#I'm going to start using that tag for my oc

[ao3commentoftheday]

I know tag wranglers do a lot of work connecting tags etc. Is there anything authors can do to make their jobs easier for them like trying to mostly use canonical tags or not making tag comments?

Thanks!

This is a great question, and I'll do my best to answer it but I do hope that some wranglers add on in the notes! I'm also just going to preface this with the fact that you should still tag however you like to tag. This list isn't meant to be a checklist or anything. It's just info I've picked up over the years and you can take or leave each piece as you see fit.

Okay, so the first thing that most non-wranglers should know is that wranglers see tags separately from the fic. They get a big bin full of tags to sort through and match up in the system, but they'll only see your fic and the other tags you've added to it if they decide to go look.

That's important to know because sometimes a user will tag something like [character] is so sexy and then also tag by which I mean they're a huge dork. The wranlger won't see that second tag and won't know that they're connected so your sarcastic tag will end up synned (matched up to) sexy!Character or whatever the canonical is, as if that was the meaning you were going for.

Another good thing to know is that tags can only be synned if they only have 1 idea in them. So if you tag, say, [character] is gay and autistic then the wrangler can't actually syn that to either [character] is gay or character is autistic because it only half-fits either tag. To have them synned in the database, you would need to tag those two ideas separately.

You might have already seen the post I made referencing the fact that you don't have to tag multiple versions of the same idea (unless you want to for the aesthetic) because the synning that wranglers do makes sure that tagging one idea allows users to filter for all versions of that idea. But in case you didn't know that, now you do!

Wranglers are often members of the fandoms they wrangle, but they aren't always. Sometimes they'll take on a fandom that doesn't otherwise have a wrangler because they like to do research or because they like small fandoms or for many other reasons. But that means that if you're tagging your OCs by name, you should add (OC) to the end so that they know it's not a canon character that they aren't familiar with. This is double true in huge fandoms like Star Wars where there are millions of canon characters and just as many OCs.

Wranglers don't "seed" tags in fandoms. For a tag to exist, users need to create it. The rule of thumb is at least 3 fics from 3 separate authors, but that's very much the minimum and in fast-moving or huge fandoms the bar is probably higher. Also, for brand new fandoms, it's entirely possible that they won't know you exist until you tell them. Back in January I was the first person to write in a brand new fandom so I knew I had to start the tags, and I waited until there were 25 or so works by 15 or so creators before I emailed Support because I know I have to be patient - but I'm still impatient by nature lol.

Another thing to know is that tags are kind of like proton packs - they can't cross the streams. If you put a tag in the Character field by mistake, wranglers can't move it to the Additionals. This can also work in your favour, though, because if you have a minor character or minor relationship that you want to tag because there's some kind of fandom drama happening and people want to be able to avoid them, you can tag them in the Additional Tags so that people can know they're in there, but the people who like that character or ship can still filter the Character and Relationship tags without seeing a bunch of works that don't really focus on them.

This got super long, so I'll end with your question about tag comments. I know people worry that it makes extra work for tag wranglers if you get all chatty in your fic tags but I've been reassured by more than one wrangler over the course of several years now that it's no extra work. They just shovel those tags into the gaping maw of the Unfilterable Beast - which is the same thing they do with those tags that have multiple concepts in them. If it can't be synned, then that's where they go.

(keep tagging that way, though, if you like to because that's how new concepts get created and eventually canonized)

Alright, I that's all I can think of off the top of my head, and the list was actually longer than I thought! Wranglers: please do add on with other things you wish users knew, and please correct me if anything has changed since the last time I delved into this topic!

[rogue-durin-16]

THE CAB FARE

Summary: To culminate the already chaotic night at the Ball, a veteran nurse finds herself unable to pay the cab fare. With money, anyway.

Request: here

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x nurse!OFC

Genre: smut and also low-key comedy

Tags:

co-authors: @luvrottt @fromjupitertocentauri @writingfranticallyforjup @digging-trenches @jetjuliette

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae @jetjuliette

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

Warnings: language, smoking, explicit sexual content, oral, protected sex, voyeurism, a cab

A/N: this was a group effort! Started out as a joke, somehow landed us here. Speaking of where it landed us, please meet The Dolls! A lovely little group of OCs that HOPEFULLY you'll be seeing more often, not only in my fics but around too 👀. That said, enjoy this unholy piece of work I will never look at again<3

The Dolls' introduction

Band Of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

The first thing Elsie registered was the bathroom floor beneath her knees—cold, sticky, and blessedly still. The second was Dolores's voice, floating somewhere above her like a radio turned down too low.

"Oh honey, just breathe through it, okay? You're doing great."

Elsie groaned. Or maybe she vomited. Again. In her defense, she didn't expect the alcohol at a veterans' ball in a small San Francisco dance hall's would be that strong—the goal was to celebrate women who served, not to send them into a full blackout.

Someone was holding her hair back. That was good. Nice of them. Could've been Dottie. Could've been Jesus. Either way, Elsie made a mental note to thank them later with something strong.

The tile wall was cool against her cheek, grounding her mildly while her stomach staged a full mutiny. The sounds of swing music and warbling vocals pulsed through the dance hall walls; a hangover wrapped in a trumpet solo. The ball was still going strong outside. Here, it was just bile coming from the bad decisions of an Italian brunette—and the helping hands of a blonde too dolled up to be crouching by a bathroom stall.

The door slammed open, two pairs of clicking heels puncturing Elsie's head.

"—tu puta madre, Wexler!" Veronica's voice cracked through the bathroom like a gunshot, the reflection of her agitated figure catching on the mirror at Elsie's far left.

"Oh, come on," Sandy chimed in right after her, sugary and smug. "You walked into it, Ronnie. Can't be too mad at me." the former Cover Girl's dress swayed around, shielding Veronica out from the intoxicated woman's sight. Elsie heard—or she thought she heard at least—Dottie question the pair.

"She spilled—you spilled your goddamn wine on me!" Elsie didn't have to look up to know Ronnie was pointing an accusing finger at Sandy.

"It's a red dress. You can't even see it."

"It's expensive, that's what it is"

"It's red." Sandy sing-songed.

"Are you blind or just stupid?" Veronica hissed back.

"You could always, y'know—"

A faucet running. A splash of water hit porcelain. Veronica's gasp followed by a low 'I'm going to kill you' told Elsie that Sandy must have aimed the splash at the supposedly ruined dress. She couldn't care less, though—specially considering how the ridiculously loud noise made her brains jackhammer behind her eyes. "Please I can't—" Her stomach lurched again, and the rest of her sentence drowned in the depths of the toilet.

"Can you both shut up for five seconds?!" Dottie snapped—a bit too loud, a bit too exasperated. Elsie wasn't able to recall when Dottie had decided taking care of her drunk self was a better way to spend the night than mediating between Sandy and Ronnie. "Sandy, go get Flo before this poor thing dies on me."

"Don't be so dramatic." Veronica retorted, sparing a mildly concerned glance at Elsie's frame that clashed with her words.

"Says the gal throwing a fit over what? Barely a stain." Sandy's voice was accomplished by a blurred flash of her form strolling to the bathroom's entrance in the corner of Elsie's peripheral vision.

"Barely a stain my ass." Ronnie stomped into the stall next to them and rattled her purse. "Dot, you got a handkerchief?"

Dottie handed one over without looking. "Don't ruin this one too."

Elsie could hear how Veronica dabbed furiously at the dress due to the silence reigning between the three women. It didn't last long before Ronnie threw a curt "what" at the blonde holding Elsie's locks up in a loose ponytail.

Dottie shifted. A shrug, maybe. "Nothing."

"No, say it."

"I'm not doing this again."

"Sorry, you're not doing what?"

"You know what I mean." The blonde whispered at Veronica, as if trying to keep calm for Elsie's sake. "You two brawling out again. Can I not bring you anywhere?"

"Right." A scoff mashed with a snort. Elsie would've rolled her eyes if she hadn't been about to topple over. "Did you miss the part where she spilled her fucking wine on my very much expensive dress? On purpose?!"

Too loud.

Elsie, face still in the bowl, lifted a trembling hand. "My head's gonna… blow up—" She gagged.

"No, I didn’t see it," Dottie spat. "I was a little busy making sure Elsie didn't choke on her own vomit!"

The bathroom door banged open again, but this time Sandy was trailing after yet another fair haired girl, who stepped into the bathroom with the same resolve that carried her through the war.

"Jesus, what happened in here?" Florence's voice pitched high at the embarrassing sight of her older cousin slumped over the toilet like a ragdoll.

"Elsie can’t hold her gin." Sandy said sweetly, leaning in the doorway like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Flo was already down beside her, slapping Elsie's cheek. "C'mon, El, up you go." The veteran nurse half hauled up the brunette. "I told you to pace yourself, didn't I?"

Elsie groaned something that might’ve been 'fuck off' or an 'I love you'.

"Sandy, grab her other side." Flo grunted as she hoisted her upright. "We're getting out of this piss-scented coffin right now."

"Gladly." Sandy said, and took Elsie's limp arm like she was handling a rolled-up rug.

"Yeah, I've had enough of these two for one night." Dottie quipped as she got up, aided by Veronica's helping hand, who was quick to let go.

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"You two are impossible." Flo backed up her fellow nurse, who rushed out of the bathroom to find the girls' purses. "If it were up to me? I'd lock you two together until you learned the lesson."

"Is the lesson killing each other?" Sandy joked, throwing a look over her shoulder at Ronnie as they all exited the stalls.

