handing them to him. “Here, get yourself cleaned up. I swear, these out-of-towners think they can just swagger in here like they own the place, cause a ruckus and then leave when things start to get a lil’ too spicy.”

Gramble presses the napkins to his bleeding nose, noting with a twinge of disappointment that she’s got a gold wedding band around one of her fingers. Ah, well. Nothing stopping him from getting to know her. “I dunno how some folks can act like that… Like they were raised by wild animals.”

“That’s a little unkind to wild animals, don’t you think?” She chuckles. “What’s your name? Haven’t seen you around, I don’t think.”

“Oh, it’s… I’m Gramble.” Sniffling, Gramble smiles, hoping there’s no blood still on his teeth. “I guess I’m kinda new in town. Been livin’ here for about a year, now.”

“Gramble? You’re a friend of Wambus and Triff’s, ain’tcha? They said they were entertainin’ some sorta house guest when I saw ‘em a while back. Anyway.” She offers him a massive paw, one he could easily fit both his own in with room to spare. “Name’s Beautricia, but everyone just calls me Boots.”

Gramble accepts the paw, giving it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Boots! I hope I’ll see you around?”

“Oh, you will.” She smiles, showing just a hint of her fangs. “Take care now, Gramble. Enjoy the rest of the show.”

[thedefinitionofendgame]

baseball takes your mind off things

Slexie, Merder and Cristowen one-shot | Rated T | Canon-compliant with 6x03

A/N: The baseball scene at the end of 6.03 after Lexie doesn’t get fired with the hospital cuts (and neither did Meredith or Cristina). Will go down as one of my favourite “couples” scenes on grey’s and I literally don’t know why. Maybe because everyone looks so happy, and both Derek and Meredith are cool with Mark and Lexie being together. All is well, aka the calm before the storm that is the Mercy West merger.

•

You can read this work on ao3 and fanfiction.net as well

Written and cover by @thedefinitionofendgame (aka me)

It was just six doctors off-duty-three medical students, three well-known surgeons-all just messing around with baseballs and beer bottles in their hands. For the surgeons, it was another night of fun with their girls and the boys. For the medical students, it was a way to take the edge off as they had all just survived the first round of merger cuts. Meredith wasn’t surprised all three of the women had made it; they were all more than capable. Cristina especially, although sometimes her actions were a little questionable. Lexie, as Meredith’s younger sister, had a legacy to live up to but she also was becoming a very talented surgeon. Mark never hesitated to tell her that.

Meredith was still trying to figure Mark Sloan out. Sure, he was a player and slept around a lot prior to getting together with Lexie Grey. It was one of the reasons why Meredith was very against Derek’s best friend and Lexie at first. She was the one who told Derek to tell Mark to keep “little Mark” in his pants when it came to Lexie. That was her first mistake, because all it seemed to do was make Mark want Lexie; a guy clearly likes the challenge of fooling around with someone he can’t have. Although they weren’t just fooling around; Lexie loved Mark and Mark loved Lexie. Lexie had assured Meredith he wasn’t taking advantage of her and that they were going to be together, blessing or not. Meredith didn’t want to lose her sister that she had only recently found out she had, so she caved. Now here she was, with her sister, her best friend, her husband, his best friend, and then Owen. Meredith supposed everyone had a connection to her somehow, except for Owen Hunt. Sure, he was her best friend’s boyfriend but they weren’t super close. Anyways, that wasn’t the point.

The point was that Meredith, Cristina and Lexie had all made the first round of cuts. Cristina had to go and put a damper on their good news by stating it was the first round of more to come. Nevertheless, Meredith was happy for all of them. The men had decided that a game of baseball was in order, not so much a game as a chance to blow off some steam. Originally, Cristina was going to stay at the hospital, and Meredith with her. Then Owen came along with beers and announced that baseball was necessary, rounding up Meredith and Derek. They found Mark comforting Lexie in the foyer; Meredith’s first thought was that she had been cut when she saw the tears on Lexie’s cheeks. But they were actually tears of joy, and Mark was doing his boyfriend-ly job by soothing her regardless of it being a victory or loss.

Okay, maybe former-womanizer Mark Sloan could be a good guy. Guess he just had to find the right girl.

Meredith snapped back to focus to cheer Cristina on, after she managed to hit the baseball flying at her face. Lexie wanted a turn next, so she handed her beer off to Mark, slapped one of the helmets on her head and headed to take a crack at it. Derek, who was playing back catcher, caught Meredith’s eye and winked; he really did love his complicated-but-loving wife.

Meredith and him, well they’re love story hadn’t been a smooth one. It started with a one-night stand that ended up being taken to work of all places. Turns out Seattle wasn’t as large as they thought. But Derek wouldn’t change all the bumps in the road, including his ex-wife coming back into his life and then leaving almost as fast, to go back and not meet Meredith. She was his endgame, his ride-or-die and his forever. Post-it or not, they would always be married and love each other until the ends of the Earth.

It was the love he felt for Meredith, that made him reconcile things with Mark. Mark Sloan had had the tendency to make jackass moves all his life; sleeping with Addison being one of many. But specifically going against Derek’s only ask that he didn’t date Lexie, well that had been a bit far. They had fought it out like teenage boys, despite the fact they were grown men, and with the girls’ help had then talked it out. Mark had assured him that Lexie wasn’t another fling that he’d get rid of in a couple weeks. She was the real-deal. And even though Derek doubted it at first, there was no denying that Mark Sloan loved Little Grey. It took Mark a lot to ever say the word “love” about a girl, for the long term. Confessing his relationship status to Derek had been tough, but it only made Derek realize how much Mark actually cared for Lexie; he was willing to lose his best friend over the girl he loved.

Derek liked Meredith’s “sisters” both the blood-related and the symbolic one. Cristina Yang was all shades of talented, and while she wasn’t all smiley like Lexie, she knew how to perform surgery like a boss. She and Meredith had been there for each other through a lot, and Meredith needed good friends like Cristina. She needed her “person”; someone who would be there through the thick and thin. Best friends don’t come along often, and Derek of all people knew that in regards to Mark. His and Mark’s friendship hadn’t been smooth-sailing, but deep down they cared for each other. He was the brother Derek never had, because God or someone else had cursed him with sisters.

Crouching behind the batter, who at the moment was Lexie Grey, Derek turned his attention to the baseball winding up inside the machine. Owen Hunt had been speaking all kinds of smartness when he told Cristina she needed to focus on what was in front of her, in that very moment. The ex-army trauma surgeon did know what he was talking about and while he didn’t always make the best choices, he sure knew how to give a short but sweet peptalk. Derek smacked his hand into the glove and waited, ready for whatever life threw at him.

They took shot after shot, of both alcohol (well more like sips) and baseball. It was a wild night, as the three couples laughed and had fun just being. No cares were in their minds anymore; even Cristina had stopped fretting about the next round of cuts. Meredith had Derek’s jackets wrapped around her shoulders, while Lexie snuck drinks of Mark’s beer, and Owen helped Cristina work on her swing stance. It was peaceful and though Cristina didn’t like to admit it, her boyfriend’s idea was a good one.

It felt good to clear her head, to take her mind off the rush at the hospital. Nothing could ever feel as good as the rush of surgery but hitting a baseball swung mighty close. At least in this moment right now. She might feel differently if she woke up the next morning with a sore arm from taking hits all evening. Although Owen had already whispered in her ear about promising to massage her back if her muscles were tight. It was an opportunity Cristina was prepared to take full advantage of.

She and Owen were something else. Not fierce, but good. Comfortable. They were good together and they knew what the other wanted, at least they both thought they did. Sure, they would never get married on a post-it note like Meredith and Derek had, although who could really match with Meredith and Derek? They were utterly perfect and utterly in love. It was a miracle they were here tonight, actually, and not Christening more surfaces in the house. “Newlyweds” had been their excuse, according to Lexie. Little Grey was here tonight having a blast and the beer in her system made her a little more rowdy than normal. Cristina couldn’t help but enjoy this new side of Lexie.

Mark was also enjoying it, watching his girl jump up and down when she hit the ball square on the bat, making a nice crack sound and sending the little white sphere tumbling through the air. He wouldn’t help but stare at her ass too, because damn did Little Grey have a nice ass. She had a nice everything, but of her physical features her ass was his favourite. Mark shook his head as Derek stepped up to plate next; he did not want to think of his best friend’s ass at all.

It was Owen who was the most observing throughout the night. He watched his girlfriend loosen up and start to feel more like her regular self. Cristina was normally uptight but she had been very uptight recently. A night of hitting a ball around was clearly doing some good, and it was good to see Mark and Derek getting along as though nothing had happened between them. Owen didn’t know much about the fistfight that went down, besides the fact that Derek had thrown the first punch, but whatever it was hadn’t managed to tear the two guys apart. If the cost was being the third wheel amongst the bros for them to get along, then Owen was happy to pay the price.

At last everyone started to lose energy, and the baseball night drew to a close. Lexie took off her sweaty helmet and threw it into the back of Mark’s vehicle. She said goodbye to her sister and her husband with hugs; Cristina and Owen got a wave as they headed for the opposite side of the parking lot. Mark drove away with a smile on his face and Lexie’s fingers interlaced with his.

They didn’t speak, but Lexie knew what he was feeling. They were happy, they had their jobs and they loved each other. That was all that mattered; it was all that ever mattered. Tonight had been a whirlwind, though Lexie loved it. She loved her life, she loved the man sitting beside her, and she loved her newfound sister. Life was good.

So good, in fact, that she didn’t even think about the Mercy West merger that was about to take place.

Not one thought.

[docholligay]

Chinese Food in The American West

One of the things I frequently come across as a student of the American West* is that people get most of their information from movies and TV and then act like they know things. Wyatt Earp was not a Lawful Good champion who always did his level best even when it was hard to know. (You want Seth Bullock or Bass Reeves). Racism was far more complicated than white vs not white (I’ve talked about this EXTENSIVELY in Strange Empire, so I’m not going to bore you here**). 

And they didn’t just eat steak. In fact, they rarely ate steak. 

Steak as cowboy food isn’t INACCURATE, but it is MODERN. From about the early 1900s on, you had less and less drives and more and more ranchers who were staying put, with less and less hands needed, and so food was grabbed less “on the go.” Cows could be slaughtered and used to feed the family, allowing for more opportunities for things like steak, yes, but also things like chili, a play on sauerbraten, southern-style biscuits. The cattle drives were a real blend of culture and race, and a lot of what we have left as “Western food” owes a great deal to that. 

And if we leave the cattle drives and head into the towns of the American West, as we will today, we find things like oysters, pies, and various things like that. Far more well-heeled than the general expectation. 

I mean, here’s the menu from the Occidental Saloon circa the late 1880s:

Soups

Chicken Giblet and Consumme, with Egg

Fish

Columbia River Salmon, au Beurre Noir

Relieves

Filet a Boeuf, a la Financier

Leg of Lamb, Sauce, Oysters

Cold Meats

Loin of Beef, Loin of Ham, Loin of Pork, Westphalia Ham, Corned Beef, Imported Lunches

Boiled Meats

Leg of Mutton, Ribs of Beef, Corned Beef and Cabbage, Russian River Bacon

Entrees

Pinons a Poulett, aux Champignons

Cream Fricasse of Chicken, Asparagus Points

Lapine Domestique, a la Matire d'Hote

Casserole d'Ritz aux Oeufs, a la Chinoise

Ducks of Mutton, Braze, with Chipoluta Ragout

California Fresh Peach, a la Conde

Roasts

Loin of Beef, Loin of Mutton, Leg of Pork

Apple Sauce, Suckling Pig, with Jelly, Chicken Stuffed Veal

Pastry

Peach, Apple, Plum, and Custard Pies

English Plum Pudding, Hard Sauce, Lemon Flavor

This dinner will be served for 50 cents.

-I got this from the book “Saloons of the Old West” by Erdoes

But none of that is precisely why I’m here, I just can’t stop myself from talking about this, why I’m here is that one of the things I say that often surprises people, is that Chinese food was incredibly common for the, well, common man to eat. There’s very much a conception that we as a non-Chinese American  people did not start eating Chinese food until the 40s and 50s, and its truer that it took longer to catch on in the American East than the West simply as a matter of proximity and choice. 

Not MORE choice but LESS. Part of what made the West so unique, historically, is that the lack of choice and the basic scarcity caused people to work with and patronize people that their general prejudices would have kept them from using back east, because they had CHOICES. But out in the west, less so. There were few choices for a quick, cheap meal on the go. That dinner I just posted above is a lavish affair, and a great deal at approximately $20.00 in today’s money. (Which does not allow for the fact that cost of supplies has gone up and this dinner would most likely be offered for no less than 70 or so today.) 

People desperately wanted something that was cheap and quick, and the other options in the American West were few, far between, and not intensely pleasing. No one had really come up with the sandwich shop as of yet, and in any case, fresh meats and cheeses would have been too difficult for the low-cost supplier. 

ENTER THE CHINESE POPULATION.

If you have read my Strange Empire blogs, I hope you know that Chinese people were a huge presence in the American West, mostly working for the railroad and various mines, but also doing things like laundry, work that was extremely hard but took little in the way of English speaking. They existed in Chinatowns, for a combination of cultural and legal factors, but it’s a misconception that non-Chinese*** people never went to Chinatown. 

People are not new, and it was not unusual for non-Chinese people to use the laundries, tailoring, and other services of Chinatowns while suppressing the rights of Chinese people int he same breath. There were always individual Chinese people any given non-Chinese person liked and did business with. 

In time, they discovered the inherent wisdom of the noodle bowl. 

I don’t mean to suggest that all these early restaurants served was noodle bowls, but that was where it all started. Remember, Italian food had little prominence in America at the this time, as Italian immigration didn’t really get into full swing until the 1870s in America. While there are noodle traditions half of everywhere, and there is nothing new under the sun, what we today would consider a stir-fry bowl was wildly new to most of the non-Chinese folks in the West. That it could be offered up so cheaply, was so filling, and so delicious (more on this later) was a wild revelation. Everyone from simple cowboys (which, fun fact! Was a slur back then!) to mayors were swinging by Chinatowns to try the dishes. 

By the 1920s, chop suey, a fully Chinese American invention derived from the words for “various leftovers” was a hugely popular American food among all sorts. 

Doc, you may ask, was it just that these folks coming through to get medicines or laundry were SO adventurous? Not at all! Chinese restaurants back then actually, in a very short amount of time, realized that their non-Chinese townsfolk were an excellent way to make money as well, and began to adapt and change dishes to better fit the Western palate, leading what we call American Chinese Food today, which is a legitimate foodway I will defend to my death. Unfortunately, none of these menus survive today--the only ones we have are from places in San Francisco, places that were much more posh, and not the subject of this essay. 

There is a scene in Tombstone where Wyatt and his brothers are eating Chinese food, and it’s one of the things people often ask me about, assuming it’s anachronistic. Actually, it isn’t at all--the anachronism is that there’s broccoli in those noodle bowls, which had not yet hit our shores by the time of the OK Corral. Chinese food was a huge hit, Chinese restaurants were doing extremely well, and some Chinese restaurants were even beginning to attempt to print menus in English, with sit down areas, instead of serving simple fare from food carts. 

