#cruise ship features

[savvytravelers]

Traveling Onboard Ships

Experience the joy of traveling onboard our luxurious ships with Savvy Travelers!

[icewindandboringhorror]

While I don't know much about it, I would probably bet there are tons of issues with the cruise industry that would make me not actually appreciate it broadly speaking - HOWEVER, I do really love a lot of the interior design of some cruise ships.. How it's almost like a miniature city crammed into one area. Multiple sections with all different aesthetic designs, a variety of shops, restaurants, activity centers, community seating areas, communal use spaces (like gyms, laundry, pools, cafeteria/buffet (which I always love anywhere)), etc. etc. but then also everyone has a little nice clean comfortable looking space of their own to retreat back to if they'd like to be alone. Maybe it's something akin to the idea of 'walkable cities', where everything you could ever want to do is kind of right there just a short walk away? I also especially love how so much stuff is stacked on top of other stuff, a layered cluster of spaces, bright open atriums, and when they're set up with little walkways down the center between a bunch of rooms so it's almost like a mini city street with apartments lining it, etc.. They often seem like they'd be SUCH a cool place to live permanently, IF only something identical was just built on solid land instead lol

[jcmarchi]

Why the Russian Kirov-class Battlecruisers Flood Their Missile Shafts Before Launch? - Technology Org

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/why-the-russian-kirov-class-battlecruisers-flood-their-missile-shafts-before-launch-technology-org/

Why the Russian Kirov-class Battlecruisers Flood Their Missile Shafts Before Launch? - Technology Org

Russia’s Kirov-class nuclear-powered battlecruisers fill their missile launch shafts with seawater prior to firing them. This seems like a weird extra step in the launch sequence – many other ships don’t do that. What is that water for Kirov warships?

The Kirov class ships were built in 1974-1998. The first battlecruisers of this class entered service with the Soviet Navy in 1980. Kirov ships were considered a formidable force in their time. Nuclear-powered, able to sail until the sailors ran out of supplies, armed with powerful anti-ship missiles – Kirov ships still look intimidating today. True, there are not many of them left.

HMS Dragon (background) with the Russian Kirov Class battlecruiser ‘Pyotr Velikiy’. It is armed with P-700 Granit cruise missiles. Image credit: Royal Navy/MOD via Wikimedia (OGL v1.0)

There were a total of four Kirov-class nuclear battlecruisers ever in service. There were supposed to be five, but the construction of the last one was cancelled. The Pyotr Velikiy is now the only Kirov-class battlecruiser in active service, while the Admiral Nakhimov is undergoing reconstruction and should return next year.

By the way, it has not sailed since 1999 and has been in modernization since 2015. With the war in Ukraine taking a significant amount of the Russian military effort and funding, it is foreseeable that Admiral Nakhimov will remain dormant for longer. It won’t be armed with the original P-700 Granit missiles – they’ve been replaced with Zircon hypersonic anti-ship cruise missiles and Kalibr cruise missiles.

The Kirov-class battlecruisers are armed with P-700 Granit anti-ship cruise missiles. No one will be surprised by the fact that this is not an entirely new weapon – the P-700 Granit has been in service since 1983. What is surprising is that the Kirov ships launch these missiles from flooded launchers. Why?

Oscar-class submarines, like the Omsk, were all armed with P-700 Granit missiles. Image credit: Alex omen via Wikimedia (CC BY 3.0)

The P-700 Granit missiles were originally designed for submarines. Submarines fill their missile launch shafts with seawater prior to launch just to be able to open them without surfacing – the P-700 Granit can be launched from a completely submerged submarine. Therefore, the Granit was designed for wet launch.

This gave the developers of this missile the opportunity to not think about possible damage to the launcher, because the water protects the shaft from heat damage.

When the Soviets came up with the idea of arming the Kirov ships with the same Granit missiles, they could have chosen to modify the missile so that it would not damage the ship when launched from a dry shaft. But why modify it when there is a much simpler solution? It is easier to just flood the shaft and not change the P-700 Granit launch technology.

There are ship-launched cruise missiles that are launched from dry shafts, but that’s what they were designed to do without damaging the infrastructure. The P-700 Granit was designed for wet launching, as it had to come from submerged submarines. This is why the Kirov-class nuclear battlecruisers also flood their shafts before missile launches.

Written by Povilas M.

Sources: Kirov-class battlecruiser (Wikipedia), P-700 Granit (Wikipedia)

You can offer your link to a page which is relevant to the topic of this post.

[batshit-auspol]

With the sudden collapse of the Soviet Union in the early 1990s, many of the former empire's resources were sold off to the highest bidder, and their $14 billion space shuttle program was no exception.

Seeking to recoup some of that eyewatering spend, in 1998, the "Buran" (Russia's answer to the American Space Shuttle) was offered up for sale on eBay for $10 million.