"Sweet Jesus." Flo muttered, accommodating Elsie against her. She wondered if Sandy was pulling any of her cousin's weight. Elsie was pretty sure she wasn't. "I meant getting along."

"Highly doubt poster girl here knows how to do that." Veronica muttered. Although it probably was louder than a mutter if Elsie managed to catch it loud and clear.

"I'm not just a poster girl."

"Mhmm, you're also a bi—Ouch!" Dottie, back into Elsie's hazy view, slapped Ronnie's arm with a purse. "Dot, I swear to God—"

"Why don't you let Sandy breathe and come help me get the coats, huh?"

Elsie felt herself slip into a state of half consciousness, but still felt Sandy's shoulders shake with a single laugh before Dottie and Ronnie disappeared into the crowd, supposedly to gather the group's belongings. Elsie didn't care much about her coat, she thought, and her purse—well, she couldn't carry herself, let alone her purse.

The cold night air did little to sober her up, but at least brought some awareness to her inebriated brain. Flo—bless her—, announced something about hitching a ride. A cab? And her careful yet firm grasp left Elsie in the hands of Sandy. Technically.

She blinked at the lamppost she was now apparently married to, held upright only by Sandy's idle arm and a will to survive. The woman's free hand fished out a cigarette and a lighter from... from where? Her purse? And she muttered a "don't die." To Elsie before fully letting go in favor of her smoke.

The purses. Dottie and Ronnie hadn't joined them outside yet. Elsie tried to turn and face the door, her shoes slipping when she tried to shift her weight, but only caught sight of a stressed out Flo stopping a yellow cab right by the sidewalk.

The cabbie Flo had summoned halfheartedly stepped out of the car, like he didn't feel like doing so but felt obliged nonetheless. He was wiry, sharp-featured, with an angular jaw and locks just messy enough to suggest he didn't care, but styled enough to say he definitely did.

His eyes skimmed right over Sandy and Elsie, then locked back squarely on Flo. Elsie didn’t catch the words between them—she could barely catch her breath—but she noticed the way the man stood just a little straighter as he talked to Flo, like gravity worked differently around her. Not unusual, Flo's unintentional charm had that effect.

Elsie’s knees gave out slightly—a reminder of her precarious state—and she slid a few pathetic inches down the lamppost; a slow, unceremonious descent into disgrace.

The cabbie—Joe Liebgott, Flo had just learned after introducing herself—tilted his chin toward Elsie. "Uh—she's slipping."

Flo whipped around to see her cousin melting down the pole. Her legs rushed to the pair before her mind could catch up, the man she'd just met following along on instinct.

"I leave you two for thirty seconds," she groaned, stomping over, her grip triggering a sucked in breath from Elsie when she pulled her up. "and suddenly she’s auditioning for pavement.”

"She's fine," Sandy drawled, smoke curling lazily from her lips. "I was watching her."

"With what? Your third eye?"

Sandy only grinned. Flo didn't wait for a smart retort. She slid her arms under Elsie, heaving her up fully. Joe hovered nearby, hands half-lifted, unsure if he should help or keep out of the way.

Flo gave him a quick side-glance. He was smart enough to stay put.

"This is Joe." she introduced the man, jerking her chin at him as she shifted Elsie's weight. "He's gonna drive us home."

"What, the five of us?" Sandy gestured vaguely between them all and the dance hall gate, where two familiar silhouettes still hadn't emerged.

Flo winced. "Uhm... well, not the five of us, clearly."

Elsie squinted blearily at Joe, who seemed to be mildly amused at the situation under all the discomfort. "You kinda... look like a rat."

Flo froze. "Elsie!"

"I mean—" Elsie hiccuped, "—a handsome rat."

Flo's hand clamped over her cousin's mouth with military precision, but Joe simply scrunched his nose unimpressed. "Not the worst I've heard."

Behind them, the hall doors burst open. Dottie and Veronica came out in a flurry of motion and clacking heels, accompanied by him—Jack. All teeth and tan and no idea when to quit. Dottie looked like she was about to shake him off her leg like gum. Then she caught Flo's eye and, with a desperate little finger-point and a theatrical smile, deflected.

"There you are!" Jack beamed, pushing past Joe like he'd been born with right-of-way. "You disappeared on me back there."

Flo forced herself to fake politeness. "How odd."

Jack leaned into Flo's personal space, making her hold back a grimace. "I figured I'd hitch a ride with you, doll."

"Did you."

Not too far away, an argument that had been brewing between Ronnie and Dottie since they left the bathroom finally popped like a champagne cork.

"You're a brat, you know that?" Ronnie snapped.

"Oh, and you're so emotionally mature—"

"Girls!" Flo called without turning around. "Can we maybe save the breakdown for after we get home?"

No luck.

"I'm leaving." Dottie huffed, arms crossed, fury coiled tight in her shoulders.

"Yeah? Fuck, leaving where?" Ronnie shot back, already stomping after her.

"I'll find a ride."

As if summoned by pure narrative timing, a sleek black Cadillac slid up to the curb. The dark haired man behind the wheel leaned over and opened the passenger's door with drunken charm. "Need a lift, sweetheart?"

Dottie didn't miss a beat. She slid in, tossed a bitter smile and a wink at Veronica, and shut the door hard enough for the man to complain.

Veronica stood there, slack-jawed, arms in the air as they drove off. "Are you fucking kidding me?!" She trudged toward Sandy, shoes snapping sharp on the pavement. "got a smoke?"

"She'll come around." Sandy commented, lighting Ronnie's cigarette with the ease of a woman unbothered by chaos.

Flo, who didn't have time to babysit the apocalypse, turned to Joe, who stood a bit too close now. Not that she minded.

"This one's ours." she announced, nodding at Elsie for Joe to understand who the 'ours' referred to.

"Right." he muttered, and took it as a signal to help Flo hoist the girl into the back of cab like they were loading freight. Flo could've sworn she caught the man staring when she bent over to accommodate her nearly passed out cousin.

Predictably, Jack followed uninvited, brushing past Joe again like it was a sport, and slid in beside Elsie, who immediately sagged against him in a drunken heap. Lucky him. Or not. A leech with a good haircut, Flo thought. She would've been worried about using Elsie as a human shield if Jack hadn't talked her ear off about how he only liked blondes.

Joe lost no time to go back to the driver's seat. Flo moved to climb into the cab and take the free spot left in the backseat, but paused mid-motion. She turned to Veronica and Sandy, who were having one of those rare peaceful moments in which Ronnie let the Bostonian babble as much as she wanted without complaints.

"Girls!" The both perked their heads up at Flo's call. "You two gonna be alright?"

Sandy took a long drag of her cigarette. "You know I'll find a ride. And Ronnie's got legs."

"Sandra." Flo warned, but considering Veronica seemed anything but worried, she let it slide. "Get home safe."

"You too!"

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

Maybe Flo would have enjoyed the ride to Elsie's boarding house more if Jack had not been constantly trying to reach for her over her passed out cousin for a total of twenty minutes. Her wristwatch tick tacked mercilessly; a countdown until Elsie was no longer a flesh-made barrier between them.

Flo heavily considered getting Joe involved on her rousse to dodge Jack's attempts at latching onto her. By the looks the cabbie shot at the stowaway turned third passenger through the rearview mirror each time he opened his mouth, the blonde was very much in the positive about Joe not minding meddling.

"Right there—" Flo pointed at Elsie's current residence. "waitwaitwait!" The three passenger lounged forward involuntarily when Joe pumped the brakes before reaching the entrance. The cabbie cursed under his breath, and Flo blurted out an explanation no one asked for. "She's got curfew."

"Oh Jesus Christ," Joe tapped the steering wheel with the frustration of a man who would've rather die than put up with the bullshit going on in the backseat of his cab. If he were to be honest with himself, his shift had been over for a hot minute. The only reason why he pulled over in front of the dance was because of Flo. He was starting to regret it.

"It won't take long, I promise." Flo assured him in a half apologetic, half flustered tone; she lost no time to scramble out of the vehicle, almost dragging Elsie out with her by the girl's limp arm.

Flo had moved heavy weight during wartime—twice as heavy as Elsie—, but this wasn't '44, this was 1950 and the last time the nurse had to lift someone's body had been poor Winifred's after the girl had drunk half a bottle of bad whiskey during one of her breakdowns.

Winnie was quite the opposite of a heavy weight, though, and hadn't been wearing heels that constantly got caught up on a muddy yard.

"Oh, c'mon Elsie— sweet fuck, help me out a little."

Meanwhile, in the cab, Joe lit a cigarette with the kind of precise irritation that comes from keeping hands busy to salvage one's sanity. He watched through the windshield as Flo all but manhandled her cousin across the muddy patch of lawn beneath a yellow porch light. Her skirt kept riding up, her blouse clinging a little too well to her back and arms as she wrestled Elsie upright.

It was Flo's cleavage though, dipping dangerously when she crouched to dig out a small pin from under the trashcan, that killed Joe. He blinked once, twice. Took a drag and looked away because when Flo got Elsie halfway through the window—arms first, head flopped sideways like a tragic marionette—her dress had hiked up further.

"Damn," Jack murmured from the backseat. "Those tits are something else, but the legs? Fuck."

Joe's eyes left the two women to stare at Jack through the rearview mirror, blank and cold, as if he was filing away the information for later use—when he wasn't on the clock, when there weren't witnesses and a fare involved.

Maybe it was hypocritical of him—or maybe it was just the fact that he grew up taking care of four sisters—, but in any other situation, Joe would've leaned over the seat, grabbed Jack by the collar, and knocked his teeth loose against the door frame.