As the food from these “chow chow houses” grew in popularity, as we can infer from the advertisements of their competitors promising free potatoes with every meal, and other such niceties to entice, there was, as ever there must be, blowback. Anti-Chinese sentiment grew to a fever pitch, and with this came overt pressure for ‘Good Americans” to patronize ‘American restaurants’. The social pressure is actually where we get some of that old racist jargon about Chinese people serving dogs and cats, which people often think was spread by competitors to degrade the Chinese restaurants, which isn’t UNTRUE, but was just as often said sheepishly by someone who couldn’t stop themselves from going and grabbing a noodle bowl or even the American dishes they offered, such as roast chicken or pork chop sandwiches. 

(I won’t comment with anything but an eyeroll on the bullshit of people saying they’re ~allergic to MSG~ okay I’ll believe you when you stop eating processed food, meat, aged cheese) 

It actually kept this type of reputation as being slightly scandalous well into the early 1900s, as being something you ate after the bar, something to be had in the shadows, but it was all for naught, because Chinese food became an important part of American identity. But for all that, no one ever pictures the Lone Ranger chowing down (the American phrase ‘chow’ for food actually comes from these ‘chow chow houses’) on some chop suey, but there’s every reason to believe he would have. American Chinese food is just as American as the Germanically-influenced hamburger. 

(There’s a whole subtopic to go down about Jewish and Chinese communities and Kosher Chinese Food, two marginalized and othered communities coming together, but that’s a WHOLE other topic) 

(Also someone please buy me Chinese food. This shit always makes me so hungry.) 

*The American West is a specific time period, as far as the study of history goes. It covers the period between the end of the Civil War and the New Century, generally, and is, obviously, concerned with the western half of the country. It doesn’t cover stuff like Lewis and Clark (that’s Expansion) or even the Civil War itself, though you cannot possibly hope to study the American West in any level of seriousness without understanding the Civil War. Anyway! I know a lot about America between 1865 and 1900, and am just knowledgeable enough to be dangerous on everything else. Most History nerds are highly specified like this. We’re not as much help to your trivia team as you think.****

**I actually have had little chance to talk about ~European-style xenophobia~ as it played out in the west, because Strange Empire takes a more modern pass at it. But there was a hierarchy of “whiteness” as well, as still largely exists in Europe, land of intentionally clean ethnostates. 

***I use the term “non-Chinese” instead of white because believe it or not, non-white people were not magically free of racism against Chinese people. It was horrific and BASICALLY every non-Chinese person was guilty of it to some level, a wild-ass level of hatred that led to Chinese folks not being able to PURCHASE PROPERTY BY LAW in ENTIRE STATES. Being Chinese or Native in this place and time was your Worst Bet. 

****I actually was on a competitive trivia team, you DO want me.

[tabloidtoc]

National Enquirer, March 15

You can buy a copy of this issue for your very own at my eBay store: https://www.ebay.com/str/bradentonbooks

Cover: Tiger Woods' car crash

Page 2: Bruce Springsteen has beaten the DUI charges leveled against him after federal prosecutors couldn't find a drop of evidence he had been drinking over the legal limit -- with an acceptable blood alcohol level of 0.02 well below the 0.08 threshold at the time of his arrest in Sandy Hook, New Jersey, prosecutors backed off two of their charges for drunken and reckless driving -- the rocker did plead guilty to a third charge, admitting he had two small shots of tequila on federal parkland and for that, he was fines $500 plus $40 in court costs

Page 3: Patrick Dempsey's dreamy return to Grey's Anatomy was a big hit with fans but his well-received cameo left series star Ellen Pompeo seething with jealousy -- Ellen may have permitted Patrick to revisit his old stomping grounds in Meredith Grey's fever dreams in season 17 but she doesn't want him coming back permanently and swiping her hard-earned glory and she considers herself the anchor of the show and thought she was rid of this guy after making the show her own, but now fans are begging for him to be brought back and Ellen is furious -- it's no secret Ellen hated the first 10 years of the show when Patrick was the star and she feels the series got better after he left and she became a big-shot producer, something she'd been demanding for years -- she likes being in control and calling the shots and clearly thinks she got this deal on her merit alone but it's also because she's the star who's lasted the longest; most of the original cast had already left and bosses had to cave in to keep her -- unfortunately being in charge hasn't amounted to better ratings and show has been slipping consistently in recent years and the main reason they brought Patrick back on was to spike the ratings, which it did and now producers are considering offering Patrick a full-time gig but Ellen will do everything in her power to prevent Patrick from stealing her thunder again

Page 4: Home reno gurus Chip and Joanna Gaines are clashing over his wild spending, and she's desperate to rein him in before they land in the poorhouse -- Chip and Jo are rich on paper and worth $20 million in property and assets but they were hit hard by the pandemic like everyone else and recovery has been sluggish to say the least -- they're just getting back on their feet and under a ton of pressure to get their Magnolia network off to a running start but Chip, as usual, is casual when it comes to money and it frustrates Jo to see him buying things they don't need, like new tools and equipment when the old ones work just fine and overpaying on lumber and masonry -- Chip is always shopping and not always for the house; he's got a boot fetish and has dozens of pairs, plus he treats the crew to free cappuccino and treats from their coffeehouse several time a day and Chip wants the best of everything for himself and everyone else

* Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds are ready to welcome baby number four through adoption -- the couple who are parents of daughters James and Inez and Betty hope to find their next child in South America and they've invested time and money sponsoring immigrant children and they're warming up to the idea of providing an orphaned baby or toddler with a forever home -- a 16-year-old girl they sponsored through the Young Center for Immigrant Children's Rights was deported back to Honduras and they were heartbroken, and Blake and Ryan are now determined to provide a child with a happy home and opportunities he or she wouldn't have in their native country

Page 5: Newlyweds Pamela Anderson and Dan Hayhurst are itching to start a family and are already trying for a baby of their own -- 53-year-old Pam tied the knot with the 40-year-old handyman on Christmas Eve at her Vancouver Island home and she's been telling pals they hope to have happy news soon -- Pam wants to build a whole new clan with Dan and he's on board even though they each have kids with their exes and Dan's two kids from a previous relationship are living with the couple at Pam's pad -- the couple love the idea of adopting or going the surrogate route and it's not something they want to waste any time over

Page 6: Weary Kelly Clarkson is juggling her skyrocketing career and brutal divorce battle with estranged husband Brandon Blackstock on less than six hours sleep a night and Kelly has also been pushing to sell her homes in Nashville and Encino, while running her L.A.-based talk show and recording new music -- she's been running herself ragged for months and she's feeling the burn in a big way but despite her exhaustion, she can't sleep and nothing she tries works and the most shut-eye she catches is two, three hours at a time; she lays awake in bed at night worrying and crying

* Suddenly remorseful Kanye West has spiraled into depression and despair since soon-to-be ex-wife Kim Kardashian filed for divorce -- for all their problems, Kanye realizes she was the one person who was there for him whenever he went off the deep end and now he knows he's alone and seriously doubts he can hold his life together -- without Kim and her family to keep his wild impulses in check, he may succumb to the poor judgment and wild mood swings that have marked his chronic bipolar disorder as they were the ones who reminded him to take his meds and steer clear of recreational drugs and now all he has is a circle of yes-men he doesn't listen to anyway -- since the split, Kanye has shuttled between his ranch in Cody, Wyoming and a hotel in L.A. near the sprawling mansion he once shared with Kim and he's been blowing up her phone to beg forgiveness, but she won't take his calls and it's driving him off the deep end again

Page 7: Kourtney Kardashian is fed up with Shanna Moakler's online barbs and is plotting her revenge against the ex-wife of her new squeeze -- since Kourtney and Blink-182 drummer Travis Barker went public with their romance last month, former pageant queen Shanna has been throwing social media shade and Kourtney's tired of taking Shanna's crap and she's going to fire back soon and Kourtney's using her wide network of contacts in Hollywood to bad-mouth Shanna and she's placing calls to casting directors and perspective suitors to put as many potholes in her love rival's path as possible and she plans to make Shanna regret messing with her

Page 8: Nearly two years after Johnny Depp was forced to exit Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean franchise following ex-wife Amber Heard's allegations of abuse, the company has kicked him while he's down by considering her for a plum part -- Johnny is fuming over news that Amber is reportedly in contention to play fairy-tale heroine Rapunzel in the studio's upcoming live-action remake of Tangled -- for Amber to be in the running for a Disney pic is the ultimate insult to him especially because he believes the company made millions of dollars off his name

Page 9: Prince Harry and his wife Meghan Markle had a whopping $500 million motive to betray Queen Elizabeth -- outraged at being cut loose by the British royals, the couple retaliated by secretly negotiating backroom Hollywood megadeals and going public on TV -- Harry and Meghan see themselves as victims of an out-of-touch monarchy and want revenge and selling out Harry's family is the way to get it and cash in big-time; Meghan's convinced they'll have deals totaling $500 million by the end of the year but they better act fast because Hollywood is a fickle town where even royalty can be chewed up and spat out

Page 10: Hot Shots -- Amelia Hamlin stuck to the shore while pink-haired beau Scott Disick made waves in Miami, Steve Martin nibbled on a pretzel while filming Only Murders in the Building in NYC, Floyd Mayweather turned 44 and celebrated with a birthday bash in Miami, Bachelorette reject Tyler Cameron showed off his toned tummy in Florida

Page 11: Drew Barrymore feels deeply for dad-controlled Britney Spears because she's been there: she said her mom locked her away in a loony bin for over a year when she was just 13 -- Drew said it's hard to grow up in front of people and she empathizes with Britney and Paris Hilton and any star who can't escape the glare of celebrity -- Drew's mom put her in a place that was a full psychiatric ward and says she used to laugh at those Malibu 30-day places because she was in a place for a year and a half called Van Nuys Psychiatric and you couldn't mess around there and if you did, you would either get thrown in the padded room or put in stretcher restraints and tied up

* Eddie Murphy famously bragged he has never changed a diaper in his life despite having so many kids and now he's set on having another baby with fiancee Paige Butcher and this will make baby No. 11 for Eddie -- he says his genes are incredible as ever, so why stop; he's super fit and Paige is in amazing shape at age 41 and wants at least one more baby so they're going to go for it and are already trying

Page 12: Straight Shuter gossip column -- CNN could blitz news veteran Wolf Blitzer as the network revamps its lineup and TV is a young person's game and no one knows that better than Wolf and after 31 years at CNN, he sees new faces getting promoted and knows his days are numbered and Jim Acosta and Poppy Harlow are the future of CNN, not Wolf -- although Wolf's airtime has been cut as Jake Tapper's role expands, he isn't bitter or angry but instead he's grateful for an amazing run

* Love It or List It star Hilary Farr is moving on to her own show and leaving partner David Visentin in the dust -- Hilary's new show is basically the same one she and David have been doing for years, with him edited out and David was blindsided by the news and he knows HGTV has sent out a casting notice for the new show and he's hurt and angry especially because Love It or List It hasn't been renewed yet

* Sacked Dancing with the Stars host Tom Bergeron has reached out to Chris Harrison after he stepped away from The Bachelor amid a racist scandal -- Tom wasn't fired over a scandal, but he knows exactly what Chris is going through because both of them thought they had a job for life, but nothing lasts forever -- Tom is a good guy and wants Chris to know he's around if Chris needs anything

* Tom Felton, who played Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter films, spruced up for the camera (picture)

Page 13: Brooke Shields isn't letting a busted leg keep her down but she's taking her recovery one step at a time -- she shared an Instagram video showing her cautiously hobbling on crutches and explained she broker her femur and she was beginning to mend -- she didn't reveal what caused the unlucky break

* Outspoken actress Rose McGowan is living a charmed life in Mexico and the Harvey Weinstein accuser has headed south of the border and vows never to return to the United States -- she got her permanent residency card from Mexico and is grateful to have it and says it's a really healing land and it is truly magical -- she moved at the dawn of the COVID-19 pandemic because she knew it was going to get really bad in America and she had a moment to figure out where she wanted to be

* Picky perfectionist Blake Shelton listens to around 300 songs to choose what to record for each of his albums, according to his longtime producer -- music pro Scott Hendricks said he wades through nearly 3000 tracks by professional songwriters to select tunes for Blake to consider and then Blake methodically whittles down the nominees until he's certain which songs he wants to record but Scott admitted that process is more difficult for him culling the 300 from the 3000 -- Scott, who has worked with Blake for most of his career, said of their close professional relationship that the chemistry works and they have recorded several hundred or more songs together and they are getting ready to go do some more

Page 14: Crime

Page 15: Killer kingpin Joaquin "El Chapo" Guzman's busted beauty queen bride will be marked for death behind bars -- if Emma Coronel Aispuro snitches to the feds about the bloodthirsty Mexican Sinaloa drug cartel long run by her caged husband, she'll put a big fat bulls-eye on her back -- according to a federal complaint, Coronel was intimately involved in her husband's multibillion-dollar drug-running racket and acted as his criminal agent while he was on the lam and the mother of El Chapo's two young daughters helped mastermind her spouse's daring 2015 tunnel escape from a Mexican prison and also paid him $100,000 for another failed bust-out a year later -- they are going to put the heat on her to spill more details on other top operatives in the cartel and take them down, too, but if she spills, it will be open season on her on the inside

Page 16: Dr. Dre appears to rap about estranged wife Nicole Young in a song filled with angry, explicit lyrics calling someone in his life a greedy bitch -- DJ Silk previewed part of a new track from Dre full of digs presumably at Nicole, with whom he has been locked in a nasty divorce -- his lyrics include: Trying to kill me with them lies and that perjury/ I see you trying to f--k me while I'm in surgery / In ICU death bed on some money s--t / Greedy bitch take a pic / Girl you know how money get

* Hollywood Hookups -- Lorenzo Lamas is set to wed for the sixth time to model Kenna Scott, Justin Hartley and Chrishell Stause are officially divorced, Adam Rippon is engaged to Jussi-Pekka Kajaala

Page 17: Former Home Improvement kid Zachery Ty Bryan has pleaded guilty to two felony counts of domestic violence -- Zachery, now 39, has been sentenced to three years of probation and will also have to take part in a batterer intervention program

* John Mayer has dated a succession of famous singers including Katy Perry, Taylor Swift and Halsey and he hopes they write chart-topping songs about him and admitted he'd be jazzed if his exes enshrined him in song, saying sometimes a song is so good he hopes it's about him and he even scours their lyrics for clues -- Taylor already has several tracks that have been linked to John including Dear John

* Ruthless chef Gordon Ramsay said he's cooked up his own plan to keep his kids humble -- he has five kids with wife Tana: Megan, twins Holly and Jack, Tilly and Oscar but said he plans to leave most of his reported $200 million fortune to charity -- Gordon explained his kids must tidy up after dinners, can only fly coach and are expected to learn how to cook for themselves and he's forbidden them from taking costly taxis and the foulmouthed foodie insisted they don't swear

Page 18: American Life

Page 19: Roseanne Barr was blindsided by a humiliating new scandal after risque photos from the early '90s recently emerged which appear to show her teenage daughters licking her boobs -- Roseanne posed for the shots with her two youngest girls at a Glamour Shots studio in Iowa more than 25 years ago and the photographer who claimed he snapped the fake lesbian lovefest but did not want to be named dished Roseanne and daughters Jessica and Jennifer who are now in their mid-40s happily hammed it up for the camera but decades later Roseanne and her daughters are all mortified and embarrassed by these pics; they were horsing around years ago and never thought they'd see the light of day