No serious offers were received - with most people assuming the listing to be a joke, until the New York Post confirmed the sale, with Russian authorities stating they "actually have two" if anyone is interested.

(Pictured: A later auction of a smaller scale Buran in 2005)

Sensing an opportunity, a group of Aussie entrepreneurs including Australia's first astronaut and the lawyer for Prime Minister Paul Keating offer to lease the shuttle from Russia, to put it on display in Australia during the Sydney Olympics.

After gaining permission from the Kremlin for the lease, in 1999 the Russian military briefly stops bombing Chechnya in order to dismantle the Buran, and it is placed on a barge to be shipped to Sydney on the (soon to be infamous for other reasons) Tampa shipping vessel at a cost of $5 million.

Once in Sydney, after a disastrous few months on display where crowds failed to flock to the shuttle exhibition featuring such compelling educational offerings as "activities is to assist in the development of issues of nutrition and hygiene at home" (an actual quote from their website) - the leasing company declared bankruptcy and washed their hands of the space shuttle completely.

The Buran Gift shop where you could buy soviet space ship themed football jerseys, in case you needed one of those

One of four people listed on the lease, described as a business partner of the Prime Minister, also claims he never knew he was a director of the company, which went on to cause a lot more problems.

This whole debacle presented a slight issue for the cash strapped Russian authorities, who had now only been paid $100,000 for the 9 year lease of the shuttle instead of the $600,000 they were owed. Eventually the decision was made to abandon the once $1 billion Soviet pride and joy in a Sydney carpark, where it resided for a year under a small tarpaulin.

Failed attempts to be rid of the shuttle included a 12 day auction hosted by an LA radio station, where listeners were offered the chance to buy the shuttle for $6 million, however all bids turned out to be pranks and the shuttle remained.

Multiple attempts were also made to sell the shuttle to Tom Cruise, with the exacerbated movie star's representatives repeatedly telling the insistent traders that he was not interested in owning a Russian spaceship.

Eventually a Singaporean group dismantled the shuttle and shipped it overseas, however Russian authorities soon reported they once again had been failed to be paid for the lease. Singaporean representatives responded that they definitely had paid for the shuttle, and that they simply couldn't remember when or how much was paid.

Representing the Russian government, Lawyer Suhaila Turani told the Wall Street Journal “I feel sorry for the Russians. They’re good in space, but they’re very naive in business.”

For a time the shuttle was abandoned in the storage yard of event company Pico, with the company owner telling the Wall Street Journal "I just want this thing out of my life" after three years of being stuck with it.

A few years later the shuttle was found by German journalists dismantled in a junkyard, and it was then bought and shipped to Germany to be put on display a museum, so all's well that ends well (except they dropped it from a crane while trying to set it up, but it polished up okay).

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

"Derin why don't you ever write NSFW stuff" I literally would not know how. If I wanted to write porn I'd be like "the story is Sex Cruise, where people go on a cruise ship that's sexy and the goal is to have lots of sex. These two characters are gonna kiss lots and then get naked and maybe at least one of them has a penis that'll go in the other I dunno. Before we get to that here's a rundown of the health and safety measures taken by the Sex Cruise company and six thousand words of the passengers getting STI tests and signing liability waivers before the cruise can start. Also there's probably a high risk of sexual assault claims that the company doesn't want to risk so here's a rundown of the various safety features to prevent that, or at least ensure the company is fulfilling its legal duty of care. I wonder what the birth control policy is on Sex Cruise? Oh look those characters I mentioned are actually kissing and yeah I'm bored let's have a murder, this is a murder mystery at sea now. Yeeeah sexy. Sex Cruise."

[kamaluhkhan]

KARMA'S A GOD !!! luke castellan x nemesis!reader

SPILL UR GUTS

i. THE GRUDGE (or: the 7 things luke castellan hated about you): luke hates your guts. he really does. he just hopes that no one could tell how, even after all this, you're still everything to him.

ii. GET HIM BACK! (or: the 7 reasons you wanted revenge on luke castellan): you're very angry and possibly still in love with luke castellan. kill him or kiss him — you still aren't sure what he deserves.

+ WE'LL WRITE SINS NOT TRAGEDIES

i. sloth (IDLE WORSHIP) *: you and luke, on the roof of the hermes cabin after curfew, getting high and fooling around ;)

ii. envy (I BET ON LOSING DOGS)*:  luke is getting tired of keeping your relationship a secret, you get a new sparring partner, and silena beauregard wins a bet.

iii. pride (BAD REPUTATION)*: luke will do just about anything to keep his title as truth or dare champion.

iv. lust (COMPLICATED)*: the lives of demigods are never simple. why would your relationship with luke be any different? four moments of tension + one moment of release. featuring a trip to montauk with percy, grover, and annabeth.

v. wrath (FUCK U IF I CAN’T HAVE US)**:  luke starts leading an army from a luxury cruise ship, chris is tired of hearing him whine about your unofficial break-up, and clarisse convinces you that the best way to channel your anger is to join her in the sea of monsters.

vi. gluttony (GUILTY AS SIN?)**:  after a mission gone wrong, you unknowingly take the fall for a friend; you get drunk with the enemy; and you start to think that, if they’re going to crucify you anyway, you might as well indulge in a few fatal fantasies.

vii. greed (A DEAL WITH GOD)**: artemis offers a solution to your existential crisis while hermes makes it worse, luke meets his would-be-mother-in-law, and you challenge the olympians to finally do the right thing.