Instead, Joe flicked the ash out the window and pretended he didn't hear him.

Jack huffed a little laugh, almost piqued. "C'mon, you're looking too. Don't be a fucking priest."

Joe took another drag, smoke leaving his lips as he warned, "You talk like that again and you're walking home."

Jack scoffed. Probably didn't take it seriously, considering the little respect he'd been having for the three other people riding the cab with him that night. But Joe was serious and he was begging for Jack give him a reason.

Said reason didn't come before Flo returned to the cab.She slammed the door shut behind her, skirt hiked up from all the heavy lifting and one shoe nearly dangling off her heel. Her legs barely settled on the floor before Jack scooted closer—too close.

Joe saw it all in the rearview. He tossed his cigarette off the window for his hand to return to the gearshift. "Where to now?" he asked, voice rougher than before, eyes flicking to Flo, but only for a split second.

"My place." Jack said smoothly, like the suggestion carried some kind of weight.

"Need an address." Joe spat, a bit too rough.

Jack gave it to him absentmindedly, too busy leaning in close to Flo, a hand already halfway to her thigh before Joe's cab pulled away of the residential area. His voice dipped low. "You should come. We can… take the edge off."

Joe's knuckles whitened on the wheel.

Flo didn't answer right away; her gaze was fixed on the window, shoulders still. "No, thank you." her tone might as well have been the audible version of a slap for someone with half a brain.

Jack, who didn't seem to have half a brain, let out a short laugh. "C'mon. Don't be like that." His arm shifted—Joe couldn't see where it landed, but it was too close. His jaw ticked, and pointed eyes snapped to the rearview again.

"Jack." Flo's voice had teeth.

Jack ignored it. "We had a moment, doll. You don't wanna—"

She snapped. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to. The sharp movement of her elbow jabbing into his ribs, the vicious twist of her body, the way her fingers found his wrist and flung it away from her lap like it was a dead rat—that was loud enough.

Joe hit the brakes before his brain caught up to the motion and the cab screeched to a jarring stop in the middle of a quiet San Francisco street. Tires protested against asphalt. Jack yelped, thrown slightly forward, barely catching himself with a palm on the window.

"What the fuck, man?" he barked.

Joe turned in his seat, elbow hooked over the backrest, and looked at Jack like he was something he might scrape off his boot.

“You can get out,” Joe said evenly.

Jack blinked. “What?”

Joe’s voice came out like gravel and restraint: “You can walk.”

"What?"

Joe didn’t even flinch. "You can walk. Get out."

Jack scoffed. "You kidding me, man? It’s half an hour away."

"I’m not fucking driving another half hour. My shift is over."

Jack leaned forward, incredulous. "The shift is over when I say so."

Joe exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes darkening as he took in those words. His palm hit the steering wheel once, loud and sharp. He scoffed under his breath, head tilted as if trying to decide whether to laugh or commit a crime.

In one fluid motion, Joe threw the car into park, popped his door open, and stepped out into the night. The cab rocked slightly as the door shut behind him. His boots echoed against the quiet street as he circled the vehicle to open Flo's door.

He yanked it open so hard the frame nearly bounced.

"Front seat," he told Flo, short and calm, not taking his eyes off Jack. "Now."

Flo didn’t argue. She slid out wordlessly and made for the front, brushing past Joe’s arm without a word.

Jack hadn’t even moved before Joe grabbed him by the arm. Firm. No dramatics, just authority. Joe pulled, dragging Jack half out of the cab like dead weight.

Jack stumbled, caught himself on the doorframe, and whipped around chest-to-chest with Joe. “Okay, fucking cabbie—who do you think you are—”

Joe shoved him.

Not a slap, not a punch—just one solid hand at the center of Jack’s chest, fast and merciless. Jack’s back hit the side of the cab with a metallic thud.

“I said you can fucking walk,” Joe told him, his voice calm and razor-sharp. “So go do that, buddy.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

Joe turned, slid back into the driver’s seat, and started the engine with an annoyed exhale.

Flo was already settled beside him up front, legs crossed, hand braced on the dash. She didn’t look at Jack once as they pulled away. Not until the cab had started rolling. Then she flipped him off—middle finger up, elbow on the window, chin tilted high to meet Jack's incredulous expression through the wing mirror.

The city rolled by in silence, streetlamps carving stripes across Joe’s face. The roads were nearly empty, save for the occasional couple wandering home, arm in arm, laughing into the night.

In a desperate attempt at finding a topic to fill the silence, Flo's eyes scanned the cab and soon landed on the dog tags hanging from the gearshift.

“You served?” she asked in a curious tone.

Joe cleared his throat, shifting slightly on his seat, maybe uncomfortable, maybe still annoyed. “Yeah. Airborne. Europe.”

“Me too,” she said, then smirked faintly. “Well. Not Airborne. Nurse Corps.”

He glanced sideways at her. “Guess that makes us coworkers.”

A soft chuckle left her. “Didn’t peg you for the type to talk shop.”

“I’m not.” he said, a bit too fast.

But he didn’t look away.

They sat in that mutual silence again. Not awkward. Not exactly comfortable either. Just tight. Like something was being held back on both ends.

Flo leaned her head lightly against the window, but her eyes stayed on him.

“You from around here?” she asked.

Joe gave a noncommittal shrug. “Not for long."

"Mysterious."

"I could go into detail on a date, you know?" He dropped, tapping his thumb on the steering wheel.

Flo tried to stop her face from breaking in a smile. This was not how she expected the night to go, but no one would hear her complain about it.

Joe pulled up in front of her building. Three floors, a narrow stoop, and the glow of a single room spilling out of her apartment's window. Winnie was still awake, Flo realized. Shame.

“That’ll be…” Joe leaned forward to check the taximeter, but his eyes lingered a second too long on her instead. “A dollar seventy-five.”

Flo blinked, then looked down at her lap. No purse.

Shit.

She twisted in her seat, bracing a hand on the dashboard as she leaned back over the seat. Her cleavage pulled tight. Joe’s eyes flicked—he didn’t even try to hide it.

Flo caught it. Didn’t say a thing.

“Damn it,” she muttered, half to herself. The purses. With all the chaos going on at the entrance of the dance hall, Flo must've forgotten to ask Ronnie and Dottie for her and Elsie's purse.

"Uhm," she turned back to Joe, who surely awaited a shit excuse by the way his brow was quirked. "My friend's got my purse."

He puffed out a laugh. Flo did too, out of nervousness if anything.

"I could go up to my apartment," she suggested, already curling her fingers around the door's handle. "Get the money and come back."

"Yeah, fuck, how do I know you're gonna come back at all?"

"You don't."

"Exactly."

Flo pondered her options. Maybe, she thought, she could let this work in her favor to end the godawful emotional rollercoaster in a fun note. She'd gone to that shit celebratory dance with the goal of taking a man home either way—she just didn't know said guy could be a cab driver.

"Maybe we could reach an agreement." She tried with a shrug that faked confidence poorly.

"An agreement." Joe kept tapping the steering wheel. If he saw where Flo was driving up with this, he didn't let it show. "An agreement won't pay the gas."

"But I'm pretty." She joked.

"That's an understatement." Joe seemed to ponder how stupid would it be to follow along. He hadn't been taking the best choices today, so what harm could another messy turn do? "What kind of agreement?"

There it was. Flo didn't expect the situation to even be able to escalate, but now that they were there and that Joe's eager eyes were anything but subtle, she dove right in.

"Depends. How much of a gentleman are you, Joe?"

That got a huff of laughter out of him. He looked away, toward the building, then back at her. His jaw tensed—maybe trying to keep from smirking. Or maybe to stop from talking himself out of this.

“I was a lot more of a gentleman before you got into the cab.” he stated, too low not to mean anything past a quick comeback.

His words hung in the cab like smoke—thick, heavy, slow to dissipate.

Flo didn’t give them time to.

She leaned forward, bracing one hand against the seat between them. Her mouth was on his a moment later—no hesitation, no asking. Just pressure, intent, and the sharp click of teeth from the speed of it. Joe kissed her back like he hadn’t been waiting for it but sure as hell wasn’t stopping now. One of his hands caught her waist, the other tangled roughly in her hair. Their teeth knocked again, and Flo let out a sound in the back of her throat that made him groan into her mouth.

Heat flashed under her skin like gasoline catching spark, fast and all-consuming, but she pulled back first, breath shallow, mouth flushed, fingers slipping from the collar of his jacket.

“Out,” she whispered, certain. “Get out of the cab.”

Joe didn’t ask why. He just opened his door and stepped out into the night air, the slam of it echoing off the empty street. He stood there, leaned against the side of the cab with the door still open beside him—a physical shield for what they both knew was about to happen.

Flo slid out after him, slower, more deliberate. The hem of her dress caught a bit of wind and shifted around her legs. She didn’t look at him until she was rounding the back of the cab, heels barely making a sound on the pavement.

She stopped when she was in front of him.

Their eyes locked for a second longer than necessary.

Then, with deft fingers, she reached for his belt, undid the buckle with practiced ease. Her knuckles brushed against his stomach as she tugged his pants open, and he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Jesus,” he muttered, head tilting back just a little, throat working as she slid the zipper down. Her fingers found the waistband of his briefs next.

“Relax,” she said, voice honey-thick.

She dropped to her knees.

The pavement was cold. The wind brushed her cheeks. Joe’s hand twitched by his side, unsure where to go—until she looked up at him through her mascara-tinted lashes, and his hand tangled on her hair, gentle. At first, at least, when the warmth of her breath hit the tip of his dick, lips teasing and calculatedly careful.