Page 20: Cover Story -- Still recovering from agonizing back surgery, Tiger Woods was pushing himself to the limit when he flew off a California cliff into a career-crushing car accident -- lawmen said the golf legend was lucky to be alive after the horrific wreck that shattered his right leg -- the accident only added to Tiger's physical problems; his movement has been restricted since a fifth back operation in December and he was unable to play golf despite an appearance at a local tournament the weekend before the bloody wreck -- at a press conference days before cheating death, Tiger admitted he was worried about his physical condition and his ability to play again, saying a lot of it is based on his surgeons and doctors and therapist and making sure he does it correctly and he doesn't have a lot of wiggle room left -- Tiger could barely move, and it seemed to get him down and his back rehab has been brutal and he was hobbling around and distraught but he refused to give into his condition and his tough-as-nails mindset could have contributed to the crash: when a person is overwhelmed by physical pain, that dominates everything they do and if you're behind the wheel of a car and in physical pain, it can distract you and likely lead to this kind of disaster -- Tiger was eager to get to a TV taping on the morning disaster struck and he seemed impatient when he left the Terranea Resort in Rancho Palos Verdes, an L.A. suburb, just after 7 a.m. and although traffic cameras show he was driving within the speed limit, his Genesis GV80 SUV crossed the center median onto the opposite side of the road and flipped -- authorities said Tiger appeared lucid to first responders and there were no signs the recovering addict was under the influence of alcohol or drugs and they did not request a blood test when Tiger was rushed to the hospital from the crash site and the incident was an accident -- Tiger was taken to nearby Harbor-UCLA Medical Center, where doctors said his broken bones protruded through his right leg and they put a rod in his leg and used screws and pins to stabilize the break and his ankle -- it will take three to four months to heal and then eight months of physical therapy and it is unlikely he will ever run again and he may have a limp and in terms of golf, just walking for extended periods of time will be a big deal and recovery will be agonizing; it's a very real possibility that Tiger's taken his final swing

Page 21: Addiction experts warned Tiger Woods' recovery will test his sobriety after his stint in rehab for prescription painkiller use and it is very, very common for a patient in recovery to relapse after a trauma like the one suffered by Tiger and exposure to painkillers administered directly or prescribed after a physical trauma is highly likely to trigger a relapse -- Tiger will probably need painkillers to get through this, but he'll also need to be connected with like-minded people to keep him away from his old thinking that pills are the solution to his problems

Page 22: Desperate Ghislaine Maxwell has offered to renounce her British and French citizenships in a new bid to get out of jail -- the disgraced socialite's last two stabs at freedom including one package offering $22.5 million as bond money were rejected by a judge who deemed her a flight risk -- now according to her lawyers, Ghislaine will formally commence the procedure to renounce her foreign citizenship to satisfy any concerns the court may have that she may try to seek a safe haven in France or the U.K. -- Justice Department officials were concerned Ghislaine would flee to France, where she was born, since the country has no extradition treaty with the U.S.

* Woody Allen claimed his own words are being used to attack him in the bombshell Allen v. Farrow documentary -- Woody has repeatedly denied adopted daughter Dylan Farrow's claims he sexually abused her when she was seven at her mom Mia Farrow's home -- Woody blasted the documentary which rehashes the claims as a shoddy hit piece and a hatched job riddled with falsehoods adding the filmmakers stole from his autobiography

Page 26: Twice-divorced Ricki Lake's engagement to California attorney Ross Burningham has insiders fearing she may suffer yet another heartbreak -- she announced her happy news on Instagram but Ricki has seen far more than her share of bad luck in the romance department and everyone is praying this final shot at love doesn't end in despair and it's never Ricki's fault, but she's never found a man who could keep her happy

Page 28: A lurid landscape of drug-fueled orgies, suicidal thoughts and fake sexual enthusiasm will play out in a new television series based on model and reality star Holly Madison's X-rated confessions from her shocking 2015 biography Down the Bunny Hole -- Madison first exposed the sleazy details of how she and other young women were plied with drugs and coerced to participate in sex parties with Playboy founder Hugh Hefner in exchange for acting as his girlfriends and getting to live inside the iconic L.A. mansion along with a weekly $1000 stipend -- the limited series will star actress Samara Weaving as Holly, who was a member of Hef's harem between 2001 and 2008 -- Holly, Kendra Wilkinson and Bridget Marquardt became the notorious stars of the reality show The Girls Next Door which debuted in 2005 and focused on their seemingly glamorous life with Hef but glossed over the dark secrets behind the scenes -- in her bombshell confessions, Holly revealed the 22-bedroom manor was actually a foul pigsty filled with stained mattresses where Hef's live-in ladies were forced to perform weird bedroom rituals and look excited by it

Page 29: Jack Osbourne has listed his sprawling California home for rent at $16,500 a month -- the 35-year-old son of Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne is offering the five-bedroom, 5600-square-foot home in Studio City unfurnished -- Sharon was recently seen outside the home with moving vans helping Jack prep the property -- Jack, who suffers from multiple sclerosis, bought the home in 2014 when he was married to Lisa Stelly; the couple divorced in 2018 and share three children: Andy, Pearl and Minnie

* Heidi Klum has snipped all threads tying her to dad Gunther Klum after the cosmetics and modeling honcho skipped her wedding -- Heidi dumped her manager dad after he snubbed her August 2019 ceremony in Capri with guitarist Tom Kaulitz of the band Tokio Hotel and she has also ended her German enterprise Heidi Klum GmbH, originally overseen by Gunther -- Heidi and her dad had a falling out over Tom and Gunther never really approved of him and was dead set against the marriage and it drove a wedge in their relationship

Page 32: Health Watch

* Ask the Vet -- an African Gray Parrot with a feather-picking problem

Page 34: Barack Obama broke a buddy's nose over a racist remark -- he revealed the two classmates were playing basketball when his friend hurled a racial slur and he popped him in the face and broke his nose, Obama told Bruce Springsteen on their podcast Renegades: Born in the USA -- Obama said he doesn't think his pal even knew what the word meant, just that it was meant to be hurtful

* Country singer Keith Urban has shrunk to 140 pounds as the former addict is hooked on a bizarre diet of nuts and berries and even worse, the five-foot-ten crooner appears to be growing thinner and friends are worried the stress of his demanding career and his desperate desire to be a good husband to Nicole Kidman may push him over the edge -- no one sees him eating much more than handfuls of raw almonds or sunflower seeds and berries washed down with gallons of water -- though he's been sober since 2006, pals fear the struggle to avoid giving in to temptation as well as hearing Nicole purportedly mended fences with ex-hubby Tom Cruise may be weighing on the star -- despite his bony appearance, Keith thinks he looks great

Page 40: Evil ISIS terrorists are using the COVID-19 pandemic as cover while they rebuild their network and mastermind new attacks and both Iraq and the U.S. are in their crosshairs -- because the West has been focused on dealing with the pandemic, ISIS and new groups sprung from their shattered forces have been reloading and plotting revenge, according to Ryan Mauro of the terrorist-monitoring Clarion Intelligence Network -- the pandemic has brought decreased confidence in Western governments, which has emboldened the terrorists to launch sleeper cell attacks on foreign soil

Page 42: Red Carpet -- Anya Taylor-Joy

[potatocrab]

just a flesh wound

After being ambushed on their way back to Megaton, Rosie proves that only she can get away with bringing a knife to a gunfight. Butch stares on in wild amazement, though he’s a little annoyed by those feelings—don’t ask, it’s complicated.  

Butch DeLoria x Rosie Sheridan (Lone Wanderer)

2303 words | [read on Ao3] 

What was supposed to be a speedy trip west to the Super-Duper Mart had quickly turned into hours of stalking raiders and scavenging the abandoned grocery store for food and medical supplies. Butch was quickly questioning why he’d agreed to tag along with Rosie in the first place. It’d barely been a month since hooking up in Rivet City—maybe there was still time to get away from whatever the hell kind of crazy she was constantly finding herself wrapped up in.

Not that he was one to back down from a fight—ma didn’t raise no coward—he was only annoyed that both Rosie and that Craterside supply lady had assured the building would be empty. If there was anything he’d learned from his short time in the Capital Wasteland, it was that danger reared its ugly head at every possible second. Butch made a point to remember to stop believing it when Moira said it would be safe. She was, after all, the same person who’d sent him and Rosie into Minefield.

But now he was playing pack-brahmin, loaded up with more than a few bags of assorted junk they’d looted. Rosie’s load was considerably lighter, which Butch supposed was fair enough, considering her smaller frame. He was surprised she’d survived this long on the surface without bulking up, at least a little bit. Without meaning to, his eyes roamed down the length of her body. When he realized he was watching the curve of her ass as she walked, he frowned.

She noticed him staring—scowling—and her expression fell. “What?”

“Nothin’” he feigned ignorance, snapping his vision to the sky—immediately regretting the decision as the sun created blurry spots in his eyes. He huffed, adjusting one of the heavier bags. “Why’d you drag me out here?”

“You could’ve stayed in Megaton,” she mumbled.

“Pfft.”

Butch dared to glance over, only to find Rosie staring at her shoes as she walked with a full pout—why’d she always have to be so upset? Was it something he said? Why were girls—why was she—so complicated and moody? Why did he care? Whatever.

“Guess it’s a good thing I tagged along,” he mused.

In an effort to pack light, she’d left her plasma rifle at home. Which was a shame—when she managed to aim the thing correctly, it packed a serious punch, and Butch loved watching the weapon turn their enemies into bright green piles of goo. Rosie wasn’t much of a sharpshooter with anything else, which had him questioning how she’d managed to survive the Capital Wasteland for so long.

He eyed the holstered pistol on her hip, reminding himself not to stare at her ass. “Always knew I’d be a better shot than you, four eyes.”

Rosie whipped her head around, a blush already radiating over her cheeks. “I—”

Before she could—or couldn’t—say anything, a flurry of shots rang out in their direction, causing her to shriek in surprise. Butch barely managed to take notice of the group of hostiles running over the hill when more gunfire echoed around them, a stray bullet whizzing past his face and into the nearby pile of rubble. He didn’t hesitate to grab Rosie’s arm, practically pushing her behind the nearby burnt out car.

“Hey!” she yelled. Despite the danger, she obviously didn’t take kindly to being manhandled. She tried to push him away, but he tucked her head lower, even if that meant their bodies were huddled close in the confined space. Rosie didn’t hide her agitation. “Butch!”

“Would ya’ rather get shot at?” he snapped, holding back from shoving her into the dirt—though, maybe that’d be the safest hiding spot for her. He grumbled as he dropped the bags he was carrying, pulling free his pistol from its holster. “Thought we got all the raiders?”

Rosie shifted to lean her head back just enough, peeking over the edge of the car’s roof. She yelped, ducking back down as a spray of bullets came in their direction within seconds, ricocheting off the rusted metal of their flimsy hideout. At least the pre-war car was already smoked-out by a previous fire, otherwise one well-placed bullet and they’d be atomic toast.

“Those aren’t raiders,” Rosie explained, adjusting her glasses. “Those are Talon Company mercenaries.”

Butch checked to ensure his weapon was loaded but found that he didn’t have much ammo to spare after their grocery store escapade. “What’d ya’ do to piss them off?”

She didn’t have a chance to respond, though he could tell she was irritated by his pestering—but when wasn’t she? Instead, the two became instantly preoccupied by the advancing mercs, shooting off automatic rounds from a nearby barricade. When they paused to reload, Butch dared to pop up long enough to return fire, trying to count how many Talon bastards he saw as he squeezed the trigger of his pistol. At least one of his rounds managed to find a target, the man’s body crumpling to the ground as the others shouted. Rosie must’ve been shooting too, because another mercenary body fell shortly thereafter.

“You’re a good shot after all, four—”

He was rudely interrupted by the last Talon merc jumping out from behind the concrete barrier, blasting more rounds from his reloaded assault rifle. Rosie instantly yanked Butch back behind the car, but not before he felt something sharp and hot graze his skull. Within seconds he could feel something wet dripping down the side of his face, and when he lifted his hand to touch, it felt sticky. Gross.

“Oh God,” Rosie’s voice was hushed, if not panicked, eyes wide as she looked at him in what he could only describe as absolute horror. Not that she hadn’t looked at him like that before in their youth—but now, it was…a little worrisome. He pulled his hand away to see blood staining his fingers. Oh—yeah, that was bad. “Butch?”

He blinked, wondering why he didn’t feel any pain, considering he’d just been shot in the head. Was he dead already? “I don’t—”

Rosie shook her head, dropping her weapon to the ground so she could cradle his head in her hands, carefully. As if they weren’t in the middle of a firefight—except, the Talon mercenary seemed to have stopped shooting again. Either way, she seemed much more concerned about his injury, tilting his chin to the side and leaning closer despite his protest so she could examine it.

“It’s just a graze,” she sighed, relieved. “Medically—a flesh wound.”

“Oh goodie,” Butch had a hard time feeling excited when there was blood pouring from his head. “Patch me up, will ya’?”

“Come out! So I can finish the job!” the Talon mercenary yelled out, interrupting their clinical assessment.

Rosie’s eyebrows knitted together into deep concentration. “I think he’s out of ammo.”

She was right—he hadn’t reloaded or tried to fire on them in the last minute or so. Butch looked down at his own pistol and clicked free the magazine, muttering under his breath when he saw there was only one bullet left to spare. No way in hell he’d be able to make the shot in his condition. And Rosie—she might as well just shoot straight up into the air. As if she could tell he didn’t like their odds, she shifted to tug free the combat knife strapped to her calf—something Butch had never seen her wield. He knew she carried it, but as far as he knew, it was all for show, or for cooking when out on the open road—not for…

He eyed the large blade in her hand. “What’re ya’ gonna do with that?”

“There is more than one way to kill a person,” she responded, sounding more sure of herself—and more deadly—than ever before. Butch gulped, unsure if he was scared or excited—his heart was certainly racing, but he decided to blame it all on the adrenaline rushing through him after being shot.

Footsteps crunched in the dirt, signaling the merc was closing in on their hiding spot. “I don’t have all day!”

Rosie seemed to steady herself with a shaky breath, nodding once as she jumped up from her crouched position.

“Hey, wait—” Butch tried to stop her, but lacked the energy to pull her back to safety.

It didn’t matter anyways, as she startled the Talon mercenary into dropping his weapon—it hardly mattered if it was loaded or not. He defaulted to swinging his fists towards her, but Rosie’s small frame made her agile and able to dodge the incoming blows. Even though her attacker was more than twice her size, Rosie proved to be a worthy opponent. She grabbed onto the man’s armor, yanking him close as she plunged the knife into the gap along his side, twisting the blade once it was buried deep enough. Brutal, but effective.

Butch watched on, stuck in his own delirium, wondering if he was imagining the scene playing out before his eyes. He had a hard time believing the same scrawny nerd he used to tease back in Vault 101 was capable of killing a man with her bare hands. Rosie struggled to balance the weight of the mercenary as he gurgled his last breath, collapsing against her before she gave a sharp shove so he’d topple to the ground instead. She was breathless, chest heaving in and out as she studied the red-stained knife in her hand with a pensive frown.

As soon as Butch made a pained sound she was back at his side, tossing her weapon to the dirt and digging through her bag for her case of medical supplies.