*set during the lightning thief/season 1 of pjo

**set post-the lightning thief/season 1 of pjo

[sometimesanalice]

Hey, Sailor

Summary: It’s Fleet Week and Rooster would rather be anywhere else than on the flight deck of the USS Portland. That is, until a pretty thing in a sundress catches his eye and then suddenly his day is looking up. 

Pairing: Bradley”Rooster” Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 5.8K

Warnings: Flirty Banter, Smut, and Bradley Bradshaw in Summer Whites (Minors DNI)

Note: When @roosterforme​ asks you to write her a Fleet Week fic, you write the Fleet Week fic! Here you go, Em!  💛

Normally, Rooster loved Fleet Week.

He loved the lively atmosphere and the parades. He loved the free drinks that were handed to him as soon as he entered a bar. And he especially loved all the attention he got from women when he wore his Summer Whites.

He usually came back to the ship looking less than pristine with lipstick on the collar of his uniform and hidden on other places on his body.

The USS Portland was teaming with excited families and camera-happy civilians taking in the sights from deck of the transport ship as they settled in for the five-hour journey to the San Diego. It was a Fleet Week tradition to welcome people aboard for an immersive experience, picking them up from a port further up North and then cruising along the coast before making their final docking for the week.

There were grills set up on the deck and the smell of flame kissed hamburgers and hotdogs mixed with the sea salt air. The sun was shining and the mood was light.

But this year, Rooster simply could not be bothered to give a fuck.

Especially not when he could have been home already instead of being stuck giving tours on a ship that he’d never even stepped foot on prior to three days ago when he and Hangman had been given orders to join in the procession on the vessel into the city after completing a short training deployment.

His superiors had okay-ed the terrible suggestion from some random Public Relations Specialist who clearly didn’t realize that he had better things to do with his time.

Early that morning, Bradley had stood on the dock with his arms crossed and wearing an impassive scowl as they had lifted his Super Hornet onto the flight deck like it was some kind of decorative hood ornament.

Sure, it was fun to watch the kids’ eyes get wide with excitement as they ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the features as he pointed them out, but he was getting hot and uncomfortable in his uniform in the mid-afternoon sun on the black tarmac.

He’d rather be in his service khakis like Seresin. Or better yet, naked at home in his own bed.

How Hangman had weaseled himself onto barbecue duty with a beer in his hand, Rooster would never know. The bastard probably played his Texan sir, I came out of the womb grilling shtick.

And every time he passed by the son of a bitch would give him a cocky salute with his tongs.

Jake was irritating on the best day, but today he was downright insufferable.

And he knew it had everything to do with the fact that Hangman’s girlfriend was laughing and lingering at his side, having surprised him by flying in with tickets for the coastal cruise.

At least someone was having a nice time, because it sure as shit wasn’t him.

Rooster was in the process of wrapping up his fourth tour of the day and handing out a couple of Dixie Cup hats to kids on the landing deck on the stern when he was stopped dead in his tracks and had to do a double take because he eyes were definitely playing tricks on him.

You were the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

And he swore for a minute time slowed down as you flashed the most gorgeous smile at some Junior Officer as you laughed along with whatever undoubtedly stupid joke he’d told you. All while the wind played with the ends of your hair.

You looked like such nice girl, such a good girl in your pretty light blue sundress.

The sun was bouncing off your shoulders and the little ruffle at the hem was taunting him with the way it danced around your thighs. It coasted over your curves like water, and fit you just snug enough that there wouldn’t be any Marilyn Monroe moments on deck, much to his disappointment. But the blow was cushioned by the stunning display of your smooth, shapely legs.

From the way your breasts bounced as you walked, he knew there was no way in hell you had a bra on under that little dress.

He’s never been able to resist a bad girl wrapped up like the girl-next-door.

From the second he saw you, he knew you were just his type.

And for the first time that day Bradley is grateful to be wearing the crisp, pressed Summer Whites. 

He knew how good his biceps looked in the short sleeves of his uniform. And the way his pants clung to his legs and ass. He’d been spending a lot of his free time in the gym lately and it showed.

He never did mind playing An Officer and a Gentleman when the occasion presented itself, he was always happy to help fuel some fantasies.  