But then her tongue flicked around the head, mouth wrapping around it with expertise precision, slow and teasing, and Joe's fingers tightened around the blind locks without meaning to. Although, if he was being honest with himself, maybe he meant to.

Her hand stroked what her mouth didn’t yet take, building a rhythm meant to undo him faster than Joe imagined.

The street was dead quiet except for the occasional car in the distance—yet every sound felt ten times louder in the dark. Joe bit down on a curse; for all the noise discipline he had been submitted to during the war, he had always loved to run his mouth, and Flo wasn't making things easier for him to stay quiet.

“Christ, you’re—shit—” His voice broke in a whisper as she swallowed him deeper, hand braced against his thigh for leverage. Her other hand still worked the base, slow but steady, in perfect sync with her tongue. “You don’t—god, fuck, sweetheart—don’t play fair, do you?”

Flo hummed around him, smug as sin, and the vibration made his hips jerk forward before he caught himself.

She liked that.

She also liked the tension in his arm as he gripped her makeshift ponytail like he was holding himself back from thrusting forward.

The way his thighs kept tightening, the way his fingers trembled against her scalp—he was close. She could feel it in how hard he clenched his jaw, trying not to groan, how he kept muttering half-formed words through grit teeth.

“Shit—Florence—”

He wasn't asking her to stop; he was warning her he couldn't hold out much longer, and judging by the way she picked up the pace, the soft pop of her mouth every time she let him slip out, that was exactly what she wanted.

Joe came with a hoarse groan, every muscle in his body tensing, hand fisting in Flo’s hair as she took all of him, swallowing his load, her lips dragging just slightly as she eased off him.

For a moment, the world was nothing but the sound of both of them breathing, heavy and uneven in the cool night air.

Joe's eyes fluttered down at her, chest still rising and falling fast. His hand slid from the back of her head to her shoulder, then lower, fingers curling around her arm as he pulled her gently up onto her feet.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice roughened, and dragged her flush against him.

The kiss that followed was deep and filthy and possessive—like he hadn’t just finished, like he was already aching again. His hands gripped her hips, hard enough she’d probably find finger-shaped bruises tomorrow.

“I’m not done with you,” he almost growled against her mouth. A warning and a promise all at once—one that made anticipation pool inside Flo. “Alright?”

The blonde grinned, a little breathless. “You got condoms here?”

That stopped him cold.

Joe pulled back just enough to give her a look. “The fuck would I have condoms in my cab?”

She figured that would be the case, but better be safe than sorry, because the alternative was a bit embarrassing. A girl's gotta do, what a girl's gotta do, though. Flo dropped her forehead against his shoulder and sighed like she was asking the heavens for strength.

“She’s gonna kill me.”

Flo didn't want to resort to Winifred; the reason why she was not out to begin with was that she had preferred to be left alone. Flo didn't have much of a choice at this point in time, and so the pair walked up to the quiet building, shutting the cab's door behind them.

Inside the warm lit living room, Winnie was curled up on the couch, wearing a cardigan too big for her that she didn't even remember getting, clutching a half-empty glass of wine in one hand and a dog-eared romance novel in the other. Her cheeks were damp, her nose red, and her pixie-long hair slightly disheveled.

The British woman had been in need of a good cry for what seemed ages; she just didn't know it'd come through a shit book she swore up and down she wouldn't read. She also didn't expect a pebble to hit the window behind her—hence why she nearly jumped off the couch.

"What—"

Tick!

Another rock made Winnie flinch, but this time she got closer to the window instead of jolting away from it.

Tick!

Third time's the charm. Grumbling through her wine haze with a frown, Winifred got up and opened the window just enough to stick her head out.

“Flo?” she blinked down. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Having a bit of fun,” Flo announced sweetly from three floors down. Joe was behind her, pants re-buckled but shirt rumpled beyond hope. “I need a favor.”

“What?”

“I need you to grab the condoms from my nightstand.”

Winnie's brows drew tighter, confusion turning into vexation. One single night of peace. She hadn't asked for a lot, had she?

"I'm having a breakdown!" She whisper-shouted, her voice cracking a bit in the process. The man behind her roommate didn't bother in hiding his snickering, which made Winifred want to go downstairs and slap the fun out of him.

"I know, sweetie," Flo reasoned in a kind yet impatient tone. "And I love you!" Winifred sighed at Flo's sweetness, the ghost of a pout crossing her visage. It soon vanished when the blonde down on the street finished her statement. "But I need you to toss me the Trojans!"

That did it.

Winnie shut the window hard enough to shatter it, and for a hot second, Flo started to hype herself up about going upstairs.

The window opened before Flo could make up her mind about how to proceed without having her friend murder her over breakfast, and Winnie's head peeked out the half open for a brief instant. Then her hand followed, tossing the condoms down with force that wasn't needed and aim that hadn't been accidental, since the protection turned projectile hit Joe's head dead on, making curse out of shock.

“Fuck—she could be a pitcher for the Seals.” the man muttered to himself, rubbing his crown while crouching to get a hold of the dropped condoms.

"I love her." Flo stated. She didn't wait up for Joe's reply—just wrapped her slender fingers around the man's wrist and led him back to the cab.

Florence hadn't really pictured herself fucking a cabbie out in the open in front of her apartment building, but now that it was about to happen, she didn't wanna waste time with pleasantries.

Joe barely had the wrapper torn open when Flo pulled him in by the collar like a woman on a mission—though one might argue he was the one following orders.

"Jesus Christ-"

If he had something to say—which was most likely the case—, the words got pushed back down his throat by Flo's eager mouth. Joe did his best to keep up with the woman, but considering the way her hands dove down to his buckle again not even a split second after his back hit the driver's door of the cab, he started to worry about matching her pace.

He wouldn't go down without trying, though; Joe's own digits helped her yank down his pants and skivvies, his half hard dick springing out to be immediately caught by Flo's impatient palm.

With an almost frustrated 'fuck', Joe gently slapped Flo's hand away to slip himself into the condom with close to no finesse. The blonde took the momentum to take half a step back and roll her own panties down under her dress.

When she returned to her previous position, her body hit his with purpose; one of her legs hooked high, slipping out of her underwear to grant Joe better access in a precarious way with medal worthy flexibility.

Her heel hung on for dear life; the other shoe stayed grounded, toe pointed, calf flexed. She was all curve and command, pinning him to the side of the cab like it was a shared vice.

Joe pushed into her, slow and as controlled as a man starving could be; he sucked in a breath hoping it might help him survive the next five minutes.

“Shit,” he breathed on Flo's flushed cheek. “Are you always this—”

“Efficient?” she offered, voice pitched low with a crooked smile, drawing dominance from her keenness.

"That's a—fuck—" Joe's jaw locked, head tilted back when Flo rolled her hips in a testing motion. "—that's a way to put it."

She laughed softly, warm and unhurried, and pressed her mouth to his jaw instead of answering. A taunt. Joe’s hands found her hips with practiced urgency, eyes going back to stare at Flo, a low curse gritting through his teeth as she dragged kisses up his neck.

Joe decided to do something useful and made sure to bracket Flo's leg between his arm and his side; it wouldn't stop her exposed knee from hitting the side of the cab when she moved, but it'd offer her some very much needed leverage to chase her own pleasure.

Somewhere between Flo's drawling rhythm and Joe's not-so-quiet grunts, her other shoe finally gave up and dropped to the street with a soft clack. She didn't notice. Or care.

"Keep your voice down, cabbie," she whispered, voice close to his ear. "I already had to beg for condoms. I’m not doing crowd control."

“You begged,” he scoffed, but it came out ragged. “You bribed her with love and yelled about Trojans.”

“You gonna lecture me?" Flo said, grinding forward just enough to steal his next breath, “or shut up and earn your tip?”

That got a sound out of him—half-laugh, half-moan—one hand slipping down to anchor her thigh higher, while the other palmed between their torsos to find her tits. God what Joe would give to see them bounce, but that was too much to ask. This was already too much to ask, but he wasn't about to turn down the highlight of his month just in case some San Francisco resident would walk down the street at ungodly hours.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” he claimed, peppering her jaw with lazy kisses to stop himself from getting any louder.

“Maybe,” she murmured, hips shifting with delicious threat. “But what a way to go.”

His hands gripped her hips, tighter now, not guiding—anchoring. Flo was doing a pretty good job of driving them both over the edge with the way her pelvis rolled, making Joe be able to hit all the right spots. He wasn't sure who was holding who up anymore.

She stumbled a little when she picked up the pace, mouth against mouth to cage the unholy panting and mewling leaving their throats with each thrust. Flo's digits steadied her by digging into Joe's nape and shoulder blade, which drew a hissed curse from him.

“Jesus,” he complained under his breath, head tipping back against the cab. “You got nails or something?”

“I got motivation.” Flo whispered, brushing her mouth along the line of his neck. Her skirt had hiked up halfway over her thigh by now, and her hand held onto the hem of Joe's shirt like she was ready to tear it if needed.

“I thought nurses were supposed to be gentle.”

“I’m off duty,” she countered breathless against his mouth. “and you’re still talking.”

He groaned, softer this time, forehead pressed to hers like that might stabilize him. Joe’s hands slid up, fingers tracing the dip of her waist, the curve of her spine, her breasts, the shape of her shoulder blades under the fabric of that damn dress. He was a goner.

Flo bit his lower lip, chest heaving, hands roaming, hips bouncing against him, and Joe? Joe made another one of those strangled little noises that sounded like he was trying not to. A whisper of her name escaped his lips, and Florence almost laughed into his mouth.