“Okay,” she mumbled to herself, wiping at brow with her forearm, causing blood to streak down her skin like a macabre stain of warpaint. Butch wistfully thought to himself that it looked beautiful. Okay—maybe he was more delirious than he realized—did he have a concussion? How much blood had he lost since that gunshot…graze…flesh wound? Rosie wasn’t supposed to be beautiful—she was…she was…

“Ugh.”

“Hold still,” she instructed. She’d cleaned her hands with a bottle of purified water and dampened a clean towel with what remained. Though, as soon as she touched it to his scalp, he flinched away with a yelp. “I said—”

“Yeah, yeah!” he argued, leaning back when she gently tugged on the other side of his face.

Butch remained quiet as Rosie worked on cleaning his wound, carefully and quietly explaining to him everything she’d need to do in the process. He seemed to recall she always had good bedside manners as her dad’s clinic assistant, even when she had every right to refuse treatment or enact revenge on the likes of him. One of those dreamy thoughts came back as he wondered if her hands had always been so soft—ew no—what? Butch blinked hard, forcing the idea from his mind.

“More stitches from Stitches,” he muttered instead, unable to hold back from teasing. Rosie sighed, shaking her head in disapproval as she finished of the final tiny thread. Butch rolled his eyes—couldn’t she take a joke. “What’s the damage?”

“Lucky for you, the scar will heal,” she noted. “You’ll be back to breaking hearts in no time.”

What’d she mean by that?

Butch watched as she packed up her supplies, focusing more on her solemn expression. He had to wonder if he, or his injury, was the reason. He reached out to catch her hand, sliding his palm up to hold her wrist. Rosie flinched, glancing down at his hand like his touch alone burned her skin like fire. He’d noticed that reaction before—when he’d pushed them to safety and on numerous occasions before. When would she stop reacting that way around him? Sure, they’d had their difficulties in the past, but he’d apologized, and they both had agreed to a fresh start. He really needed to figure out why he cared so damn much in the first place.  

“I’m just one big burden, huh?” he huffed, instantly dejected by the own voices in his head.

Rosie peered at him, alarmed. “What?”

“Admit it, Stitches,” he pouted. “You can’t wait to be rid of me.”

For a long while, she matched his expression, and didn’t say anything. Finally, she shifted to sit next to him so they were both leaned against the shell of the burnt-out car.

“Don’t—don’t tease me,” she warned, cheeks tinted pink.

Butch tried not to grin. “I won’t, I swear.”

“I—” she still hesitated. “I’m glad you’re around, Butch. Without you, I’d have found myself in trouble, injured or worse. And not just today.”

For once, he decided not to crack a joke. He thought about saying something profound like, he’d gladly take a bullet for her but for starters—he’d already done that—and that it sounded far more romantic than he wanted to be. He tried to play it cool, even if his head and heart were swimming with unexplainable emotions.

“That’s what happens when you’re in a gang yeah?” he shrugged. “Blood oath and whatnot. Tunnel snakes for life, remember?”

Rosie glanced at him. “I never joined the Tunnel Snakes. You just gave me your jacket.”

Butch shrugged again and stuck out his hand, initiating a handshake. “Good enough.”

She nervously laughed, slowly sliding her hand into his, awkwardly following along with the movements he’d perfected with the former members—she’d catch on eventually. Her touch lingered and he decided in the moment that saying something nice might go a long way, especially with Rosie.

“I got yer back,” Butch squeezed her hand and nodded. “Kay?”

Rosie returned the gesture, along with a tiny smile. “Okay.”

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

Silver for Monsters... (Geralt x fem!Witcher, Part 1.)

Description: The Butcher of Blaviken has a long and famous past, thanks to his friend Jaskier. Yet, neither of those dies easily and it still lurks behind Geralt like a shadow after all those years. History, neither unfriendly relationships, doesn't die easily.

Part summary: A lonely witchress in the woods can mean only one thing - a monster is lurking through the woods and a contract has been pinned up on a local village's board.

Warnings: A bit of gore, magic, Witchress, a werewolf being a bich, Sigimund Dijkstra appeareaing in a mention (if you do not know who Dijkstra is, look him up, he honestly is one of my fav Witcher game characters).

A/N: This one is purely based on my wish to see at least one female witcher, but knowing that the trial of grass doesn't allow that. Because boy? They would tear Geralt’s ass in half.

Word count: 4.4 K

Tagging: (tell me and I will add you :)) @osgon-azure​ @davnwillcome​

Master list: H E R E

Many of you know me. You’ve seen my face, heard my name, or my tales - maybe you even threw your rotten vegetables at me for what I know. It doesn’t matter to me. Such details aren't important in my stories. But no matter how you might hate me - the poet, the bard, the most beautiful man you'd ever seen -, you love my tales.

Indeed, my name is Julian Alfred Pankratz. But when you'd meet me, I would introduce myself as Jaskier or Dandelion. And my most famous tales are going hand in hand with my friend, the legend, Geralt of Rivia. He is the man coming from Kaedwen, the coldest Northern Kingdom, born and raised at Kaer Morhen, the notorious School of the Wolf. And I have already written tales, ballads, and books about him.

You heard many stories and legends about this man - about the romance of his with the mightiest sorceress Yennefer of Vengenberg, the story of how he was bound to the Cintran princess Cirilla by destiny, about how he had outwitted the Wild Hunt itself. Yet I have one more for you. Sit down, have a pint of ale or a cup of wine, and hear my telling of how... Not one, but two witchers traveled day and night to reach the Redenian mountains and how they discovered a horrifying monster there. But have in mind that one of them was a woman.

Our story begins on one stormy night in the Mire West amidst the rampage of the Nightmare...

The place around you was completely dark and lifeless, only sounds of wind howling and grass dancing in it along with heavy rain could be heard. The moon just started slowly rising in the sky, but it was too cloudy up there. That could be a slight problem in your perfect plan. How were you supposed to lure a werewolf out of its lair if there won't be a full moon? These bitches came out of the lair only under those specific circumstances - moon shining on the ground, nonstop.

The lamb meat filled with cursed oil was neatly prepared in the middle of a road and your silver sword was ready as well, laying on your thighs as you were meditating to pass the time somehow - you let the potions in your vascular system starting to work, making an extremely dangerous weapon out of your very own body. You used Cat potion, so your eyes could perfectly see in the night and a Blizzard potion, shorting the time of reactions and sharpening reflexes to the monster's attacks.

A low chuckle came out of your lips. Meditations were never your strength - Vesemir was always bitching you down for whispering to the others while they sat on their knees, and tried to completely leave their body with their minds. You learned how to pretend to meditate, just to shut Vesemir up, but you accomplished the state only a few times. More than meditating, you were in a light sleep while you still could bring your body to sit at least a bit straight.

You had the suspicion that Vesemir knew that the whole time, but he never said anything since you at least shut up and didn't disturb the other kids who were brought to the School of the Wolf in Kaedwen to become witchers and witchresses.

The memories you had bonding to that place weren't all happy, but not all of them were bad. There was a lot of pain you had to endure, yes, but you had some fun in the process. And you still had a witcher family you could always count on - your best pal Lambert and a grumpy brother Eskel, there was Leo, your baby boy, and Vesemir, who was something like your father. There was Coën too, but unfortunately, he was far gone. And then, there was... Well... There was also him.

The greatest fucker... You meant to say the greatest of your kind - the legendary White Wolf, a man called Geralt of Rivia. It wasn't that you exactly hated him, no, you could count on him and his help when you met him on the road just as he could count on you, but you two never really got along in the first place. You never gave him a chance to start a friendship. And to say the least, he was outshining all of you, always getting the best contracts and money. And you weren't even talking about the fame he got in the process.

On the bright side, Geralt was a source of your motivation to become better and better - you both passed the trail of grasses, finishing it in better shape than all of the other kids that were trained on Kaer Morhen. You were already special - while three males out of ten survived, only one female out of fifty survived the trial. But that just wasn't enough of you, was it? You had better reflexes, reactions, senses, and you could cast the signs better than the other two girls who passed the trial. Even though that, it was too risky to send you on additional trials and Vesemir told you a million times.

For an unknown reason, there was a high rivalry between you and Geralt since the day you met for the first time. And when you heard that he's going to endure some more experiments, you demanded them as well, no matter the costs. You didn't care if it costs you your life, you wanted to be the best.

Vesemir and Lambert tried to change your mind for months, but you weren't planning on letting Geralt win the game. You went through another five mutations under the supervision of druids residing in Kaer Morhen, the fourth almost killing you in the process.

For the first time during a trial, you screamed in pain the whole time as you felt the serums and potions crawling through your skin and veins. When you got up, your skin tone almost matched alabaster, melanin almost completely disappearing out of your body, your hair was completely white and your eyes were no longer only golden - they were glowing. When Geralt walked out of the second chamber, he looked the same. But he has done something you would never expect - he asked you about your well-being and if you want to stop the trials. But you just chuckled and left him in the hall.

Lambert was enough of a friend to you. He was quite a normal witcher with a good sense of humor. You could drink and laugh evenings away with your witcher brother and never be bothered with thoughts about the incoming morning. He saved your life many times before and you knew, that the last time wasn't exactly the last. To repay him, you saved his ass from the revenge of former lust subjects, pretending to be his girlfriend and being extremely mad at him.

With Eskel, you had a more reserved relationship, since he was more of a reserved person - he didn't exactly make friendships, he was just a person you could count on any time you needed to. But you got along at the end of the day.

A sharp howling threw you out of your thoughts about your witcher brothers. Both your eyelids flew open, showing the golden, glowing eyes with a cat-like iris shape underneath. The werewolf was set to go on a hunt - and so were you. You opened up the last bottle with your teeth, drinking the potion in one swing, making your blood hazardous for the monster.

After that, you slowly walked to the path where your trap was laid, finding the creature sniffing it. It was rather cautious with it, wanting to eat it, but not quite trusting it. Werewolves were huge beasts with fur, every one of them growing to the height of two meters and more after the transformation.

They might be looking skinny, but their strength was almost overshadowing yours for good. Hunting a werewolf all alone? What were you thinking? That was exactly what was happening since Geralt wielded the tiara of the best witcher in the world. Shitty contracts for a laughable amount of coin. But work was work - humans, monsters, animals, it didn't exactly mean anything to you. You came, did the job and left, always repeating and never breaking the circle. Although to stay true to the codex of Kaer Morhen, you never killed an innocent being - monster, neither a human. If they proved their innocence, you let them go, taking the money anyway.

But this werewolf, boy, wasn't he something different? This bitch was off the chains, suffocating, hunting, and eating alive at least thirteen girls just this year alone. And you couldn't wait to get your dirty little hands on its throat and chop his fucking head off. You hated motherfuckers. And he sure was one.

"This is a nice, cute attempt to poison me, witcher!" - The werewolf rose his head and looked around, showing you its ugly face, which was half-wolf and half-human. Its claws were strong, which could cause trouble as well - he could scratch you without hurting himself, not tasting your blood. God damn it. - "But I ain't no idiot! I know ya poisoned it! Come out! Face the mighty Nightmare of Mire West!"

So it was an intelligent one. That was a bonus point - you knew that murdering him will cause you way more enjoyment than killing a normal beast would. It was probably only a human when there wasn't a full moon, living in their small, stinky cage, all alone in the wilderness. But if the man changed into such a beast which was able to stalk and murder young gals in such gruesome ways, you knew that your sword was the right thing to put end to his ruling over Mire West.

"I like me an intelligent foe." - You growled in a cruel voice, adding a burst of short, dark laughter at the end. You confused the werewolf a bit - he wasn't able to track where you were at the moment. There was no visible movement in the bushes, your voice seemed to come out of a few different directions at one time and your footsteps didn't break a single branch on the ground, making you almost impossible to track based on sounds in the slowly ending heavy rain. - "Feels better when I slice their throats. They beg like little girls to let them live - but you know something about that, don't you? You enjoy murdering girls and letting them beg, don't you?"

The beast was moving its muzzle quickly as he tried to sniff you. The wet air made it almost impossible. The time was ticking too fast - soon, you knew that the air will clean up and starts to transmit your scent. This needed to be done quickly.

"Are ya a woman, witcher? Ye a witchress? I like women, did ya hear that?" - Werewolf tested the waters, seeing a bush next to his right move. He didn't know that it was an animal coming through here, thinking it was you hiding in the bushes. In the next moment, the monster roared with a raw, animalish growl as it attacked the bush. - “I like to snap their necks and taste their meat, I like their voices begging me to stop, the scent of their hair and the skin. Come here, to my claws, don't try to play with me.”

The werewolf then turned around, his completely darkened eyes were scanning the surroundings in search of you. He kneeled a bit, grunting like a pig as spit was dripping out of his mouth full of sharp teeth.

“You atone to all of those murders? You don't even try to clean your name, try to tell me that you are innocent? I might let you go.” - You knew that this fucker isn't innocent but you needed more time to look around the meadow, now seeing every small detail in it thanks to the Cat potion. You planned various attacks, different scenarios, trying to imagine him overpowering you. What would you do then?

“I know that ya been sniffing around Velen for a while now, crawling through sewers like a rat, looking at every shit I made. I know ya heard stories about the Nightmare of Mire West. Ya a witchress, ya know how to recognize a werewolf in comparison to a different monster.” - The werewolf laughed and crawled on all fours, bearing more similarity to a wolf than a human at the moment. His laughter was similar to a hyena.

Then you jumped out of your hideout and cut him with your sword smeared with a cursed oil. The werewolf wasn't expecting you, so you hit your spot, but not in the range you planned on. The beast roared, sounding like a swine, catching its leg as it watched the blood dripping from the cut.

“Look at ya!” - It laughed, its teeth showing again. Your eyes were jumping on various spots on its body - from its lower paws dugs into the muddy ground as he was charging for a jump. - “Ya look like a cat, ya hair white, ya smug arrogant. Come to me.”

You jumped at the same time the werewolf did, but you turned around and swung your sword towards it, hitting it into its ribs. Sword fights were always like a dancing lesson - male witchers preferred different fighting styles, sometimes heavier and more aggressive than you could ever archive. You could move quicker than them, yet your hits were lighter. You danced on the toes of your feet, the top of your sword carefully drawing eight again and again. Your hits were maybe lighter than male witchers’, but you were able to hit the spot more often with clean cuts.

“Ya can move, I need to say. A second cut on my body.” - The beast growled, suddenly spinning the other way, its claws hitting your stomach. The hit made you fall, he hit exactly the liver and stomach, which could hurt like hell. Yet it was not a hit that would stop a witchress.

You made a rollover your shoulders, stopping on your feet. While you stood up, the werewolf almost scratched your face. That was a no-no. Witchers and witchresses maybe were known for long, dark pink cuts and huge scars over their faces, but you knew that a pretty face always means a half of the deal sealed. Thanking all the Gods and angels out there, Blizzard made you able to get out of its way.

Again, you swung your sword to meet its stomach, but again, it jumped at you in a matter of seconds, aiming for your neck. Its claws tore apart your chainmail armor, cutting your skin. But you didn't move a single inch away, no, you held its arm with a firm grip, looking the beast in the eyes.

First, it didn't know why are you looking at it the way you did, pressing the arm on your stomach, letting the blood drip directly on it. Soon, it felt how the skin is burning as the acid was slowly decomposing it. It was looking you in your cat eyes and saw your lips slowly turning to a violent smile.