The last time he had worn this uniform out during Fleet Week he ended up going home with an absolute smokeshow, so hopefully whatever appeal his uniform had for him back then can still work for him now.

Fleet Week was finally looking up for him.

However, what he didn’t like was the fact that the butterbar was still dominating your attention.

He wanted that smile turned on him. Wanted to see if the look in your bright eyes would be just as playful with your gaze pinned on him instead. He wanted to be the one making you laugh.

It’s not like he’s going to go over there and lick your face like a kid might try and claim dibs on a cupcake.

No, he was going to act in accordance to his rank and station as an Officer in the United States Navy.

Securing the white cap on his head from where it’s been tucked under his arm at every opportunity he’s had that day, he straightens up to his full height and purposefully struts over to you.

Bradley’s never been one to shy away from making an entrance.

He forcefully taps the younger officer’s shoulder, and glances down when the guy turns around to get a look at his name tag.

“Ensign Hubbard, you’re up for civilian tour duties. The next one is due to start at 1400,” he looks down at his watch for dramatic effect, “Which is in about 10 minutes on the starboard bow, so you best get going if you don’t want to be late, junior.”

He might feel a little guilty for springing this on the kid if it wasn’t entirely within his right to assign him the nonexistent task 684 feet in the opposite direction- a fact he learned in preparation for giving tours all day- and away from you.

Especially when he sees how flustered the guy gets as he rushes through his salute and the stammered apologies he gives you before he takes off in a brisk jog heading towards the other side of the ship.

He stands up a bit taller and makes himself a bit broader as your eyes sweep over him. 

“Apologies for interrupting, ma’am. But I’d be happy to pick up where the Ensign has left off.”

There’s no missing the appraising interest in them as you take him in.

“The tours are starting at the front of the ship now, are they?” you muse out loud with a little tilt of your head. “What are all those folks over there are lining up for then, I wonder?”

You point deliberately to the group of people who are currently being greeted by the Lieutenant who was scheduled to relieve Rooster of tour duties for the next hour.

“Mm, that sure is a mystery. But Hubbard seems like a smart kid, I wouldn’t worry too much about him.” He shrugs with an unapologetic smirk on his face.

You lift a pointed eyebrow at him.

“So, you sent him away…” the almost-but-not-quite question trailing in the breeze.

“I sent him away,” he readily agrees with a nod. His eyes catch on a golden heart-shaped locket that you’re wearing around that dainty neck as it glints in the sunlight.

A smug smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you notice where his eyes have dropped too, “You’re not even going to deny it, Sailor?”

“Nope,” he says with a grin. “And actually, it’s Lieutenant Commander.”

“Ok, Lieutenant.”

“Commander.”

You hmm contemplatively like his rank was somehow up for debate, toying with that damn little heart-shaped locket in a way that was tempting his eyes to drift further down.

Rooster didn’t think it could be possible, but you’re even prettier up close. He knew you’d be stunning, but he couldn’t have prepared himself for the way your mischievous eyes sparkled magnetically. Or for the warmth spreading in his chest with the way you are broadly smiling at him now.

The top buttons of your dress are undone one more than would be strictly considered family friendly. But Bradley wasn’t bothered by that in the least.

 Clearing his throat, he notes, “It’s a nice day for a sail.”

“Ensign Hubbard and I already covered that rather riveting subject earlier,” you tease while looking at him like well, what else have you got.

“Let me try again then.” If you wanted him to put in the work, he was more than up for the challenge. “What brings you for a casual five-hour cruise down the coast on one of the Pacific Fleet’s finest?”

“Now that’s not something we got to before he was telling me about what his ribbons meant in great detail,” you say with a laugh. “Would you believe me if I said I had a deep appreciation for $1.6 billion-dollar ships purchased with Uncle Sam’s defense budget?”

He gives you a half smile as he pretends to contemplate it for a moment, “You know, for some reason, I can’t say that I would.”

“Well, shucks,” you say with an over exaggerated shrug. “What about if I said I was roped into waking up at an ungodly hour to catch a flight up here because my best friend’s boyfriend is a Naval aviator and she wanted me to keep her company for the ‘casual five-hour cruise’, as you called it.”

“Now that I believe,” he drawled. “So, what’s his name?”

“Well, she calls him Jacob. He has one of those silly callsigns too, but I always forget it,” you scrunch your nose adorably as you search for it, “Something-man.”

“You mean Bagman?”

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

He smirks to himself. 

“I take it you know him then?” You wait for his nod before looking up at him from under your lashes and asking him, “Does that mean you have a callsign too?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s Rooster.”

He doesn’t miss the way you glance down, and he definitely doesn’t hold back his pointed smirk waiting for your eyes to meet his again.

And when he gives you a cocky raise of his eyebrow, all you do is shrug.