“We’ll work on your volume.”

“Don’t you dare—” he warned, barely able to breathe, let alone finish the sentence. But she was already shifting her weight again, her bare foot slipping against the side of the cab for leverage as she tried to quicken the pace again, grasping at any part of Joe that would help her stay upright. She was close, almost gone, tipping over the edge; Joe saw that as an opportunity to shift the dynamic.

In a sharp, almost instinctive pivot, he turned them both around. Flo met the warm metal of the cab first with her back, then with her palms splayed on the hood when Joe spun her and bent her over it.

He leaned over her, pushing her down until her cheek met the curved surface, red lipstick nearly smudged on yellow. One of his hands on her hip, the other lining himself up with her pussy. “Still feeling cute now?”

"Fuck me—" Flo's go-to curse morphed into a loud moan when Joe thrusted into her again, the heat pooling her core working in his favor. He was not willing to waste time and whether or not Flo's sounds echoed in the nearby buildings when he started pistoning into her—hips slapping again ass cheeks—wasn't one of his concerns. "Oh—oh Jesus FUCK—"

"Shut up," Joe urged, "you're gonna get us arrested—" although his own grunts weren't helping his case.

"Then shut me up," Flo taunted, lips staining the hood of the cab with each articulated word. She caught Joe's breathed out curse, but she didn't expect him to turn her around again; a motion too fast to process properly before Joe pulled her up by her hair to sit up, his free hand yanking her cleavage down as much as the dress allowed him to.

"Now this is what I wanted to see." He mumbled more to himself than to Flo, mouth latching onto the now exposed flesh of her chest, his rhythm picking up a ridiculous speed that kept tearing broken sounds out of the blonde.

The noise would potentially be an issue for Flo the morning after, when the time would come to face the neighbors that she was pretty sure were being shaken awake by the best fuck she'd had in a long while. The morning had not come yet, and neither had Florence, so she stacked the problem on the back of her mind.

Not everyone was lucky enough to be too fucked out to care about the spectacle Flo and Joe were subjecting the neighborhood to.

Winifred, for once, was now glued to the telephone, eyes shut, trying not to gag every time a 'sweet fuck' or a 'right there' from Florence punctured through the living room's walls.

"They're still at it." Winnie talked through the transmitter.

"I can't believe she's fucking the cabbie." Veronica's amused voice cut through the nightmarish moans, Sandy's laugh reaching Winnie's ear through the receiver. "Thank God I didn't show up with her damn purse."

"She could've asked me to toss her my purse but no—" Winifred huffed, her breakdown long forgotten. "Asked for the condoms instead."

"—What are they doing?" Sandy questioned eagerly with a laugh, she had definitely taken the handset away from Veronica.

"They're uh..." Against better judgement, Winifred moved the curtain's hem to the side like it'd burn her if she got too close and peeped through the window down at the parked cab. "Oh goodness gracious!"

"What?! What is it?!"

"He's eating her out!" Winnie physically gagged, closing the curtain again and turning her back to the window like that would make it any better.

"Such a shame you don't have Ronnie's camera with you." Sandy joked, disregarding Winifred's horrified state. "This would make for great press, right Ron?"

"I'm about to puke." Winnie blurted out into the phone.

"—go away—" Ronnie shooed Sandy on the other side of the line. "Freddie just... Just go to sleep, alright?"

Winifred considered arguing, but given the late hours, the finished bottle of wine and the way Florence was screaming that cabbie's name, the best thing she could do was call it a night.

She'd make sure to translate how displeased she'd been to Florence over breakfast in the form of purposefully burnt toasts. She just hoped she wouldn't have that cabbie at the kitchen table too. Although having on account the way Flo was repeatedly screaming 'I'm coming' down on the street, it was a very plausible possiblity.

[raycatzdraws]

ribbonwood

[vaguely-concerned]

powerful mental image of lucanis expounding passionately about any given one of his limited but extremely deep areas of interest (the wyvern/knives/coffee/cooking/murder continuum of lucanis dellamorte special interests if you will) while rye lounges around and Beholds him with palpable twink boutta pounce energy

[starflungwaddledee]

Oooo starstruck dee has little stars at the bottom of her feet! Are they just aesthetic or would they make imprints into the ground? (like pawprints)

exactly like that! though she's not the only one...

edit: might need to add some additional dialogue to this to make it more clear, but a clarification in the interim; he knows about his own footprints. he's just surprised to see something similar already there when he knows he's only just landed. he lifts his own shoe to confirm that they're not identical (and also to reveal this to the viewer). seems his stoicism beat off the clarity in this one, sorry 😭

[beheamothscreamoth]

Currently trying to work on my WIP for Daniella when she arrives in Eridia, and here's a small thing of what I have so far! :D I'm very excited to write it ^w^

Transcript underneath:

As she processed the guard’s words, her gaze wandered to the golden gates of the Senobium. Looking up at them now, Daniella couldn’t help but be reminded of a moment in her childhood when she attempted to seize the sun. She had tried to leap up and pluck the deceivingly close sun from the sky, but of course, the reality was that it was a world away from her and that she was only grasping at empty air.

Daniella blinked as the sun she had tried to hold so many years ago began peeking out of the grey clouds, light spilling across the academy’s white surface. She felt like that child now. What she wanted to grasp was so close she could seemingly touch it, but the distance between them was incomprehensible.

The Senobium was closed. Unopened to any visitors. What was she going to do?

As if to answer her question, a gentle whisper caught her ear. 

[keeps-ache]

oh gods, gods, gods

[kirisclangen]

Zelda

She/her, 65 moons, cis molly

[whimsipunk]

Found a really nice pose reference for a five-person selfie and immediately knew what I had to do.

I didn't expect much going in, though. It was my first time drawing Ravi and Shinju (and Delta!) and my first time colouring a drawing of Ennis. And instead of getting a cute sketch of my WIP's protagonists, I got one of the best and most ambitious finished pieces I've ever drawn.

I think it speaks a lot to how much my skill as an artist has improved the past couple of years that I'm able to realise something with so much detail and so many funky bits of perspective in only like, 3-4 days. Three years ago this would've taken me two weeks to finish and it wouldn't have looked half as good, either. Suffice to say I'm really proud of this illustration, both on its own and for what it represents for me as an artist.

It... might be time for me to admit I'm kinda good at this, huh?

If you don't know who these guys are and you'd like to, you can check out their intros over here, along with a couple of their friends (and foes) who aren't in this drawing. I'm still hard at work getting my plot outline and chapter one on paper, but Hell or high water I'm making this thing happen. I hope, when it does, I'll see you there.

[toasteaa]

My beloved friends in my phone...new adderall prescription + coffee in my system. I might become the yapper today

[aggravatedartist]

okay I'll stop gatekeeping them now

(If you saw the scuffed version of this post, politely, no you did not... I hate when this site scuffs formatting. Ugh.)

Here's that furry Kidnapper Fox OC lol

Alt outfits under cut and in a reblog; so far I've only done all the in game suits (and the cut beige one.)

I'll also share some stuff about them!

Bunny and bee suits will be in a reblog, sorry; I also have alternate versions for the bunny suit (technically also the bee suit but I hate it) so I can show those off too, at least. Maybe get more opinions?

Now, fun facts:

Transcriptions are available in the alt text!!

So, notes about these notes real quick- obviously, I did in fact give them hair. I like it! I think it was a cute/fun flavor choice.

I think they can use their tongue for item collection, which is part of what the "they'd nearly prefer to collect bee hives, though," was about. I don't imagine that'd be very pleasant, especially if any circuit bees got stuck to them in the process.

Kidnapper Foxes are already pretty big, actually? So the note about them being a big version of them is not quite accurate- they're probably either slightly smaller than, or the same size as, a normal Kidnapper Fox, if they dropped to all fours. That's not something they're comfortable doing though, at all.

Their constantly being left behind is why they seem to constantly only have employee ranking- by their account, they should really be a leader or a boss already, not that they'd want the positions necessarily- they don't think there's very many crews out there that would listen to them.

I think their night on a moon without vain shrouds was a nightmare experience, truly- think "getting shot out of the hands of a forest keeper by an old bird only to land in the midst of a fruitless battle between old dogs and baboonhawks, all of whom are promptly blown to shit." And they couldn't go inside because of a coil head.... rough time all around.

They HATE that tail sleeve so, so much- it doesn't feel quite big enough for all the poof of the fur of their tail, and it gets itchy. If they're on monitor, they absolutely refuse to wear it, alongside their helmet- but they refuse the helmet because they they actually can't talk while wearing it at all. The muzzle isn't wide enough for them to open their mouth.

Annnnd I still don't have a name or anything set for them lmao. I still have Scott Pilgrim brainrot so I'm actively having to stop myself from calling them KP (Kidnapper Phaux... disgusting and obnoxious, I know.... if anyone has any suggestions I will so happily field them 🙏)

Bonus fun/cute ideas my friends have suggested, not necessarily canonized:

If there's a bracken and it startles them, they will hiss at it until it goes away.

Loot bugs continually try to kidnap them- they think they're valuable <3 (idk about the canonization of this one, but I will say it's very cute. I only hesitate because I have a whole thing in my head of them constantly having to fret on whether it's safer to leave their gear and clothes outside or inside the facilities on overnight stays, depending on if there's also the chance of baboonhawks showing up. If loot bugs were nice to them, I dunno that they'd pass up the additional protection, especially on moons without shrouds.)