Next second, it pushed you away, whining like a little puppy, licking the acid off. But it didn't know that it will only make the matters worse.

“What now? Don't you want to taste my blood and meat? Don't you want to sniff me and hear me beg for my life? Are you backing off?” - You rolled the sword in your palm and prepared into the fighting position again. - “The fun has just started, you pussy.”

With a quick move, you made the gesture of Igni sign, sending fire its way, then throwing a Moon Dust bomb at it. The bomb blew up, springling small pieces of silver everywhere its range was. The werewolf was now screaming like a child - it was burned by the Igni sign, silver was burning its skin alive, he was cut - so the silver got into its vascular system and that was perfect torture in your opinion. It tried to run away into the safety of its cave, but it was just to try to lure you in - in the small space of a cavern could be its brutal strength fatal for you.

It was time to use the Aard sign. You were quick, almost violent with it, pushing the werewolf next to the cave entrance. It bumped its head onto a sharp rock, blood was dripping out of that bruise pretty quickly. That was a moment he might start to believe that you were there to truly kill him like a swine. Indeed, you were there for that.

When it laid on its back, it started howling at the moon - that was a tactic used by a werewolf when the things got out of their control. They tried to call for help from wolves living in the woods. But you only laughed as you walked to him, preparing for one last final blow, still holding the place on your stomach where it hit you.

"Ye going to die, Witchress, why is ya laughing?" - The beast growled out with visible and hearable problems, which made your smile bigger.

"Because I killed every pack in the radius of ten kilometers, you dumb shit. I sold the furs and meat for a fair coin, even got something to brew potions from. A valuable deal." - You laughed and swung your sword one last time - piercing its chest with it. After that, as you heard it choking on its blood and scream awfully, you sat next to it into the mud.

It was maybe just a short fight, but it made you cast two signs and to move at an incredibly fast pace. And the hit into your stomach was almost precise, hurting like a living fuck. The fight took its cost in the form of incredible tiredness. Also, the potions were still circling through your body, drawing energy out of it. You thanked Gods that you had the idea to track down and eliminate all the packs in the area. The contract could've turned out much differently than it did in the end.

You waited a while, the rain started to fall from the sky again, before cutting the beast's head off. You used an old dwarven axe for that since it was durable and almost unbreakable.

Not an hour after that, your camp was packed up and you were ready to leave the woods, riding horseback to the city again. The werewolf's head was pinned on your saddle to be seen by any bandit. You weren't in a mood for jokes, you didn't want to mess around with some lousy bandit just to be dirty from their blood.

You changed into a fresh shirt and made a hairstyle so tight that not even the smallest baby hair had the chance to fly in front of your face.

It was a while after three o'clock in the early morning when you knocked on the contractor's door - his name was Stjepan, male about thirty years old with a wife and two small daughters. That was the main reason why he wanted the werewolf dead. He was also a local innkeeper, so you at least had a hope that you will sleep in an actual bed instead of the woodland full of bugs and branches poking your ass and back.

"Who the hell is knocking my damn door at night?!" - You heard his angry yell just seconds before he opened up the door. You stood there, soaked from the rain, only in trousers and shirt, holding the head in the level of his eyes. He yelled and threw up just centimeters from your shoes, but you kept the straight face.

"Monster's dead. I want my money." - You growled, throwing the head in. You could hear the small girls and woman yelling, but you didn't care at all. Stjepan disappeared for a small moment, appearing after a while with a small sack of gold.

"Now leave and never come back, ya filthy creature. I can see the devil in ya eyes. I will pray for ya soul." - Stjepan hissed at you, trying to close the door, but your arm stopped it. Stjepan tried to shut it one more time, but your arm didn't even move out of the wood.

Geralt would've most likely just shook his head and leave the man - but you were a lot of things, pussy not being on your list.

Witchers, since they were males, had enhanced strength of the strongest human men. Since you were a woman, you were as strong as a really strong man - those who had almost two meters, one hundred kilograms, and muscles all over their body. When Stjepan realized that he isn't able to close the door, he opened it once again, your hand finally leaving it.

"This is less than we agreed on. I want my money." - You hissed back at the man, stepping into his house. Oh, you would give anything just to see him spraying holy water on the spot where you were standing.

"I don't have more, now fuck off!" - Stjepan yelled and tried to push you out of his door, but he was pushed back as soon as his palm touched your shoulder. Some wall pushed him back so hard, that he stumbled and fell right on his ass.

"Stjepan, Stjepan, Stjepan... Do you remember when your sweet little girls asked me why I have two swords?" - Your eyes slowly looked through the opened door, last drops of Cat potions still making your night vision sharp. These two girls were sitting on the bed and hugged their dolls extremely tight, both of them shaking, hoping you can't see them.

But you could. And Stjepan's wife was standing next to the stove, holding a pan as if it could do any harm to you. With your stare still on the children, you slowly walked through their lovely, little house.

"Ya told them that the long, elegant, silver one with the runes is for monsters." - Stjepan stuttered out and covered the door with his laying body so you would have a harder time getting to the room.

"And that the other one is for even worse monsters." - You told him and kneeled in front of him, tugging the sword from the leather strap on your back. The steel was making cold notice as you tugged it even slower. - "Monsters called humans. The worst of them all."

"Ye a witchress!" - Stjepan's wife yelled at you, raising the pan to her hip, ready to hit you. - "Ya meant to help and protect folk! Not to kill 'em!"

You would never hurt these children. They were just children, for fuck's sake - their life hasn't even started and anyone, let alone a monster hunter like, had the right to hurt them and end their life. No witcher nor witchress had the right to take an innocent person's life.

But you weren't playing clean games, oh boy, you weren't. When you had to be dirty, you planned to be dirty as hell. You needed to keep your face straight if you wanted to scare that dick off.

"You better give me my money or I swear that I will kidnap your children and make them witchresses. After all, that's what witchers do when people refuse to pay their debts." - You hissed, walking over Stjepan directly to the bed, almost dragging the two girls out.

Just seconds before you touched them, Stjepan threw another sack to your feet, crawling in front of his small girls. - "Now go! Leave the fucking town and never come back! Fuck off!"

You straightened up and looked at the two small girls which slowly disappeared in the darkness as Cat finally stopped working. Only after that, you finally left their room. - "Pleasure doing businesses with you, Stjepan." - You added with a sour, ironic tone and walked off into the night.

Well, your plan with sleeping at his inn didn't exactly work out. At least you had the money he promised, even if you had to scare a few little kids. You walked to your horse, gently smoothing its forehead. Well, the only thing you could do was to ride to another city so you could find another job.

Well, that was the plan, until a man came across you. He was dressed up in a long cloak, covered in the darkness, almost sneaking up on you. You chuckled from shoving the money into on me of the bags on the saddle, not looking at the person. They must've known that you know about them the whole time.

"I won't give you a single coin, don't even bother asking me." - Your mumbling could be heard in the cold, silent night.

"Oh, I don't need your money, witchress. I want to speak to ya." - The person said, putting an envelope into the saddle looking you in the eyes. First, you checked the person to see if they mean any harm - it was a short man, pretty underweight, his arms looked very weak. He couldn't attack you if his mind was bright - he would die after one of your blows. - "Not me, pretty lady, but a friend of mine. Told me to say hi once I find ye."

With that, the caped person turned on their heels and disappeared into the darkness again. You watched him quietly for a second before you couldn't see him - then you looked at the envelope and grinned when you recognized the seal. That old, ugly bastard, Sigi Reuven.

Or, as the others knew, Sigismund Dijkstra. One of the most dangerous spies on the whole Continent. And that old son of a bitch wanted to talk to you.

[weaselle]

I’m gonna do my research for Stone Punk live here

(maybe that will keep me from chasing will-o-the-wisps like I’ve been doing on this research forever )

Anyway, it was warm and wet and India was crashing into Asia way faster than continents usually move (the collision created the most enormous and tall mountain range on the globe and India is STILL plowing into Asia at the same speed your fingernails grow)

Apes were just starting to become a thing, on their 45+ million year trajectory to produce Homo Sapiens. The world was full of wide shallow warm seas, and it was going to glaciate and chew them up until some of them were us. I’m just catching you up real quick

So, something like 16 million years ago orangutan prototypes split off from the simian group and started becoming their own thing. Around 13 million years ago Gorillas went their own way. We were dissipating as the great Tethys Sea disappeared.

see how a bunch of Eurasia and Africa are underwater? That’s the Tethys Sea. Look at India hauling ass up Africa’s coast, like, NOBODY else even manages to change position. Personally, I think there were simians living along that very collision line and humans were directly born out of the resulting chaos, but that’s easily a whole other essay.

So around 8 million years ago the pre-chimpanzees left the family, and then around 5 million years ago, something interesting happens.

see, at that time the Mediterranean sea had dried up completely. I can’t remember for sure, but I think it was this loss of such a nearby source of humidity that destabilized Saharan Africa into cycles of desert and greenery.

Anyway, around 5 million years ago we begin to get a proliferation of promising proto human apes in Africa. I’m pretty sure we started walking and running through what had been jungle but was now savanna and grassland on it’s way to becoming desert for the first time. An early, bestial humanity. Like, the famous Lucy is about 3 million years old. Okay. And at some point around this time is when some of us discover things like fire and how to make decent stone tools. And by around 1 million years ago, we had the first being I would accept into the human family. late stage Homo Erectus, which has more lately been divided into sub classifications like Homo Heidelbergensis.

After first developing 2 million years ago Homo Erectus or their descendants have become basically people, the Homo of about a million years ago is upright, using fire and tools, possibly doing some art or ceremony, probably pretty hairless (I have a theory about our skin: mud bathing; look at every other wallowing creature, rhino, hippo, elephant, pig... anyway). Their brains are the same size as ours, their language centers are developing strongly (we can tell by taking impressions of the insides of their skulls, rather like rubbing a pencil over a note pad to see what was written last). These are a kind of people.

NOW. Things are starting to get a lot colder, and not just that, but the globe is going to start going into these huge slow swings of cold to hot and back, and those swings are going to split our sister species from the homo log like boards, and one of those planks will be us. Denisovan are going to split off right around 900 thousand years ago (or 900 kya) and the people who would turn into Neanderthal went their way somewhere around 400-500 kya.

There are a couple close relatives we’re still discovering, but between 100 kya and 300 kya you get this variance in the swing

see where from 250 kya to 150 kya it doesn’t go AS cold OR AS warm, but it does squeeze like a mini extra cycle in there? That’s where we come from. Personally, I think we held the beach.

I think humans have been on volcaninc islands and colliding coasts since the first simians 50 million years ago. I think the very first humans that would become true homo sapiens were surviving in a niche of exposed continental shelves like Sundaland and Doggerland and off the East coast of Asia and the whole West side of India. Here, look

see all that pale flat stuff around Florida and Mexico in the gulf? That’s continental shelf that would have been exposed prime real estate at the height of glaciations. And it’s huge, like the whole state of Florida is just a small portion of the shelf it’s on. Here look at this

That’s China at the top and Australia at the bottom and aaaaallll that pale part in the ocean would have been a vast habitable zone called Sundaland.

And here, look at how much of Europe would have been out of the water

That’s Doggerland. Sure SOME of it would have been covered by glaciers, but still, huge amount of land. 

It would appear and disappear every 100 thousand years or so, but about 200 kya it sort of stuttered, and, I think, this is when humans held our beach, and came into our own. I mean, that’s about where we appear in time. I think Denisovans and Neanderthal and other sister species had to come way off the beach, and learn to live in the mountains and on the tundra and wherever each time the continental shelves flooded, but we got to stay, even though it was still very hard with a lot of flooding and changes. More chaos, essentially. 

ANYWAY around 130 kya the last big glacier crunch started. I think a time that should have relieved pressure on inland populations of our sister species by opening new uninhabited territories was now just aiding a surviving competitor of theirs: us. We were already in those lands, and expanded right along with them. By 15 kya the shelves were at their largest and most developed, and about to flood catastrophically.

Okay, we’re almost caught up.

What my prehistorical fiction novel Stone Punk proposes is: What if our sister species were basically the fantasy races, the dwarves and elves and giants and things. Homo Sapiens at this time would be mostly wild tribes, fierce and smart and adaptable, often used as servants, workers, or soldiers (after all, our skeletal morphology shows all the classic signs of domestication).

And what if there were kingdoms in all those lowlands, and what if those kingdoms were connected by sea and exposed land bridges into a global empire. This empire had all the old secrets, knowledge of the stars and sea, math, commerce, some decent science for the time, agriculture, all kinds of things, and they were run from the grasslands of Sundaland.

There would be almost no evidence, it’s all 300 feet below sea level now.

Anyway, the plot of the book (series?) centers around the fact that the Toba supervolcano eruption around 70kya destabilized this empire. As the globe prepares to flood worse than ever before, our main characters are on a quest to regain the old secrets of the stars (and therefore complex hundred-thousand-year weather patterns) from the ruins of the empire’s golden age, on a quest that takes them from the Dwarf Families of the West to the River Elves of the South. From the Mercenary Tribes of the Middle Plains to the Mountain Wizards of the North East and even across the Rainbow Bridge (where the northern lights dance over the ice that grows and shrinks) to the hidden lands of the Far West.

They’re on an adventure to save the accumulated knowledge of all the kinds of humanity, and through it, themselves. And the outcome blends smoothly into our known history of the development of the first city states like Ur, run by god kings who were human but not human. 

So now you’re caught up. I’m currently researching the effects of the Toba Eruption, more on that next time.

@bexminx​

@puhlease-i-live-supernatural​

[brightbeautifulthings]

MAYHEM BY ESTELLE LAURE BLOG TOUR & CHAPTER EXCERPT

The Lost Boys meets Wilder Girls in this supernatural feminist YA novel.

Available July 14th, 2020

It's 1987 and unfortunately it's not all Madonna and cherry lip balm. Mayhem Brayburn has always known there was something off about her and her mother, Roxy. Maybe it has to do with Roxy's constant physical pain, or maybe with Mayhem's own irresistible pull to water. Either way, she knows they aren't like everyone else.

But when May's stepfather finally goes too far, Roxy and Mayhem flee to Santa Maria, California, the coastal beach town that holds the answers to all of Mayhem's questions about who her mother is, her estranged family, and the mysteries of her own self. There she meets the kids who live with her aunt, and it opens the door to the magic that runs through the female lineage in her family, the very magic Mayhem is next in line to inherit and which will change her life for good.

But when she gets wrapped up in the search for the man who has been kidnapping girls from the beach, her life takes another dangerous turn and she is forced to face the price of vigilante justice and to ask herself whether revenge is worth the cost.

From the acclaimed author of This Raging Light and But Then I Came Back, Estelle Laure offers a riveting and complex story with magical elements about a family of women contending with what appears to be an irreversible destiny, taking control and saying when enough is enough.

About the Author:

Estelle Laure, the author of This Raging Light and But Then I Came Back believes in love, magic, and the power of facing hard truths. She has a BA in Theatre Arts and an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts in Writing for Children and Young Adults, and she lives in Taos, New Mexico, with her family. Her work is translated widely around the world. 

Twitter | Instagram | Get Your Copy

Read on for a special chapter excerpt of Mayhem!

three Santa Maria

“Trouble,” Roxy says. She arches a brow at the kids by the van through the bug-spattered windshield, the ghost of a half-smile rippling across her face.