You didn’t just look like his type, you are exactly his type.

“Rooster Bradshaw, huh?” you ask, reaching out to tap a finger on rectangular name tag on his chest. “I take it you have a first name, Lieutenant Commander?”

“Sure do,” he drawls, “But it only seems fair that I get yours in return.”

You grin knowingly at him. His cheek ticks up as you stick your hand out towards him and give him your name. It’s pretty and suits you perfectly.

Bradley says it out loud savoring the syllables in his mouth as he shakes your outstretched hand. And he gives you his in exchange.

He likes how much smaller your hand looks in his.

“Since it seems like your friend has ditched you, what do you say about getting a tour? Not to brag, but I’ve been doing it all day and I’ve got it down to a science now.”

“A private tour? Lucky me,” you purr. “Lead the way Lieutenant Commander Bradley Rooster Bradshaw.”

You knew what you were doing, he’d give you that. And he was eating it up with a spoon ready to ask for second, third, and fourth helpings. 

It’s less busy on the flight deck, as people are collecting around the grills waiting for their turn in the buffet lines for the late lunch.

He starts off by showing you his aircraft, giving you a brief rundown of its features.

You run a hand over the body of his fighter jet as he wraps up his now well-practiced spiel, “Do I even want to know how much taxpayer money contributed to this?”

“It depends. Does your appreciation for Uncle Sam’s defense collection extend to F/A-18s too? Or is that strictly reserved for amphibious transport vessels?”

“I’ll keep you posted after I get the full tour,” you say coyly.

“Well then, I shouldn’t keep a lady waiting then. Should I?”

“No, you certainly should not,” you agree.

He guides you past the table that’s set up with squadron memorabilia for people to buy and to the door with a hand on your low back. He’s close enough to smell your perfume now, he wants to bury his nose in your neck to inhale the scent directly from the source.

Rooster navigates the two of you like a pro through the narrow passageways as he takes you to the mess hall where coffee and pre-sliced cakes awaited tour guests. From there he takes you to the galley, the wheelhouse, the engine control room, the 24-bed hospital ward, and the massive hull used to transport heavy machinery.

You as him thoughtful questions every now and then. And he does his best to answer them.  The two of you drift closer and closer, it doesn’t escape his notice the way you brush against him when you pass by to get a closer look at some of the things he shows you.

It’s easily his favorite tour of the day. 

He loves the sound of your laugh as he tells you about some of the mischief that he and members of his squadron managed to avoid getting caught doing.

Along with some of the things that they did get caught doing.

Your teasing grin and witty banter and little sundress have done a number on him. And he isn’t ready to wrap this up by delivering you back on deck until the absolute last minute he has to resume his official tour duties again.

So when he circles back to the airwing, instead of turning left when he should, he leads you to the ladder that would take you down a level.

And he knows he shouldn’t, that he could get in some big trouble for showing you areas that weren’t explicitly on the official list of tour stops. But he’s always been more of the apologize later type.

Plus, he hasn’t been on this ship for very long, it’s not his fault if he manages to get conveniently turned around.

Bradley waits at the bottom of the steep ladder, actively looking anywhere else but up as you make your descent. When you’re at level with him, he helps you down the rest of the way with a steadying hand at your waist.

And when you turn around he doesn’t step back. 

You reach up and run a playful finger along the brim of his cap, “So what’s a girl got to do to get a turn wearing the hat?”

His mind flashes with images of the last time he’d let a woman wear it.

“I’ll have you know this is technically Naval property, they don’t let just anyone have one. You usually have to earn it. But for you?” he pauses and gives you a heated once over, “I’ll let you try it on for free.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want any special treatment,” you say demurely. “But I think in this case, Uncle Sam would understand. I’m a model citizen after all.”

He takes the cap off of his head and gingerly sets it on yours, “You’re something else, that’s for sure.” 

It slides forward down your head, “Oh, it’s heavier than it looks.” And Rooster wishes he had his phone on him to get a picture for himself. He likes the way you look wearing his things.

“Looks good on you,” he hums, letting his finger brush against that little locket around your neck.

You run a bold hand down his chest, “Where to next, Lieutenant?”

This time he doesn’t bother to correct you, he knows the game you’re playing now. 

Instead he grips your hips and pushes you against the ladder and brings his mouth to yours.You make a noise of surprise before your arms are wrapping around his neck to pull him in closer. 

The kiss starts out light and teasing. Your lips are so soft beneath his. He gently grazes his teeth against your lower lip, before gliding his tongue along the seam of your mouth seeking entrance. The sweep of your tongue against his is everything. The soft moans escaping you are making his pulse thrum in his veins. 

It would be so easy for him to get lost in the feeling of your perfect body against his and of the way your fingers were playing with the short hairs on the nape of his neck. But he’s already pushing the limits bringing you down here, he can’t get distracted by kissing you out in the open where anyone could stumble upon the two of you.