[polariscroquis]

"If there is a hell, I'll see you there"

I posted some sketches of a new character from my webtoon and said I might do a full illustration of his bass playing sketch. Wanted to test a new way of doing some dramatic light, and rather like it!

Mick is the Heresy™ guy and also the playing-bass-like-a-beast-with-a-dirty-industrial-tone guy. And a cinnamon bun on the inside

If you're like "oh the 'God is dead' thing is such an edgy angsty thing... *breathes in to start rant*" yes, it is, he's an edgy traumatized guy who likes playing tough 'cause he's got too much of a good heart, leave him be. Also, a Nine Inch Nails fan :)

I'm really happy with how this one turned out T-T

----

As always, I'm very bad at self-promotion, so I'll just leave some links below where you can ~also*~ support my work if you feel like it! "^^

Youtube | Ko-Fi | Webtoon | Commission Info

*comments/likes/reblogs are already support and I'm very very grateful!! 🖤

[relevant-url-incoming]

Ri'gastio! I may feel bad about all the killing he does, but he never has. A former slave turned bounty hunter with a deep hatred for pretty much everyone except for pretty women who could kill him, his defining character traits are the desire to piss everyone off and his tendency to kill people he should probably have kept alive. We're talking about a guy who gets along with Skadge.

So Rig's name is not an accurate Chiss name really, and this is both on purpose and because I: do not understand Chiss naming. If you do, please save me. Anyway he's just faking it til he makes it as far as being Chiss goes, having grown up completely separate from that culture as a slave in the Empire. There is one person in the galaxy he completely trusts, or would actually do something nice for with no ulterior motive, and that's his fellow ex-slave Exchei. Of course, he appreciates that she ends up on the Dark Council and therefore he can trust that she'll always have a job for him, but once upon a time they were two fucked up kids relying on each other to get through an awful situation.

After the slave transport ship he was on got hijacked and the slaves released, he decided to set himself up as a bounty hunter for two reasons: killing with impunity sounded like a fun time and a way to get out his anger at the world, and if he got good enough the Empire would rely on him in a way that means he can actually choose to deny them services if he wants to. Secretly desperate to feel like he belongs someplace, instead of actually pursuing a positive relationship he belittles the people he thinks have rejected him or would reject him - the Empire, Mandalorians, the Chiss - and ignores any overtures of friendship. His crew he keeps around because he feels like he has control of them, and that's as close to a family as he feels safe having.

His relationship with Exchei starts to fall apart as she finds people she cares for elsewhere, and after Zakuul comes onto the scene he starts taking jobs for them - they can pay, after all, and to him that's all that matters. This does not make Exchei terribly happy, as she sees them as the Enemy. Though they still occasionally slip into bed together when they meet up and she still will hire him if she needs a bounty hunter, their relationship never recovers from figuring out how fundamental their differences in morality are.

[gaylactic-fire]

I can't believe the Undertale Sans AU fandom is still alive and well in 2023

[zae-heeyyy]

Causerie

Summary: You send Arthur a letter. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word Count: 2,185 Tags: Male Masturbation, solo handjob, mentions of oral and unprotected p in v, dirty talk, long distance relationship, high honor Warnings: 18+ MDNI

an: So this came out of nowhere LMAO It's a bit different from what I'm used to, but I ran with it. The mentioned photo was heavily inspired by @sir-walton-goggins's under-the-cut sketch of their OC, Kris Blake. 😍😍😍 I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

Causerie: an informal conversation

Channeling the self-control of a brigade of soldiers, Arthur willed his unruly cock flaccid as he left the post office. An envelope addressed to Tacitus Kilgore in familiar dainty cursive teased him from inside his satchel. The nagging twinge in his gut could only be satiated by his fist wrapped tight around himself in the solitude of his tent. 

He didn’t know how he’d make it through the rest of the day without losing his sanity. Once you’d unknowingly planted the seeds, his thoughts of you grew wild and untamed like the weeds at your feet. He’d never seen something so ridiculous—a woman in her day dress, the lacy hem stained with dirt, trying to repair a loose fence post on her own.

“No man ’round here?” he had asked, holding his hand out for the hammer.

“There is now.”

You beamed, your smile stunning him like a camera flash. Unbeknownst to him, that grin was a brand, marking him as yours for a long time to come. 

Every time he passed by the quiet homestead, he found himself lightly pulling on Boadicea’s reins and scoping out something to fix. Your ways of showing gratitude, like a hug or kiss on the cheek, turned his neck to shades of crimson, yet he’d still come knocking again some time later. On his last visit, you were dragging him to your room by cotton suspenders, mouth attached to his before he could get a word in.

An innocent lamb you were not—he was sure of it now in a half-daze, hypnotized by your breasts as you bounced on top of him. Matter of fact, you must’ve been a witch or a succubus; he’d never felt so used, drained, and perfectly satisfied.

And guilty, too. He couldn’t even look at you as he confessed to his life of criminality, finally admitting what he’d come to tell you in the first place. After this job, he was leaving for good.

To his surprise, you didn’t put up a fight—just wished him well—and dammit, that made him want you even more. You didn’t follow him outside—only watched from under the blanket as he said his last goodbye and promise.

“I’ll write t’you.”

Receiving your letters kept his heart ticking and dick aching. What started as a pile of polite notes quickly transformed into a library of erotica. His hands trembled in anticipation as he opened the latest letter. 

Dear Arthur, 

Are you still alive? I hope you haven’t gone and gotten yourself killed. I’m sorry if I kept you waiting. A new photographer opened up in town, and I stopped by the studio one evening just before he closed. I may have batted my lashes and stood a little too close when I asked for his help. A special photo of me would be the perfect gift for my dear husband, who was about to be shipped away to war in the Philippines. You should’ve seen how red he got when I dropped my blouse. I tried to sit pretty. Did it work?

A photo? Arthur checked the discarded envelope, searching for the supposed gift. A small photo was still tucked away in the envelope. He took it out and held it up to the lantern to get a good look.

Christ.

You were directly in the center of the camera with a lazy smile on your face. Pearls adorned your neck, and velvet cloth draped over your shoulders, just barely covering those twin humps on your chest. Fuck, he wanted to rip that photographer’s head clean off his shoulders for capturing you like that, but goddamn, he wanted to shake the man’s hand too. This slip of paper was a slice of heaven on Earth.

And for what he was about to do with it, he was going straight to hell. Setting the letter aside, the gunslinger undressed down to his union suit with the ardor of his twenty-year-old self. As he settled back onto the cot, he locked on to your sultry eyes and sighed contently.

I had a dream about you. Do you ever dream about me?  

The bulge in his pants begged for attention, and he appeased it, palming himself idly while his eyes stayed trained on the photograph. He’s too old and weathered for this—pining over some girl and touching himself like he’d gotten a second wind of puberty. 

But he couldn’t help it. Even after deafening gun fights and vicious animal attacks, he’d find a letter to re-read, and now he had this picture to accompany his fantasies. His gaze shifted from the photo back to your words on the page. 

We were in this beautiful room in a palace or someplace like that, swimming under blankets. It was far from my humble bed, but it felt like paradise. 

If only you knew, that little bed was his paradise.

Dream you tasted like whiskey and ash and smelled like leather and gunpowder. I don’t think it was too far off from the real thing. We weren’t wearing any clothes, of course, and your head was tucked between my thighs. 

Breath shaking, his hips shifted upward, the memory of your thighs on either side of him overwhelming his senses. Arthur sucked in his bottom lip and didn’t waste any more time undoing the bottom two buttons of his union suit. His cock sprung free, twitching and yearning. Flicking his eyes to your photo once more, his right hand moved on its own, kneading his leaking tip. He peeked over the edge of the paper, watching precum drizzle down his shaft, imagining it was you leaking around him. 

Oh, Arthur, I could feel your lips on every part of me at once, kissing up my stomach, bosom, arms, thighs, legs, all over. But when you found my lips again, I don’t know how my pounding heart didn’t suck me out of the dream. Has anyone ever told you how gorgeous your eyes are or how heavenly your hands feel? And your back, Mister Morgan, is like a brick wall. How I wish I could’ve dug my nails into it.

Arthur’s fisted pace quickened as he stifled a groan, trying his very best to keep the sounds of his sin quiet. He urged himself downward into the cot, hoping the friction could mimic the sting of your nails dragging down his spine, but it was no use. Tightening his grip in frustration, he turned his attention back to the photograph of you. He wanted to study your hands, to imprint them in his mind’s eye so he could imagine them scratching his back and pleasuring his cock.

But the photo was too close up, only your face and a peak of your breasts captured at that moment in time. Would he be too brazen to ask for another? To request a pose? Hell—he’d stuff the money in an envelope with a list of the depraved positions he’d like to see you in. Your hands on your bust, legs spread open, on all fours, one with your pretty fingers in your mouth, and a full body shot with just the pearls. Dammit—he’d kill for it. 

But then, at the very end of the list, he’d ask for a respectable one. One of you with your hair pinned up under a fancy hat, dressed in your finest, wearing a necklace, earrings, and a bracelet with your hands folded politely over your lap. One that was sweet and proper. One that he could tuck in his journal, frame, or pin up on the wagon. One that he could take out in broad daylight and pretend, just for a moment, that he really was that war vet admiring a photo of his loving spouse.

His hips moved involuntarily again, jutting up into his fist—the placeholder for the pussy of the woman he’d one day make his wife.

I didn’t plan to get you in bed that night, as unbelievable as that may sound. You were just so damn handsome and so so kind. I couldn’t help it. I needed to know how you’d feel inside me. I hope you don’t see me as just some Jezebel.