“You would know,” I shoot.

“So would you,” she snaps.

Maybe we’re a little on edge. We’ve been in the car so long the pattern on the vinyl seats is tattooed on the back of my thighs.

The kids my mother is talking about, the ones sitting on the white picket fence, look like they slithered up the hill out of the ocean, covered in seaweed, like the carnival music we heard coming from the boardwalk as we were driving into town plays in the air around them at all times. Two crows are on the posts beside them like they’re standing guard, and they caw at each other loudly as we come to a stop. I love every- thing about this place immediately and I think, ridiculously, that I am no longer alone.

The older girl, white but tan, curvaceous, and lean, has her arms around the boy and is lovely with her smudged eye makeup and her ripped clothes. The younger one pops some- thing made of bright colors into her mouth and watches us come up the drive. She is in a military-style jacket with a ton of buttons, her frizzy blond hair reaching in all directions, freckles slapped across her cheeks. And the boy? Thin, brown, hungry-looking. Not hungry in his stomach. Hungry with his eyes. He has a green bandana tied across his forehead and holes in the knees of his jeans. There’s an A in a circle drawn in marker across the front of his T-shirt.

Anarchy.

“Look!” Roxy points to the gas gauge. It’s just above the E. “You owe me five bucks, Cookie. I told you to trust we would make it, and see what happened? You should listen to your mama every once in a while.”

“Yeah, well, can I borrow the five bucks to pay you for the bet? I’m fresh out of cash at the moment.”

“Very funny.”

Roxy cranes out the window and wipes the sweat off her upper lip, careful not to smudge her red lipstick. She’s been having real bad aches the last two days, even aside from her bruises, and her appetite’s been worse than ever. The only thing she ever wants is sugar. After having been in the car for so long, you’d think we’d be falling all over each other to get out, but we’re still sitting in the car. In here we’re still us.

She sighs for the thousandth time and clutches at her belly. “I don’t know about this, May.”

California can’t be that different from West Texas.

I watch TV. I know how to say gag me with a spoon and grody to the max.

I fling open the door.

Roxy gathers her cigarettes and lighter, and drops them in- side her purse with a snap.

“Goddammit, Elle,” she mutters to herself, eyes flickering toward the kids again. Roxy looks at me over the rims of her sunglasses before shoving them back on her nose. “Mayhem, I’m counting on you to keep your head together here. Those kids are not the usual—”

“I know! You told me they’re foster kids.” 

“No, not that,” she says, but doesn’t clarify. “Okay, I guess.”

“I mean it. No more of that wild-child business.”

“I will keep my head together!” I’m so tired of her saying this. I never had any friends, never a boyfriend—all I have is what Grandmother calls my nasty mouth and the hair Lyle always said was ugly and whorish. And once or twice I might’ve got drunk on the roof, but it’s not like I ever did anything. Besides, no kid my age has ever liked me even once. I’m not the wild child in the family.

“Well, all right then.” Roxy messes with her hair in the rear- view mirror, then sprays herself with a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and runs her fingers over her gold necklace. It’s of a bird, not unlike the ones making a fuss by the house. She’s had it as long as I can remember, and over time it’s been worn smooth by her worrying fingers. It’s like she uses it to calm herself when she’s upset about something, and she’s been upset the whole way here, practically. Usually, she’d be good and buzzed by this time of day, but since she’s had to drive some, she’s only nipped from the tiny bottle of wine in her purse a few times and only taken a couple pills since we left Taylor. The with- drawal has turned her into a bit of a she-demon.

I try to look through her eyes, to see what she sees. Roxy hasn’t been back here since I was three years old, and in that time, her mother has died, her father has died, and like she said when she got the card with the picture enclosed that her twin sister, Elle, sent last Christmas, Everybody got old. After that, she spent a lot of time staring in the mirror, pinching at her neck skin. When I was younger, she passed long nights telling me about Santa Maria and the Brayburn Farm, about how it was good and evil in equal measure, about how it had desires that had to be satisfied.

Brayburns, she would say. In my town, we were the legends. 

These were the mumbled stories of my childhood, and they made everything about this place loom large. Now that we’re here, I realize I expected the house to have a gaping maw filled with spitty, frothy teeth, as much as I figured there would be fairies flitting around with wands granting wishes. I don’t want to take her vision away from her, but this place looks pretty normal to me, if run-down compared to our new house in Taylor, where there’s no dust anywhere, ever, and Lyle prac- tically keeps the cans of soup in alphabetical order. Maybe what’s not so normal is that this place was built by Brayburns, and here Brayburns matter. I know because the whole road is named after us and because flowers and ribbons and baskets of fruit sat at the entrance, gifts from the people in town, Roxy said. They leave offerings. She said it like it’s normal to be treated like some kind of low-rent goddess.

Other than the van and the kids, there are trees here, rose- bushes, an old black Mercedes, and some bikes leaning against the porch that’s attached to the house. It’s splashed with fresh white paint that doesn’t quite cover up its wrinkles and scars. It’s three stories, so it cuts the sunset when I look up, and plants drape down to touch the dirt.

The front door swings open and a woman in bare feet races past the rosebushes toward us. It is those feet and the reckless way they pound against the earth that tells me this is my aunt Elle before her face does. My stomach gallops and there are bumps all over my arms, and I am more awake than I’ve been since.

I thought Roxy might do a lot of things when she saw her twin sister. Like she might get super quiet or chain-smoke, or maybe even get biting like she can when she’s feeling wrong about something. The last thing I would have ever imagined was them running toward each other and colliding in the driveway, Roxy wrapping her legs around Elle’s waist, and them twirling like that. 

This seems like something I shouldn’t be seeing, some- thing wounded and private that fills up my throat. I flip my- self around in my seat and start picking through the things we brought and chide myself yet again for the miserable packing job I did. Since I was basically out of my mind trying to get out of the house, I took a whole package of toothbrushes, an armful of books, my River Phoenix poster, plus I emptied out my underwear drawer, but totally forgot to pack any shoes, so all I have are some flip-flops I bought at the truck stop outside of Las Cruces after that man came to the window, slurring, You got nice legs. Tap, tap tap. You got such nice legs.

My flip-flops are covered in Cheeto dust from a bag that got upended. I slip them on anyway, watching Roxy take her sunglasses off and prop them on her head.

“Son of a bitch!” my aunt says, her voice tinny as she catches sight of Roxy’s eye. “Oh my God, that’s really bad, Rox. You made it sound like nothing. That’s not nothing.”

“Ellie,” Roxy says, trying to put laughter in her voice. “I’m here now. We’re here now.”

There’s a pause.

“You look the same,” Elle says. “Except the hair. You went full Marilyn Monroe.”

“What about you?” Roxy says, fussing at her platinum waves with her palm. “You go full granola warrior? When’s the last time you ate a burger?”

“You know I don’t do that. It’s no good for us. Definitely no good for the poor cows.”

“It’s fine for me.” Roxy lifts Elle’s arm and puckers her nose. “What’s going on with your armpits? May not eat meat but you got animals under there, looks like.”

“Shaving is subjugation.”

“Shaving is a mercy for all mankind.” 

They erupt into laughter and hug each other again.

“Well, where is she, my little baby niece?” Elle swings the car door open. “Oh, Mayhem.” She scoops me out with two strong arms. Right then I realize just how truly tired I am. She seems to know, squeezes extra hard for a second before letting me go. She smells like the sandalwood soap Roxy buys sometimes. “My baby girl,” Elle says, “you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you. How much I’ve missed you.”

Roxy circles her ear with a finger where Elle can’t see her.

Crazy, she mouths. I almost giggle.

[xxisxxisxxis]

Gateway Drug | Part Thirty-Four

Table of Content or Part Thirty-Three

Word Count: 4.4k

Warning(s): Explicit language, Mentions of drug abuse, Explicit sexual situations

A/N: To the anon that asked about the pictures before chapters, I gave it a shot. Let me know what you guys think. Cintia Dicker is who I've always imagined as Viv (only difference is Viv has green eyes and Cintia has blue). Have a good night guys!!

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"...We're about to go on in a couple minutes, we're already late." Duff tells me, frustrated, after explaining everything he, Izzy, Axl, Slash, and Steven have endured ever since they left L.A. to embark on their first little tour as a band, along the west coast.

The first stop was his home town, and everything from losing equipment, losing their only form of transportation, hitch hiking in suffocating heat, spending all the money shared between them for a ride, and anything else that could go wrong, happened all under 24 hours.

After getting the full run down on what all had happened once they got back home, I decided the devil works hard, but Guns N' Roses work harder.

"Well, I wish I could have gone but I'm trying to get Nikki to acknowledge Vince before they start touring." I tell him, scrubbing at a soapy dish, the kitchen phone caught between my ear and my shoulder.

"Still?"

"He offered Vince blow the other day, after Vince just got out of jail, and is supposed to be sober. It wasn't blow. It was smack." I explain.

"Oh my God, that's fucked." Duff tells me.

"Him and Tommy thought it was the funniest thing ever so I replaced all their blow with unscented baby powder and flushed the real thing." I explain and he laughs. "They've been wondering why their blow is 'broken'."

"Now, is that what Jesus would do?" He asks jokingly.

"God gave me the idea. I did it. I am a good and faithful servant." I state and he laughs again.

"Oh, I gotta go, Viv." He tells me.

"Alright, good luck." I say, hearing Steven say "Hey, Viv!"

"Steven says 'hey'." Duff lets me know and I smile to myself.

"Tell him I said, 'hey'."

"I will. I'll talk to you again whenever I can." He assures me. "Love you."

"Love you, too."

"Bye."

"Bye-bye."

We both hang up and I rinse the dish I've been working on and place it in the dish wrack.

Glancing at the clock to see it's 8:00pm, Nikki should be back from the studio soon.

I finish up on the dishes and go take a shower since I've been stress cleaning and sweating a little.

By the time I get out and get lounging clothes on, Nikki and Tommy are in the kitchen talking, and go silent when I come in

"Hey, babe." Nikki tells me innocently, he and Tommy exchanging mischevious looks.

"What?" I ask them, glancing between the two of them.

"So...I was thinking..." Nikki starts. "...You know how you told me not to buy the vette last year, right? Because it only had two seats and we might have kids down the line and it's not really a family car."

"Yeah." I reply, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Well, because I'm a responsible husband and a happy wife equals a happy life, I made an investment." He tells me and I cross my arms.

"What kind of investment, Mr. Sixx?" I roll my jaw.

"Well..." Nikki trails off, and I'm darting for the front door before he or Tommy can grab me.

I swing the front door open to see a brand new jeep in the driveway.

"Nikki Sixx!" I spin around and he and Tommy wince a little. "You bought a car?! Another one?!"

"The vette's are the town cars, baby, the jeep is for more practical use."

"Like the motorcycle in our garage is for 'nights out with the guys'?"

"Exactly!" Tommy pipes in.

In a matter of seconds, I'm chasing Nikki back into the house.

"I'm going to kill you!" I threaten him.

"Tommy, grab her!" Nikki laughs out, which only makes me even more upset that my frustration is amusing to him.

Tommy misses me buy a few seconds before I'm jumping over the couch and tackling Nikki, straddling him and pinning him by his forearms.

"We don't have the money for a new car, Nikki!" I tell him, seriously.

"The album releases in two weeks, Viv. We've got more money than you think." He chuckles, assuring me, and I let out a breath as his eyes drift over my body, raising a brow at our position. "But I can pretend we're dirt broke if you promise to keep man handling me."

"Do I need to get you guys the video camera and leave you to it?" Tommy reminds us he's still here.

"Yeah, it's about time to add Volume Three to the collection, anyway." Nikki states, the corner of his mouth pulling up in his signature smirk.

Before your imagination runs wild, none of our sex tapes are still in existence. When Tommy and Vince's got out, I knew damn well I wasn't about to be best known for a sex tape(s)...

So they were all run over in the driveway and lit on fire.

"Speaking of the release," Nikki starts, nudging at me. "Our anniversary's the next week, but what're you wanting to do for a anniversary present—"

"—Your anniversary present is in the garage. And the driveway. And require insurance. And gas. And maintenance." I correct him and he rolls his eyes.

"I meant your present." He tells me. "What do think you might want?"

"I don't know." I shrug, then I remember what day our anniversary falls on, and slowly look at Nikki, my lips pulling into a smug smile.

I'm still not sorry for what I asked for, for our anniversary. But you know what? Hungover, slightly doped up from the night before, and exhausted, my trooper of a husband got himself together long enough to endure his own personal hell.

Nikki glares at me from behind his sunglasses as the preacher leads us into prayer and I nudge him with my elbow a little so he'll at least bow his head and pretend to care.

"Father in Heaven we pray, forgive us of our sins, Lord. God, we ask that you bless this message and prepare the hearts of those that need to hear it. I pray that you continue to watch over us, keep your hand upon us, and help us to be better. In Jesus' name I pray, amen."

"Amen." We all say, and Nikki scoffs out a mocking little snicker, making me elbow him and he raises his brows.

His smug look immediately falls.

I can't see his eyes but I know he's saying, "elbow me again and see what happens."

"If you turn in your Bibles to the book of Hosea, chapter three, verse one..." Brother Harting starts, and I take pick my jacket up from my lap to get my Bible from underneath it.

I flip to Hosea 3:1, and read along in my mind as he reads aloud:

"Then the Lord said unto me, Go yet, love a woman beloved of her friend, yet an adulteress, according to the love of the Lord toward the children of Israel, who look to other gods, and love flagons of wine." He says, before looking up from the book. "To put it simply, for those of you not quite sure what that means, God is telling Hosea to marry a prostitute. The children of Israel at this time were beginning to stray from God and worship other gods and idols. They were not faithful to God. Like Gomer, Hosea's wife. I'm sure when he married her, he hoped she would stop selling herself and giving herself to other people." He explains. "Isn't it strange that so many of us assume marriage, or a child, will keep their significant other from giving parts of themselves to other people and other things when they were selling themselves to someone or something long before you even came along?" He chuckles out and I rub my lips together, a chord being struck within me. "God told Hosea to marry Gomer, and he did. But she didn't stay faithful. In fact, Hosea had to repeatedly go find her with other men and bring her back home. Now, God didn't tell Hosea to marry a woman that seemed like she could not, for the life of her, stay committed in the right path, to hurt him. God wanted to demonstrate how Israel was repeatedly unfaithful towards him. How we are all unfaithful to him at times, even when we don't realize it. Some of us even worship idols, and don't realize it. Obsession over money. Obsession over lust. Obsession over alcohol. If you are a workaholic..." He names a few examples.

"Cute, can we go now?" Nikki's grumbling under his breath to me and I don't even look at him, lacing my fingers through his, hoping to keep him quite like giving a baby a pacifier.