The small whimper that you make when he pulls away makes him grin. As does the sight of his cap sitting crookedly on your head. 

He thumbs at the lipstick that’s smudged at the side of your mouth, “C’mon, I’ve got one more place I want to show you.”

This time he takes your hand as he guides you down the gray passageway and through the door on the left.

The ready room on the USS Portland is much smaller than the one’s he is familiar with from the aircraft carriers he is usually on, but the set-up is mostly the same. There are a couple of projection screens adhered on the bulkheads and there are a few rows of leather seats with a swivel tray tables attached to the arm rests.

“Tell me what happens in here.” You ask him so genuinely, so sweetly and he already knows he wouldn’t stand a chance against you with the way you flutter those eyelashes at him.

So he tells you. 

He likes that you want to know these details about his job, he likes that he gets to share this with you. Even if the clock is ticking down before he has to get back on deck.

Rooster watches the tantalizing way your sundress dances around your thighs as you walk around the space. You take a seat in one of the chairs in the front row and pull the desk top over you before turning to him with a beaming smile with his cap still perched on your head.

And he is hit with a wave of affection for you so intense that it makes it hard for him to breathe for a moment.

He’s grateful when you see something else that catches your eye, giving him a moment to get himself back under control. You’ve got him feeling like he should be on his knees for you.

In the spot where he is used to seeing a lectern, on this ship there is a glossy wooden table inlaid with the ship’s coat of arm that you standing over.

“Does every ship have their own unique crest? Do you know what the symbols are for?”

He really needs to figure out who put him on tour duty and send them an Edible Arrangement or something. And maybe one for whoever put together the ten-page packet of “fun facts” that he had rolled his eyes at when he had first seen it.

“Yes, ma’am, I sure do.” He comes up to stand behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder as his arms cage you in against the table. “Yes, all ships come with their own. It’s something that the prospective commanding officers are responsible for designing when new ships are about to be launched.”

You lean forward a bit, gazing your ass against him, “Dark blue and gold are traditional Navy colors, right?” He hums confirmation into your neck, as he runs his mustache along your soft skin. He feels more than hears your sharp inhale. “What does the gear on the anchor mean?”

He drops a kiss to your shoulder, “The cog is a symbol of manufacturing, a nod to the ship’s namesake and the city’s history for building ships in World War II.”

You grab his wrist and bring his arm across your body, he takes the hint and presses in closer into you. “And the trident?”

God, you feel so perfect in his arms. Your body is fitting against his like a dream.

“The black symbolizes determination,” he murmurs into the space where you neck and shoulder meet. “And the choice of the three prongs is because it’s the third ship to be given the name.”

You lean your head to the side, and he takes the opportunity to trail open-mouth kisses up your neck. Your nails bite into his forearm in response, as you rock back against his rapidly hardening cock. “And the rose?”

“Portland is the City of Roses.”

“Does it have any other meaning?” you ask soft and breathy.

“It represents strong ties, baby. It’s a symbol for the supportive partners and wives of those serving onboard,” he whispers low and sweet into your ear.

“Bradley,” you sigh as you turn your head towards him for a kiss. It’s desperate and wet. And he can almost taste the neediness of your moan on his tongue.

He’s never done anything like this while on duty on a ship before, and the thrill of it has his veins thrumming with adrenaline.

“You’ve had me hook, line and sinker since the damn second I saw you.” He grinds himself against your ass and you whimper at the contact. “What do you want from me? I’ll be so good to you, so good for you.”

“Want you to touch me,” you pant into his mouth, “Want you to fuck me, Rooster. It’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about.”

“Fuck me.” He can feel his pulse thundering in his throat.

“I’m trying to,” you whine.

He barks a strained laugh before he spins you around, crowds you into the table. He doesn’t waste any time getting his lips back on yours, slipping his tongue into your mouth. You meet him stroke for stroke, just like you’ve been doing since the moment he laid eyes on you.

“This fucking dress,” he groans when he cups your breast through your fabric, as you fill his palm in just the right way. You arch your chest into his hand, and he was feeling entirely too self-satisfied in the confirmation that you weren’t wearing a bra. “Knew you weren’t a good girl.”

“So why are you treating me like one?” you taunt, breathlessly. Your greedy hands go straight to his cock, squeezing him through his pants.

Your hand feels so good on him.

“God, you’re so much fucking trouble,” he rasps, throwing his head back.You lean forward and your hot mouth works against the hollow of his throat. 

He’s trying to undo some of the tiny buttons that line the front of your dress, but the teasing way your tongue is dipping out to trace the line of his tendon is making it hard for him to think.

“Are you gonna show me how you got that silly, little callsign of yours or not?” You give him one more squeeze, before bringing your hands up to the button of his white pants.