“No,” he gasped out. Wet sounds of his strokes accompanied his declaration.

I really did and still do have feelings for you, Arthur. It’s quite scary, actually. Maybe that’s why my dreams about you are so vivid? I realized just how much I cared that night, looking down into your eyes. I don’t take you as the type of man to just give yourself away on a normal day like that, so I hope you feel the same way as me. Did I ever say thank you? Thank you for being such a giver. I have a tendency to take, take, take when I’m on top, but you got payback in my dream. You had me pinned under all of your weight, damn near suffocating me. It was the good type, though. When you pushed into me, I forgot all about it. I never took you for an eager man either, but you were drilling me into those blankets with the fervor of a threshing machine. Are you an eager man, Mister Morgan?

He answered in shallow pants, twisting his fist around his length and rocking his hips. 

I have a curse of waking up right when I’m on the edge, so as you can imagine, I had a wet problem to take care of. My fingers just don’t quite do it like you. I wish we could’ve had more time together. I get the feeling that you do a lot of taking care of other folks and don’t get that in return. Am I right? I’d take care of you, Arthur. I’d keep your belly full and drain your balls all in a night.

They tightened at the thought, and his hips were a piston now, going up and down on their own accord.

I know you’d never ask because you’re too nice, but I’d get on my knees for you and take care of you in that way. I’m sad we never got to try it, that I never got to taste you. The thought gave me the silliest idea. Are you looking at my picture? Imagine that pearl necklace is your spend on my chest.

Jesus—the perverted imagery hit him like a train. He looked at the pretty pearls atop your chest. Goddamn, minx. 

Don’t think me too crass, but do you touch yourself to my letters like I touch myself to yours? Yours are more well-mannered than mine. But still, I wonder, is your fist wrapped around your cock?

“Yes, darlin.” 

Goddamnit, he was talking to himself now, arm cramping as he pumped feverishly at his engorged dick, his orgasm waiting to explode behind his eyes.

Do you imagine it’s me instead? I wish it was me. I wish I was on top of you again, milking you for everything you’ve got. Would you give it to me this time, Arthur? Would you spill inside of me?

And spill he did, teeth gritted and grunting, as hot ropes of lust spurted out over his hand. Once again, he’d made a mess of himself on account of you.

Shame crept in as he floated back to reality and stared up at the canvas of his tent. He brought the letter back to his face to read the last paragraph. The least he should do was finish it—dirty old bastard. But when he landed on your words and processed them, he was left with a numb, longing ache in his chest.

If we were together, I’d help clean you up, then maybe we could spend the rest of the night all tangled up in each other. I’m sorry I’m not there to touch you for real, but I hope these letters bring a little light to that hard, lonely life of yours. If I can make you feel good, even from far away, that’s enough for me. I miss you. Any chance you could come see me soon? 

Yours.

Arthur sighed and folded your letter back up neatly, tucking it away in his now hollowed-out copy of Rambles Through Woods and Plains. Though your photo and letter were out of sight, his mind refused to wander from the subject of you.

An assortment of motion pictures flickered in his memory: the way your head tipped in laughter at his dry sarcasm, how you so graciously welcomed him to that sitdown meal, the way you worried about him just as much as he worried about you, and how your words, even from afar, brought him unmeasurable comfort. Making it back across the Upper Montana could be a brutal fight, but he’d outrun the law and take a few bullets if he had to. He’d bare it all to bring you back with him. 

As he relaxed into the cot, another thought drifted by, small and almost weightless like a dandelion seed in the wind: maybe he wouldn’t have to bring you back at all. Perhaps he could stay right there with you.

[inkdrippeddreams]

In Your Corner Part 1

Part 2 , Part 3

Pairing: Adonis Creed x Black Journalist OC!

Warnings: none right now. Past mentions of trauma, nothing tew crazy.

Summary: Athena, a guarded and sharp-tongued journalist, is reluctantly assigned to interview Adonis Creed, a boxer whose painful past mirrors her own. What starts as a tense professional encounter soon shifts into something unexpectedly personal, as Creed’s vulnerability disarms Athena and a flirtatious challenge turns into undeniable chemistry. With unresolved family trauma, journalistic pressure, and a spark neither saw coming, both realize this interview might change far more than a headline.

Notes: takes place after the 2nd Drago fight, Bianca doesn’t exist in this AU 😭Guys, I wrote this in one day, it's not proofread and probably poorly written, forgive me for my mistakes, college courses just ended, and I'm like exhausted, but I've been inspired to write, lmk if you want to be tagged in pt 2! Also, I really need to learn how to work Tumblr, y'alls posts are super cute and I don't know how to add any colors or different fonts, someone TEACH ME I beg

******************************************************

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

Athena watched as her boss, Christian, walked angrily to her office holding a stack of papers, her latest article, actually, that she had placed neatly on his desk this morning before he came in. His assistant, poor Sherri, who happened to be her only friend since moving to LA, was following behind him closely, subtly warning Athena as she tripped over her heels to follow the man’s long strides. Athena braced herself in her office chair before releasing the tension in her shoulders and placing a cool smile on her face just as he made it to the door. \

“Athena, what the hell is this?” Christian wheezed angrily, trying to gather his breath as he threw the papers back on her desk.

“An article, just how you wanted, sir,” Athena tried to sound at ease, but the way her tone trailed off at the end, she knew she was cracking slowly. Sherri gave her a nervous smile before sitting in one of the office chairs.

“Athena, I don’t pay you to write bullshit about people, you’re one of the best senior writers I have, and when I ask you to write about the most popular boxer in the United States right now, you resort to using Google. For what? Because you’re too scared to interview him?”

Her demeanor fell, Athena refused to look at him; in all honesty, her eyes darted everywhere besides his face. Adonis Creed was one of her toughest stories yet, not only because she hates writing about boxing, the violence wasn't her thing, but because she related to him in more ways than one. The abandonment, the single parent, the humble upbringing—she feared that by learning about his trauma, she’d have to relive her own, which wasn’t a step she was ready to take just yet, even after all the years of therapy. She looked at Sherri, who was smiling sadly at her. She knew of Athena’s trauma and knew why she didn’t want the story in the first place, but she would refuse to go against the likes of Christian while he was in this state.

“Honestly, Christian, while I am extremely lucky to be working at this company, and even happier to be given this story, I find it disrespectful to make this man relive his childhood trauma right after he just fought the son of the man who killed his father in the ring. I know he won and he’s still the “Heavyweight Champion,” but this was a rematch after he, too, was almost killed by a Drago. I just don’t really think it’s a great idea and might come across as distasteful, especially with the way we’ve been trying to make the company come across as more serious,” Athena leaned forward onto her desk, folding her arms over the other as her cardigan stretched in the sleeves as she spoke. Christian sighed and sat on the cushioned chair next to Sherri, rubbing his forehead before clapping his hands. 

“Athena,” he spoke lowly, elbows on his knees, Athena watching as the fabric stretches around his forearms, “You do this interview that I set up, or I’ll give it to a Junior writer and see if they deserve this office more than you do.” Christian stands, as Athena whispers a small “yes, sir,” beckoning Sherri to follow him. Sherri stands, nodding at Athena, mouthing a quick “we’ll talk after work,” before quickly following her boss out of the office. 

Leaning back in her Athena let out a deep breath before groaning. This is going to be the longest week of her life.

******************************************************************************

“The interview is scheduled for tomorrow at 2 PM, at the Delphi Gym. Questions have already been screened by his team. Make sure you’re there 15 minutes before to get a look at the gym. 

Athena, don’t make me regret giving you this promotion.

Christian.

Athena stared at the screen as if it had bitten her. Sitting on her couch in her favorite cotton shorts and big t-shirt combo, she was exhausted. This actually couldn’t be real, she was doomed. She stood, closing her computer, and walked towards the kitchen of her high-rise apartment located in Downtown LA, one that she wouldn’t have been able to afford had she still been in Atlanta. Athena would have to admit, the job at LimeLight Wire paid handsomely. Enough for rent in a two-bedroom sky-rise with the perfect view of the Hollywood sign, floor-to-ceiling windows, and 24-hour security in her apartment building. Her apartment was decorated with plants and earthy decor, reminding her so much of her home in Georgia. Los Angeles was fun, but there was nothing like the Georgia air and southern charm.

Once in her kitchen, she grabbed herself a wine glass from her top cabinet before opening her fridge, grabbing her favorite bottle of cheap wine, it was cheap, but the buzz got the job done, and she didn’t care enough to spend so much on a bottle, especially when she didn’t feel like it was worth it. After pouring herself a glass, she walked back to her couch, plopping down with a huff and sipping her drink, she stared into space for a moment. She didn’t like this. She adored the job as a journalist, but not when she felt like she was being forced to do something. Google had enough about Creed for her to write a full article about him, but that wasn’t good enough for Christian.  She had heard all about Adonis Creed, how his first fights went, how much trouble he had as a child, always knowing who his father was but never knowing him, even him almost dying in his first fight with Drago. Before she could get lost in her thoughts, her phone rang. She slid it off the glass center table she had, glancing at the screen, Dad. 

She answered, slipping back into her facade, “Hi, Daddy!”

“Baby, how are you?” his southern accent glided through the phone, “you know your granny miss you.”

“I know, Daddy,” Athena sighed, “I’ll be back to visit sometime this Fall, I’ll even try to make it for Thanksgiving.”