"I'm not saying wanting money, or having a drink with your dinner, or enjoying your work or really enjoying sex, is idolatry. It is when those things become addictive habits that consume your thoughts constantly, so much so, that you wake up one day and realize you haven't even acknowledged God in weeks. Some of us, months. For others, it's years. And when I say 'acknowledge God' I don't mean a little 'thank God' when something goes your way. I mean, getting in that comfortable space we all have when we can humbly approach God with all of our worries, concerns, hopes, dreams, and tell him about everything going on in our lives. When we take the time to talk to him like we would a friend. God wants to hear everything from us, whether it's something good that's happened, or something we need him to heal within us or help us with something we are struggling to do. He is never too busy." He smiles. "Hosea constantly chased and went after Gomer because he loved her. He made vows to God to marry her and he grew to love her. God loved the children of Israel, and he loves us. He used Hosea as a demonstration of how he always pursues and goes after his church when each of us stray, and let me tell you something, ladies and gentlemen, when Gomer got herself into a mess for the last time, she was about to be sold, like cattle. And Hosea went looking for her thinking she was up to her typical no good. But he came up on the auction she was being sold at. Keep in mind this woman had put him through years of hurt, and pain. He was exhausted, he was angry, he was broken...but he saw his wife about to be sold to men who would most definitely put her through hell, and Hosea suddenly couldn't see his wife's wrong doings. He just saw the woman he loved, the mother of his children, scared and in trouble. And he threw his hand up, and placed a bid for thirty pieces of silver on this woman. Six months worth of wages on a woman that seemed to do everything in her power to not be faithful to him."

"I think fucking not." Nikki doesn't even try to be quiet, causing a few people in front of us to quickly glance back at us.

I elbow him, harder this time, and he's grabbing at my wrist, harshly, pulling me to my feet.

Anger and frustration goes through me when he leads me through the double doors of the very small lobby.

"You're being a jackass." I hiss out the second he's pushed me into the ladies' room that consists of one toilet and a small sink.

"You're being a brat. You should be happy I even came to this bullshit." He snaps.

"One time isn't gonna kill you, Nikki. I'm surprised you're actually able to walk into a church and not burst into flames."

"Okay, fuck you!" He raises his voice and my hand is popping him in the chest before I can stop myself, "Shh!" flying past my lips.

His teeth grind together, and my thighs tense.

His hand is grabbing a fist full of my red locks, yanking my head back as he looks me in the eyes.

It's a slap in the face to him, but I can't help but let out a mocking chuckle, smiling up at him.

I completely disregard the fact we're in church, and my hands slide under his shirt, feeling his warm skin, my nails scratching down his sides.

He's letting go of my hair, reaching between us, and unbuckling his belt and tugging it out of his belt loops.

I squeeze my thighs together as anticipation starts building within my core, creating a slip between my thighs.

He's grabbing my arm and spinning me around to face the wall, shoving me forward.

My hands brace on the chipped, faint yellow paint, and he's yanking my hips back and spreading my legs while yanking my dress up and my panties down to rest around my ankles.

He gives me a moment of mercy, his hand reaching around to rub my clit while his leather restrained prick grinds against my ass, causing me to let out a quiet moan to avoid being heard.

Just as I start moving with his fingers, he pulls away.

"Bad girls don't get rewarded." He tells me smartly in my ear before I'm feeling heat radiate through my body after the sharp sting of leather hits my skin.

I take in a breath, arching my back, biting back another moan. 

By the time he's finished with lick number ten, my ass is bright red and aching, and there's a mess of wetness rolling down my legs and dripping on the floor.

I hear his belt hit the floor and he unties the laces of his pants, causing me to hum with excitement as he reaches for my hair again and turns me around to pull me to my knees.

I lick my lips as my mouth begins to water at the sight of engorged veins, aching for release as he strokes himself a couple of times, his precum beading out of his tip.

I open my mouth and stick my tongue out eagerly, looking up at him with begging, green eyes, wanting to taste him.

He looks down at me with a little grin, like he's proud he's been able to screw the submission into his innocent little "my body's a temple" Saint Vivian and corrupt her in every way that she would allow.

He gives me what I want, swiping the tip of himself across my tongue. I don't think he's expected me to wrap my tongue and lips around him just yet because when I do, he's gripping onto the side of the sink with white knuckles.

I hungrily swallow down the liquid leaking from him, thriving under his praise as he says:

"God, you're so fuckin' hot."

I press teasing kisses to his tip, down the underside of his shaft, and his balls, and he damn near collapses when I run my tongue over them before tracing my tongue back up him and taking him in my mouth.

He grabs at my hair, creating a punishing pace that's got tears running from the corners of my eyes with each thrust that has him brushing against the back of my throat.

When he finally lets me catch my breath, a line of my spit holds from my lips to his cock, so I catch it with my fingers and use it to keep jerking him off.

My pussy is beginning to throb, needing something, anything to relieve the pressure.

The fingers of my free hand fall to my clit, but it isn't quite enough.

I believe I take "bitch in heat" to a whole other level when I pull my dress up and strategically arch my back and rest my legs on either side of Nikki's right foot.

He looks at me, a little confused before I spread my thighs a little more, causing my clit to rest against the curve of Nikki's boot where his ankle meets his leg.

My eyes roll back as I begin to move back and forth, slowly against him, while still keeping my hand moving up and down on his dick.

I don't open my eyes until I feel him lift the toe of his shoe a little bit, angling the part I'm straddling to rest against my soaked sex perfectly.

My eyes stare up at him, the nails of my free hand bite into the back of his lower thigh as I use him for leverage while beginning to move feverishly against him.

He takes over on himself, allowing me to hold onto his leg with both hands as he watches me like I'm the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

Tears stream down my face as my orgasm builds, the only thing able to come out of my mouth is "Oh, fuck" and "Nikki" in the form of breathy whimpers.

When I come, my eyes screw shut, my body shutters and I completely soak Nikki's boot.

"Face, mouth, or tits?" Nikki asks me in regards to where I want his cum.

I swallow every last drop.

After making sure my crucifix wasn't crooked, my floral Sunday dress and matching heels were perfectly put back on and my hair looked like it had never been touched, Nikki and I pretended we hadn't had a little anniversary gathering in the bathroom and returned to service in time to hear that last tid bit.

In which Nikki was pissed about having to sit through, but I suppose he did anyway without any more complaints because he knew it was important to me.

"Hosea bought his wife back, like Christ bought all of us with his bloodshed on the cross. That being said, let's throw out the idea that God only chases after perfect Christians and everyone else is no good and going to hell anyway so it's the perfect Christians' job to tell everyone else they're going to burn forever." Harting states as Nikki and I slip back inside, and I scoff, thinking of my mother. "We are all sinners, people. I've known Christians that condemn just about everyone and then go home and do the equivelant of what they were condemning others for. You can't tell homosexuals they are going to hell and there is no hope for them, and then go out and have sex outside of marriage. Or say tattoos are a show of paganism and a sin and then go home and call up your friends to gossip about other people. You don't get to decide what is and isn't a sin to better suit your lifestyle. And just because someone isn't like you or doesn't think like you, does not mean they are any less worthy of God's love and a lot of Christians need to be careful who they damn to hell because God doesn't think like human's do. Our bodies, our flesh, and our mind's are imperfect and I'm affraid many of these holier-than-thou types are going to be shocked when they end up in a place they don't want to be when they die because they spent too much time alive being too hateful and worried about how other people are living, they never looked at themselves and worked on their own relationship with God and their salvation before minding other people's. Any born again Christian who truly has God in their hearts should never, ever, feel comfortable telling someone else they are going to hell. We can disagree with someone's choices and decisions or relationships and friendships or addictions and habits or view points and opinions, and love them. And respect them. And be kind to them. And treat them like human beings and if you're worried for someone's soul, pray for them as much as you want. We are here to love and uplift others. That is the way we as Christians are meant to be because that is the way God is with us. We do things all the time he doesn't like. But he loves us enough to continously chase after us and bring us back to him, and never give up on us. And that love is open to anyone willing to accept it."

He closes out his sermon and we sing one last hymn before closing out in prayer, and head back to the car.

"Well?" I ask him and he takes his sunglasses off and rubs his eyes.

"I don't know what was more adorable: seeing you all enthused over someone that doesn't exist, or seeing you have my dick in your throat during church." He pipes, laughing. "Oh, that would be cool game to play. I could be the Pervy Priest and you could be the Naughty Nun." He suggest, his hand squeezing at my thigh in a tickling motion and I squeal, fighting to get him to stop tickling me and he finally stops."It was a good message, though. He had a very nice way of saying, 'just mind your own fucking business, cunt face'."

"Shh, Nikki!" I cringe at him saying 'cunt' in the parkinglot of a church.

"Oh, sorry, didn't mean to swear in the Lord's driveway." He sarcastically apologizes and I shake my head a little and crank the car.

Later that night, Nikki heads to Robbin's place to score some smack and blow from his dealer, before we go out to dinner, and I'm stopping by to see Duff and the guys at their rehearsal.

The clicks of my heels sound against the bare concrete where stained up carpet as been ripped up.

I see two masses of teased, blonde hair in the corner by a drum kit, a fluff ball of black, curly hair laying in the floor wear sunglasses, and teased red hair.

"Duff." Izzy states, and I turn to see him on a holed up couch in the corner, cigarette hanging from his lips.

"Izzy." I acknowledge him.

"Viv." He replies in the same tone, not bothering to look up from his guitar.

"Yeah?" Duff asks, glancing over at him to see me. "Hey!" He immediately stops what he's doing to come over, the other three boys looking up at me as well. "What're you doing here?" He asks, hugging me, and I look up at him after seeing Steven coming over here.

"Nikki and I were about to go out for our anniversary and I decided to come by since I haven't talked to you in a couple weeks. But, um, I know you've been busy I just thought I would stop by." I explain, smiling when Steven's energetic vibe spills over to me when he squeezes me to him.

"Well, we were just taking a break if you wanna hangout for a little bit." Duff offers.

I glance at Axl over Duff's shoulder, seeing he's irritated, and I let out a breath.

My relationship with Axl was about how my relationship with Vince was.

We loved to hate each other.

But not because Axl was a pig like Vince was. But because he and I were the same exact person.

I don't know if it was the overzealous religious up bringing forced upon us, or our struggles with similar mental disorders, but we both had the same nearly uncontrollable temper.

We got along most of the time, our issue, though, was that we saw things differently, and would get into heated arguments.

The longer the band stayed together, the worse Axl got.

It became more and more about him, and not so much the band.

When Steven was fired for getting too deep into heroin (as if he was the only one in the band with addiction issues) Axl had the honor Robbin, Vince, and Doc, all had been given: my fist to his face.

He was trying his hardest not to punch me back as I yelled:

"I'm not in your fucking band, I'm not on your fucking payroll, so I have no problem telling you, you're a fucking piece of shit and you need a hell of a lot more help than what you're getting right now! You're acting like a trigger happy crazy person, you have got your band members paranoid about who's gonna go next and for the love of God, Axl, of all the ways you could have handled the man that has saved your wife's life not once, but twice, you fire him for doing something you idiots were glorifying three years ago?! Get your shit together, Rose, because you're getting fucking messy!"

I had quoted him, from when he said, "get your shit together, Sixx, because you're getting fucking messy" after Duff and I had nearly been caught by Nikki.

The entire time they were on tour with us, Axl was paranoid Nikki would find out Duff and I were friendly with each other, kick Guns off the tour, and blacklist them through the label...

He got even more uptight when Steven and Slash accidentally gave me weed brownies a few days into the tour, and I was stoned out of my mind for six hours straight, and Steven, Slash, Duff, and were chasing me around and trying to make sure I didn't make it obvious to anyone on Mötley's team or Nikki, Tommy, Vince and Mick, that the supporting band got Nikki's stone cold sober wife high as a kite. Izzy just found it amusing.

One thing about Axl, though. He taught Tansy how to stick up for herself, which gave her the courage to publicly out her abusers in her agency and industry. I guess that's why I didn't kill him despite the many times I heavily considered it.

"I would hang around, but, I've really gotta get going." I tell Duff. "But I'll call you tomorrow or Tuesday and we can figure out when a good time to hangout before I go to Japan, alright?"

"Okay." He nods.

"Okay, I gotta go, Steven." I squeeze him equally as tight as he is me, ruffling his hair a little.

"Boo! Buzzkill." He protests my leaving and I roll my eyes as he steps back to his drums.

"I'll talk to you later." I tell Duff, standing on my tip toes to kiss his cheek innocently.

"Yeah. Have fun tonight." He tells me. "And happy anniversary."

"Thank you, sweetie." I say as I wipe my lipstick from his cheek. "Love you, be good." I tell them before turning to go.

"Love you." Steven and Duff say back.

"Viv." Izzy tells me as I head for the door, as his way of saying 'bye'.

"Izzy." I reply, before stepping out.

[emospritelet]

Temptation

This is my second Monsterfuckers’ Ball fic, following on from the Macacey smut in Part 1. Having seduced Father MacAvoy, Lacey goes to find one of her own kind. The pawnbroker has been expecting her.

[Part 1] [AO3]

The moment she stepped into Storybrooke, he felt it, a tickle at the nape of his neck, a creeping tingle running down his spine, as though someone was whispering his name from the shadow realm. His true name. It had been years since he had used it. He called himself Gold, when the humans asked, as so many of them did. They were curious creatures, using up their short lives in a frenzy of eating and drinking and fucking, with precious few taking the time to acquire knowledge of the old ways. Lucky for him, he supposed.

He had not seen one of his own in years, ever since he had carved out a large and lonely territory in Maine. Isolation was one of the reasons for coming so far to the north-east of the country, but he had to admit that a slower pace of life was also something he enjoyed, having passed relatively unscathed through the rage and recklessness of his youth. There were too many incubi clustered in Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and he much preferred the relative peace of small town Storybrooke. Solitary by nature, there were only three reasons he could think of for another of his kind to seek him out. It had not happened in some time, and the last encounter had ended in violence and death. For the intruder, anyway.

He pushed the porcelain cup he had been dusting back on its shelf, getting down from the stepladder and striding to the door of his shop. It was cold outside, a stiff breeze blowing from the south west, and he lifted his nose, catching a scent on the breeze. A succubus: a female. That didn’t mean she wasn’t there to challenge him, of course, nor did it mean that she didn’t want his assistance in some dark ritual. However, there was an edge to her scent, something that made his skin tingle and his cock swell in his pants. So. She wanted to mate.

He stepped back into his shop, closing the door behind him and walking to the back room. It was unlikely she would approach him until she was ready, and he certainly had no objection to that. She would need to find a partner first, and take the seed from him, the first step in creating a demon child. There would need to be at least a little planning and preparation before that could occur, unless of course she decided to go to that dive of a bar and grab the first desperate drunk she could find. There were certainly enough of those in Storybrooke, but he hoped that her taste would be a little better. He certainly wasn’t keen to touch the likes of Keith Nottingham, even if only by proxy.

It was somewhat ironic, he reflected, that his kind were dependent on humans to reproduce, but the process itself was certainly pleasant. It had been decades since he had been approached by one of his own for the purpose, and he wondered what form she had chosen to make her way in this world. Humans offered little in the way of temptations of the flesh, in his opinion, but he had grown used to them, and had something of a preference for petite brunettes. His mind wandered briefly south, to New York, and his latest deal for a first edition Oscar Wilde. He licked his lips at the memory of clear blue eyes and a soft voice, shapely limbs and small feet. Petite brunettes with a love of reading and a penchant for impractical footwear, then.

Smirking to himself, he took a seat at the workbench, bending to look over the old watch he was preparing for sale. It would no doubt take his would-be partner a little while to complete the first stage of the process. He had time on his hands until then.

x

It was six days later that it happened.