He knocks your hands out of the way before roughly grabbing your ass and hauls you firmly against him, “That feel little to you?”

Your gasp makes his fingertips dig further into your ass. The pretty color of your eyes has been completely eclipsed by your heavy, dark pupils. He can feel the way your thighs clench together.

“You want my attention? You’ve got it, baby,” he roughly rasps, “Go on then, show me how bad you can be.”

He dips his head down for a filthy, hungry kiss.

You push him back with a hand to his chest and a gleam in your eyes. You hold his heated gaze as you slowly undo his zipper and reach into his boxer briefs to pull him out. He moans when your thumb sweeps over the top of his cock.

Rooster thinks for a second that you’re going to drop to your knees for him, the mental image of you looking up at him with those doe-eyes is enough to make his jaw clench with desire. Especially with the way your sundress is gaping open at the top, giving him a clear view of the swells of your breasts.

Instead, you surprise him by bending over that glossy table and shimmying the skirt of your dress up over your luscious hips.

“Holy shit.”

You’re wearing the smallest, laciest little thong he’s ever fucking seen.

The band is a series of crisscrossed straps attached to some intricate and dainty floral lace. The juxtaposition of it against your skin is enough to make his ears ring. He’ll be dreaming of the way you’re enticingly arching your ass towards him for months.

And he’ll sure as shit never be able to be in a Ready Room again without getting a hard-on. The memory of you bent over the table before him will forever be ingrained in his brain.

“Is this bad enough for you, Lieutenant Commander?” You shoot him a grin over your shoulder as you wiggle your hips invitingly.

That sultry smile is swiped from your face the moment his large hand connects with your perfect ass. The sound echoes throughout the small room. He palms you once more before he yanks down your barely-there thong.

“Gonna fuck that attitude right out of you.”

Giving himself a few rough pumps, he lines himself up and slides into you with one steady thrust.

You both release an unrestrained groan of the sensation of him filling your warm, wet cunt. He barely gives you a moment to adjust to the size of him before he starts moving.

“’s big,” you sigh shakily.

“Tell me how much you like this cock.”

He slaps your pert ass again when you release a breathy whimper instead of answering him.

“Feels good, Rooster.” Your hands are struggling to find a way to support yourself as he fucks into you. “You feel so good.”

He pushes your dress higher up your body, his eyes are greedy for more of your skin. What he wouldn’t give to have you entirely naked and spread out before him. He wants to see all of you, he wants to hear you loud and needy for him.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs as he watches himself smoothly gliding in and out of you.

The little noises you are making are driving him crazy. He knows you’re trying to muffle your sweet moans and sighs and whines. The sound of your bodies coming together fills the room.

How his cap is still perched on your head he doesn’t know, it jostles every time your bodies come together.

“I need more,” you beg, “Need you to touch me.”

“Ask me nicely.” He punctuates the demand with a sharp snap of his hips.

“Please, Bradley. Please.”

He slides his hand around to the front of you, his fingers drawn to your clit like a magnet. You keen at the contact and tilt your hips into his hand. The sound is music to his ears, “That’s more like it.” 

He doesn’t think there’s anything else better on the planet than being buried in your perfect pussy. You’re so wet for him. He already knows he’s going to need more of this, more of you.

“You’re taking me so well,” Bradley grunts as he speeds up his thrusts, “Looks like all you needed was a nice, thick cock. Just a sweet thing now, aren’t you?”

“Oh my god,” you gasp as you writhe against him. “F-fuck.”

He is so turned on by the way his hands span across you as he grips your waist and pulls you against him with every roll of his hips. His heart is racing in his chest.

The feeling of your body tensing around him is paradise. There is nothing he wants more than to be able to draw this out, but he is all too aware of how quickly time is slipping away from him.

He sets a rough and unrelenting pace. Redoubling his efforts on your clit, his indulgent strokes turn into tight, purposeful circles. And you cry out at the change of sensation on that sensitive part of you.

Your thighs start to tremble as his cock drags against that spot deep inside of you. The heat is pooling in his lower back as he fucks into you over and over again.

“Rooster, I’m gonna-”

“I know, baby. Let me feel it,” he murmurs hotly against your ear, his thumb rubbing back and forth across your clit. “Come on my cock like a good girl.”

The goosebumps erupt across your body like fireworks a moment before he feels you shiver and tremble beneath him as you come with a choked sob. The way you spasm and clench around him is dizzying.

Bradley is teetering on the edge, your cunt felt like heaven. Warm and wet and gripping him just right. He almost doesn’t want to give himself up to it as the pressure at the base of his spine intensified. He doesn’t want to stop fucking you.

You’re so perfect for him.

He loses himself to the feeling of your pussy milking him as you continue to pulse and writhe in the aftershocks of your orgasm. He grips your hips harder as he pounds into you before emptying himself inside of you with a shattered groan.