 “Baby, that’s over 6 months from now. Now I know Georgia ain’t got much to offer you, but you have a family, as small as it may be,” her dad spoke softly. She would never tell her dad, but there was a reason she avoided home, and he would never tell her, but he knew what the reason was.

“I know, Daddy, work been busy and I’ve just been trying to keep up with the quota, I’ve got a big interview coming up, actually, you’ll be excited to know who it is.” Athena tried her best to gently redirect the conversation.

“Wesley Snipes? Boy, you know I loved him  in Blade!”

“No, daddy,” Athena laughs, “It’s with the Creed guy, the boxer.” Her Dad paused before laughing.

“I know him! Watched him fight that big Drago boy. I don’t know how that boy won that fight, looked like he was going through pure-dee-hell tryna take that big ass boy down,” He laughed, “But congratulations baby girl! We so proud of you!”

“Thank you, Daddy,” she smiles over the phone, “please tell Granny that I love her and will be home soon as I can, matter of fact, I’ll just call her tomorrow.” Athena took a sip of her wine, grabbed her computer, and walked to her bedroom, deciding to just call it a night.

“Yeah, baby, you should call her, and I know you guys don’t talk, but you should check in on your brother, you know, he proposed to Olivia,” he drawls, his voice now more serious.

“Daddy, that’s good for them. I’ll send flowers, I promise,” she shot back, almost immediately, not really wanting to have that conversation at the moment, “I love you, I gotta go.” 

She sighed, hanging up her phone and climbing into bed.

“Fuckkkkkk.” 

****************************************************************************

“Just go inside, be nice, smile, from what I’ve heard, he’s a nice guy, just don’t worry about it, Thena,” Sherri said over the phone. Athena sat in her car right outside the Delphi gym. She had opted to dress casually so as not to make herself seem too formal. She went for a brown bottom-up tucked into boot cut jeans and black boots. Her hair was pulled back into a slick puff with tiny gold earrings lighting up her look. 

“I’m not worried about whether he’s nice, Sherri, I just don’t want to seem disrespectful,” Athena replied, turning off the car and opening her door. She looked down at her gold watch, 1:38 PM. “Let me call you when I’m done, I’m gonna head in.” On the other end, Sherri mumbles a response and hangs up. Athena grabbed her purse and got out of the car. Looking up at the glass windows with the Apollo Creed mural on the front, she closed her door.

Walking into the gym was truly something. She looked around at the gym equipment everywhere, the walls covered in gray paint. Grunting catches her attention, and she turns, beginning to watch the men in the ring sparring intently, something about the way they moved so calculatedly entranced her.

“Hey, you must be Athena,” a voice says behind her, startling her. She turned, staring at the dark skin man behind her.

“That’s me,” she gulps, clutching her purse closer to her shoulder.

“ Nice to meet you,” she smiles at him before nodding, “The name's Duke, I took over the gym after my Pops, he trained Apollo, now I train Donnie. But you’re not here to interview me. Donnie’s upstairs getting ready, I’ll give you a tour of the gym while we wait for the okay.” 

Duke leads around the gym, showing Athena each piece of equipment and how you’re supposed to be trained on them. By the time he’s finished, Athena has laughed enough times to give herself the hiccups, she’s also sure that she could take an exam on boxing and pass with flying colors. Duke had also tried to convince her to come back sometime to take some boxing classes, to which she refused, as tickled as she was by the offer.

“Duke! He's ready!” A female-voiced call from upstairs.

“We coming,” Duke yells back, beckoning Athena to follow him up the stairs. Once inside the office upstairs, Athena immediately sees him, tall, muscular, brown skin warm and glowing under the gym lights, and looking like a walking Nike ad in a white sleeveless tee and basketball shorts. Moisturized to the gods, she notes—that man clearly owns lotion. Her eyes trail to the gauze around his knuckles, the bandage on his eyebrow, the angry swell still hugging his left eye. He looked like he lost the fight, but carried himself like he won.

She grits her teeth. This interview was not a good idea at all.

Before she could spin on her heel and bolt to her car, he speaks.

“I’m Adonis, but you can call me Donnie if you want. You’re very pretty, by the way. I like the fit.”

His voice is low and playful, but she hears the smile behind it.

Athena blushes. “I know.”

His eyebrows raise, clearly thrown. She scrambles.

“Well, obviously I don’t know that you think I’m pretty or that you like the fit, but I do know your name is Adonis because I’m here to interview you, and it’d be really stupid if I didn’t, so that’s not what I meant—I’m rambling. Let me start over.”

She drops her purse onto the chair with an uneasy laugh, slyly wiping her face, then gives him a nervous smile.

“I’m Athena. Senior journalist with LimeLight Wire. Just here to interview you.”

Adonis leans back with a full grin, flashing perfect teeth. “You sure? ’Cause right now it feels like you’re here to make me blush.”

That makes her laugh—an unexpected, genuine sound—and Adonis eats it up like a post-fight meal.

“Nice to meet you, Athena,” he says, holding his side as he lowers into the chair across from her, smile still wide. “Have a seat and we’ll start. Duke, y’all can go ahead, we’ll be fine.”

Duke and the brown-skinned woman Athena had seen downstairs exit the room with smiles that feel a little too knowing.

“We’ll just be out watching them spar, Donnie. Call if you need anything,” the woman says with a wink. Athena clocks her as probably his agent or PR specialist.

“Thank you, Janine,” Adonis says.

Athena sits down, pulling her laptop from her purse and opening the interview notes. She taps record on her voice memos.

“So, Donnie, before we get started, I know you’ve seen the questions, but just know if anything makes you uncomfortable, you’re welcome to say so. I’ll immediately redirect or come up with a different question.”

“Not a problem. Let’s go ahead and get started.”

He folds his arms, muscles flexing just enough to make her feel ridiculous for noticing, and leans back casually.

“Okay, first question,” she laughs lightly. “How does it feel to move from training with Rocky full-time to now being a part of the Delphi Gym, knowing the legacy?”

“I miss Rock most days, but we still call. He got family in Canada that he wanted to see. It’s been an adjustment, but I like it here. Closer to my moms, and I feel like I’m getting to know my pops even more… even though he ain’t here, he’s here though, every bag, the walls, and even the ring.”

Athena types out his answer quickly, tongue caught at the corner of her mouth in concentration. Adonis watches her over the rim of his water bottle as he takes a sip, amused. She’s so different from every reporter he’s had, no fake professionalism, no cold detachment. Real. Sharp. Gorgeous, and God, those curves in those Jeans.

And that smile she gives after his answer? Deadly.

“Question 2,” she announces, acrylic nail tapping her keyboard.  “You haven’t talked much about the fight with Drago since the rematch, in fact, you declined to interview afterwards, is there a reason for this?”

“Yes, actually, the win wasn’t about me, it was about avenging my Father, proving that a Creed could beat a Drago, specifically me. It wasn’t my best fight, but I had something to prove, to everyone in that moment. But Drago and I, we’re cool, we’re more than who our Dads are, and it’s what we’re both trying to prove.”

Athena smiles, “Well said,” before she begins clicking on her keyboard again. Something about her smile was infectious, and Adonis knew she was reeling him in already; he didn’t mind it, though.

“A year ago, you were in a public fight after a man called you 'baby Creed.' You’ve also been publicly upset about the notion of being called ‘baby Creed' and fighting under the name of Creed. Why is this?”

“When I started boxing, I didn’t even use the Creed name, I didn’t want to. I always knew that was my Dad, but I decided to use my biological mom's maiden name. I wanted to start my legacy and build from there, shit, I don’t know if I would be fighting under the Creed name now if it wasn’t for them leaking my identity. It wasn’t me wanting to be bigger than Apollo, it was about me wanting to be different, something on my own. I’m not Apollo Creed’s son, I’m Adonis Creed, period.” Questions went along like that for the next several minutes, Athena asking questions and Adonis answering them with a smile on his face. It wasn’t until Athena got to the last question. Athena looks up at Adonis nervously as she reads the next question on her computer, “you don’t have to answer this one if it’s too uncomfortable.” Adonis nods, giving her a reassuring smile.

“You’ve said that so many times already, and I’m yet to be uncomfortable. Ask away.”

Athena clears her throat, “We all know that you are Apollo’s illegitimate son, and he had a separate family during that time. You have siblings, but we never see them with you. Do you all speak?” Adonis sits up, gripping his side as he adjusts.

“Nah, we don’t,” he strains, much to Athena’s dismay, “They never really cared for me when my Mama got me; refused to see me as family. I don’t blame them, though; I wouldn’t be okay with it either if it were me. But I got love for them, they’re my siblings either way. I don’t think they hate me, they just keep their distance. Didn’t really have much family growing up anyway, but I was okay with that.”

Athena, ever the attentive one, noticed his body tensing as he winced at the story.

“Hey,” she spoke softly, “we can stop for now, pick up at a later date if it’ll help.”

“Nah, I’m good, ribs just still hurting from the fight, and I don’t usually talk about home life, I can answer another one, only on one condition though,” Adonis speaks with a smile. Athena immediately begins to nod.

“Whatever you need, as long as you’re comfortable.”

“You go out to dinner with me.”

Athena blushes with surprise, with her brown skin, there’s only a tinge of pink, Adonis notices though. She laughs, closing her laptop. She only stops when she sees that Adonis is being completely serious and was not laughing with her at all.

“Wait for real?” Adonis laughs, nodding his head.

“Yeah, and you gotta let me ask my own questions to you.” 

“Like a professional dinner, though, right?” Athena breathes, closing her computer.

“Only if you want it to be.”

@jazziejax (idk if you wanted to be tagged queen, I did just in case)