He could sense a change in the air, a pulsing electricity that coursed through his skin and made the hairs on his arms rise. He had been working late, cataloguing the latest collection of antiques that he had purchased. The other shops in Storybrooke had long since closed, the time inching past midnight, but he was still there, clad in the slim-fitting suit and tie he had adopted as part of his human persona. The silk he wore felt pleasant, a sensual softness against his skin, but he would shed it in an instant for the one coming to him.

He stood, walking through to the main shop and turning to glance at his reflection in the mirror that hung behind the counter. Brown hair fell around his face. streaked with silver at the temples. He was not a tall man, but the humans were nonetheless wary, keeping their distance even when they sought him out to make their petty excuses and to beg him to buy their trinkets. They still seemed to fear him, despite him speaking in low tones and showing his teeth in cold smiles. Perhaps they could sense the darkness in him. It mattered not.

The shop doorbell tinkled, and he smiled, the low light from the lamps gleaming on the one gold tooth he wore as he took in the reflection over his shoulder. She was small and pale, dark chestnut hair falling around her shoulders in shining waves. A short black dress hugged her slender figure, her legs long and shapely. High-heeled shoes lifted her a few inches taller than she would otherwise have been, but her height was perfect. She was perfect. A delightful human form, to be sure. She reminded him of someone, but he shoved the image away before it could interfere with the matter at hand. Something to think on later.

“What’s your name?” he asked, and her full lips curved in a soft, secretive smile.

“Lacey,” she said. “What’s yours?”

“Rumplestiltskin,” he whispered.

He turned to face her, and she pursed her lips, walking slowly towards him with her hips swaying invitingly.

“Quite a mouthful,” she said, and her eyes flicked up and down him, lingering between his legs for a moment. “I do appreciate a long - name.”

His grin widened, and he gestured to the curtain that covered the doorway to the back room.

“Would you care to come through?”

“I would.”

She walked past him, hips still swinging and her tight rear end twitching. He caught a whiff of her scent as she passed, and let out a low, guttural growl of arousal, his cock pushing against his underwear, eager to get inside her. He followed her through, letting the curtain fall behind him and looking her over slowly before meeting her stare for stare. The dress she wore clung to her curves, slashes at the neck revealing the pale skin beneath. He longed to uncover every inch of that skin, to let his tongue flicker over her and taste her. Who had she chosen, in the end? Whose seed did she carry? His cock was growing harder, throbbing, insistent, and he licked his lips, leaning in to let his nostrils flare, drawing in the mingled scents. His eyes widened, and he drew back.

“You chose the priest?” he said, surprised, and she grinned, raising her chin.

“I always did like what was forbidden to me,” she said. 

“How did you manage to enter the church?” he asked. “Bit of a risky prospect.”

Lacey reached into the neckline of her dress and tugged at a thin gold chain, pulling out a round, dark stone. It swung back and forth on the chain, seeming to eat the light around it.

“Brimstone amulet,” she said carelessly.

“Ah.” A smile tugged at his lips. “Providing temporary protection from consecrated ground. A tricky thing to make. Don’t you need the tears of an angel, or something ridiculous?”

“You know your amulets,” she said, looking impressed, and he inclined his head.

“I’m in the trade, as it were,” he said. “A rare item. Difficult to procure.”

Lacey shrugged, kicking off her shoes and wriggling her toes on the wooden floor.

“I know a demon who knows an angel.”

“A useful contact,” said Gold. “Perhaps you and I can do some business.”

She looked him up and down very deliberately, and raised her chin.

“There’s only one deal I’m looking to make tonight.”

“Indeed.” Gold took off his jacket, shaking it out before hanging it on the nearby coat rack. “Perhaps you should take it off for the duration, though. Dark magic mixed with light - well, those things can be volatile.”

“Point taken.”

She reached behind her, unfastening the clasp of the gold chain, and set the necklace on the desk behind her. Gold was intrigued, and wanted to study it further, but he doubted she would let him. Perhaps they could make a deal for another in the future, though.

“The amulet was effective in getting to the priest, I take it?” he said, and she pursed her lips.

“As much as it needed to be,” she said. “It gives off a scent, of course, but then they burn a lot of incense in these places, so I guess he didn’t notice.”

“Well, perhaps his mind was on other things,” said Gold, looking her over. “And he a man of God. For shame.”

Lacey smirked.

“Oh, I’ve had many a priest, in my time,” she said softly. “All supposedly holy men. All eager to get a taste of me, and most without me offering. I clearly wasn’t the first they had touched. Just the first to fight back.”

Gold chuckled.

“That must have been an - interesting - experience for them,” he said, and Lacey’s eyes gleamed, blue as moonlight.

“I’d like to say they had a chance to reflect on the sin of forcing those in their power to endure their touches,” she said. “But they didn’t. I took what I needed and sucked the life from them. Ironic, really.”

“Father MacAvoy doesn’t strike me as that type,” he remarked, and she shook her head, her mouth twisting a little.

“No, not him,” she said. “He’s a good man, not like the rest of them. Although it has to be said he didn’t put up much of a challenge. Some initial protest for my poor soul. It didn’t stop him fucking me.”

“Well, I could hardly blame him,” said Gold lazily. “Take off the dress.”

“Why don’t you come here and take it off?”

He licked his lips, a low growl rumbling out of him. Lacey’s breath caught, her eyes widening, and he could sense the excitement rising within her, making the air around him spark and tingle. Stepping forward, he reached for her, hands sliding over her hips as his mouth found hers. Lacey moaned, grasping at him, her fingers pushing through his hair as her nails scored his scalp. It made him growl again, and he shoved her against the wall, his tongue pushing into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her as he slipped one leg between hers, his thigh pushing up against her groin.

Lacey moaned again, thrusting her hips, rubbing herself against him, and her hands slid down from his hair to grasp his tie, plucking it open and tearing it from around his neck. Gold cupped her breasts with his hands, pulling his mouth from hers to nip at her jaw, his tongue stroking against her throat, tasting the salt of light perspiration and breathing in the scent that had drifted into his nose six days earlier. The scent that told him of her need. 

He reached down, gripping the hem of the dress and tugging it up her body, and Lacey raised her arms as he stepped back to pull it over her head. Her body was pale and smooth, her breasts tipped with dusky pink nipples, and as he watched a pattern of shining blue scales rippled over her skin, her demon form coming through in her excitement. She was beautiful, her body firm and lithe and perfect, and he growled again as he ran his eyes over her. The scent of her pleasure was strong, making his cock throb and his balls ache. She would have drawn the seed deep inside her, holding it there until it could be released. Until he opened her up and took it from her. His tongue flicked against his teeth, eager to taste her, and he jerked his head to the side.

“On the bench,” he rasped.

Lacey smirked, pushing past him with a sway of her hips, her hair gleaming in the light as she turned on bare toes to face him. She reached behind her, boosting herself up onto the workbench with the heels of her hands, her breasts bouncing as she did so. Gold reached up, letting one finger bend slowly forward, and she lowered herself onto her back, arching up off the bench as she drew up her knees. He stepped forward and ran his hands up her slender calves, fingers sliding over her knees and pulling them apart. 

The soft cleft at the apex of her thighs was glistening with fluid, and he let his hands stroke up her legs, pushing them further apart, baring her to his sight and his touch. Gold let his tongue grow long and tapered, flicking it over the soft skin of her inner thighs, moving up with gentle, rhythmic strokes. Lacey moaned as he licked her, circling the sensitive nub at the top of her cleft. His tongue flickered over her wet flesh, and he could taste the priest on her, musk and salt and a certain human sharpness. He let the tongue push inside her, sliding deep to where the taste of salt was stronger, and felt his cock grow harder as he recognised her need, as he tasted the seed inside her. He let it thrust in and out, licking against the barrier of her flesh, the tip probing the tight entrance to her inner chamber where she held the seed.

Lacey moaned, pushing her hips upward, and he growled deep in his throat, his tongue teasing her as he tried to find a way inside. She wouldn’t open for him until he was inside her, until his cock was buried deep within her and he was ready to burst, but the teasing felt good, his tongue pushing at her, circling and swirling. He pulled it back a little, rubbing against her inner walls, and she let out a cry of pleasure, her fingers twisting in his hair. She was close. She was ready. It wouldn’t take long. His tongue slipped out again, dripping with her juices, dancing over her skin before he swallowed her down, and he straightened up, shrugging out of his waistcoat and bending to take off his shoes. He wanted to be in his true form for this. 

Lacey let out a low growl, writhing on the bench as he shed his clothing, her rapid breathing and bright eyes showing that she was eager for his touch. Tiny scales bloomed to life on her face and chest, spreading over her skin in patches of glittering blue and silver, and he heard his own growl rumble outward as her long tongue flicked out, tasting his scent in the air. He tore off his shirt, pushing down pants and underwear in one, noting the scales rippling up from his fingers and coating his forearms in gleaming gold. Lacey scooted backwards a little, long tail sweeping out from behind and lashing the air. He could feel his own break free, stroking up her legs as he climbed onto the bench on his knees. She pushed up on the heels of her hands, plump breasts heaving as she licked her lips.

Gold ran his hands up her thighs, pushing them apart and sliding his fingers beneath her buttocks to pull her upwards. His fingertips dug into her skin, black claws sinking into her. Lacey let out a high-pitched cry, arching her back, pushing up to meet him as her head rolled back, and he felt the head of his cock push at the soft heat of her entrance. His balls ached, hanging low and heavy, rubbing against her, and he let out a low groan as he thrust inside her, sliding deep. She purred, running her hands up his arms and over his shoulders to plunge into his hair. He felt his tail stroke against hers, and let it wrap around her ankle, tugging it upwards to let him push deeper.

His cock was buried deep inside her, and he let it lengthen further as his hips pumped and he thrust hard and fast, ramming against the firm barrier of flesh that her body had created, seeking to break through. Lacey moaned and writhed, legs wrapping around his back, her tail twisting around his, her body now covered in glittering blue scales and her eyes gleaming like moonlight. He kissed her again, long tongue stroking her mouth as he pushed and thrust, feeling her heat and her wetness coating him, feeling her begin to open up, that tiny hole starting to widen, squeezing the head of his cock as it pushed inside. He felt as though he was going to burst, pleasure coursing through him, and he groaned into her mouth as he came hard, his cock pulsing, shooting hot seed into her.

She tore her mouth from his with a shriek as she came, and he felt a rush of fluid all around him as she let him enter her fully, releasing the priest’s seed to mix with his. It felt incredible, and he let his balls contract, reversing the flow of fluid as the tingle of their strange dark magic tickled at his skin. His cock pumped, drawing the hot seed from her body and into his, the feel of it intensifying his orgasm, making pleasure crash through him. He growled and snarled, tail lashing in his excitement as his balls grew heavy with seed once more, and Lacey dug her nails into his shoulders as she pumped against his cock, helping him draw every drop from her. Her flesh was clamped around the head so hard it was exquisitely painful, but he felt her relax a little as he took the last from her, as he drew the seed deep and kept it safe.

He let out a low, guttural groan as he slowed to a stop, his head hanging, and Lacey murmured contentedly, her tail uncurling from around his leg to stroke over his back. Its touch was gentle, almost affectionate, and he shivered a little as it brushed over his legs and licked at the soles of his feet. She released him with a sudden softening of her flesh, letting him pull out of her, and he pushed up on his hands, licking his lips as he looked down. Her scales were fading a little, the human form showing through in pale patches, and she sent him a slow smile, eyelids fluttering.

“That was fucking awesome,” she drawled, and he grinned.

“Glad to be of service.”

He pushed back, getting down from the bench and pulling on his clothes, the shop feeling cold after the heat they had shared. Lacey watched him, leaning on her elbows, dark curls tumbling over pale shoulders.

“I never did this before,” she admitted. “Not with the goal of actually reproducing in mind, anyway. Not with someone like you.”

“Someone like us, you mean?” he said, tying his shoes with practised tugs of his fingers.

“Yeah.” She stretched languidly, pointing her toes. “It felt different with you. Fucking ordinary men has its pleasures, I guess, but there’s the danger I might just get a little over-excited.”

“Leaving a very dead human in your wake,” he agreed. “Self-control is one of the first things you need to learn as a demon, if you want to survive in their world.”

“Oh, I only do it to the ones that deserve it,” she said. “It’s not my fault their souls are more delicious than their personalities, right?”

He had to grin at that.

“I daresay you’re doing the rest of the world a favour,” he said. “There are a few in this town who would benefit from your attention, if you feel the need.”

“Nah, I’m good.” She stretched again. “Maybe if I swing by this way again.”

“Maybe so.”

He straightened up, pulling on his shirt and feeling the pleasant whisper of silk against his skin. Lacey slipped from the bench, snatching up her dress and pulling it over her head.

“Are you leaving right away?” he asked. “You’re welcome to stay and have a drink. I find myself in the mood to be unexpectedly sociable.”

Lacey shook her head, looking regretful.

“I’d better get back,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “There’s a ritual I was planning on being a part of. I just had an itch that needed scratching before I could concentrate properly on summoning dark powers, you know what I mean?”

“Concentration is important in these things, I find,” he said.

“Yeah.” She pursed her lips. “And it was a pretty distracting itch. Made it hard to think about anything other than getting well and truly fucked.”

“Then I’m happy to have scratched it,” he said smoothly.

He zipped his fly, buckling his belt. His balls were very full, and his pants were a little tight because of it, making him very aware of what he had just done, and what he still needed to do. It made his lust rise up once more, his desire to perform the final part of the dark dance of creation swelling within him. His cock twitched, and Lacey watched him with a knowing smirk, her head tilted to the side and her expression curious.

“Who’s it gonna be?” she asked. “I mean it’s none of my business, but you’ve got your eye on someone, right?”

“Perhaps.”

“Hmm.”

She stepped into her shoes, running fingers through her curls in an attempt to tame them, and tugged her dress straight.

“Is it someone from the town?” she asked, and he shook his head, buttoning his shirt.

“No,” he said. “Not someone from the town.”

“Well, that’s always better, I guess,” she said. “What does she look like?”

Gold smiled.

“Actually, she looks a lot like you,” he said. “Brown hair, beautiful blue eyes, soft pink lips… Delicious in every way. Or so I predict.”

“Really?” She looked pleased at that. “You have a type, huh?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said. “I’m hoping the encounter will be every bit as pleasant as this one. I shall certainly endeavour to make it so.”

“Well, accept my congratulations in advance,” she said, shaking out her hair. “She going to be willing, you think?”

Gold showed his teeth.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

She smirked in response, and stepped towards him, her hips swinging back and forth. He tugged his waistcoat closed, and Lacey ran her hands up his chest, rising up on her toes as she placed a soft kiss on his mouth. She sank back on her heels, looking very self-satisfied.

“I’m gonna get out of here,” she said. “Look me up if you’re ever in Memphis.”

Gold grinned at that.

“I don’t really get out much.”

“Bit of a loner, hmm?”

“Aren’t we all?”

She chuckled softly, and stepped back, brushing herself down and letting out a heavy, contented sigh.

“Goodbye, Rumplestiltskin,” she said, and sauntered off.

He heard the cheerful tinkle of the shop’s bell as she left, and finished buttoning his waistcoat, crossing to the standing mirror to check his appearance. His skin was humming, desire making his blood sing in his veins and his lips tingle. He looped the silk tie around his neck, knotting it tightly, and smiled darkly at his reflection, his eyes gleaming gold for the briefest of moments. He had a seduction to plan.