And for a moment all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears as he works to catch his breath. Rooster feels like his knees might buckle as the soft whimper you make when he pulls out of you.

He gently pulls that lacy little thong back up and helps to pull your dress back down over your hips and thighs before turning you around and lifting you onto the custom table. 

He doesn’t know how he is going to make it through the rest of the journey knowing his come is collecting in your panties.

You’re flushed and looking thoroughly well-fucked as you smile up at him brightly.

Bradley threads his finger under the chain of your little gold heart-shaped locket that was etched with a rose in full bloom, and lightly tugs you in closer for a lingering kiss.

“I see you found your gift early, baby.”

Bradley would never forget the first time he saw you that night at the bar downtown last year during Fleet Week.

He had noticed you right away, it had been impossible not to. You and your girlfriends had been all done up in hot pink outfits for the Bachelorette party you were out celebrating.

Your friend had flounced right up to Jake taking the shot of whiskey out of his hand before swallowing it down then cheekily offering to buy him a replacement. Hangman had been wrapped around her finger ever since.

While your friends had all but shoved you in his direction while he had looked on entirely entertained as you had shot a scathing glare back at them. A sparkling tiara that read Bridesmaid sat crookedly on your head.

And then you had greeted him with a “Hey, Sailor” so weak that the couldn’t help but let out an amused laugh. There was a split second where he thought that he might have fucked it up before it could even start, but then you smiled back at him.

It was a charmingly self-deprecating smile and he was yours from the moment he saw it.

“Hiding it in your nightstand next to the batteries wasn’t the most original of spots, Rooster,” you affectionately tease him. “I didn’t mean to peek, but the remote stopped working. I hope you’re not mad. I love it.”

He could never be mad at you, especially not with his necklace around your neck. You were his, and he was so gone for you.

“It looks so pretty on you,” he tells you softly as his fingers brush over your collarbones.

“Oh my god, Rooster, I can’t we defiled Naval property.” You giggle as you wrap your legs around him to pull him closer to circle your arms around his neck.

“I hate to break it to you, but you’ve been defiling Naval property ever since you brought me home with you the night we met.”

You take that cap off of your head and set it back on his, and lean in to kiss him on the cheek, “Glad I’m getting a good return on my taxes then.” 

He snorts a laugh, “God, I’ve missed you, baby. What are doing here? I thought you weren’t coming until the end of the week.”

“And miss the visual and culinary offerings of the USS Portland? I wouldn’t dream of it.” You joke as you run your hands along his arms where they’re pressed on the table on either side of you. “This uniform drives me just as crazy as it did last year.”

“Just the uniform?” he asks as he nudges his nose against yours.

“Maybe it has a little something to do with the man in the uniform,” you make a little hum as you check him out. “You’re so tan, Bradley, have you been using the sunscreen I sent with you-”

He crushes his mouth to yours, you were undoubtedly best thing that’s ever happened to him during Fleet Week.

“I’m glad I still do it for you,” he murmurs against your mouth before giving you another deep kiss.

The two of you work quickly to get yourselves looking presentable again. He’s only got a little time left before he is due to return to his tour duties back on deck.

He helps you back up the ladder and takes that left turn when he’s supposed to this time. All while your hand is tucked securely in his.

When you’re both back on the open flight deck he walks you over to the railing along the edge of the ship and wraps you up in his arms to watch the coastline crawl by with his last few moments of freedom. 

“I really love Fleet Week,” you say with a contented sigh, as you lean your head back against his shoulder.

The golden rays from the sun are hitting you in a way that makes his chest warm.

“I do too, baby. It’s the best.”

Yeah, Rooster fucking loves Fleet Week.

Who doesn’t love a man in Summer Whites?! Consider this my formal petition for more Dress Whites in TG3!

Thank you for reading!

Update! If you want to learn about the night they met, I wrote these two a little prequel series you can read here!

Hey, Sailor Moodboard

A peek inside the USS Portland One | Two

If you’re curious, here is some info on the crest I found! One | Two | Three

You can check out my other stories and series here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse​ @sehnsuchts-trunken @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @itscheybaby @prettylittlelauraa @startrekfangirl2233 @marantha @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @itsizzythebell @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange @boltgirl426 @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @torres-espana @uzumegui @dont-talk-me-down @fandomunite2107 @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pariahsparadise @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @nina-sj @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @misty-inferno @angellwingsss @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @mrsdaamneron @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @melllinaa @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @mandolin22 @imaginecrushes​

[cobrakaisb]

humid summer

summary: summer rolls around, and for the first time in two years you find yourself outside the borders of camp half-blood but how long can you keep pretending to be a normal cruise guest on the princess andromeda?

featuring: BOOK SPOILERS (from here on out), multiple povs (reader, percy, and annabeth), plus more of reader and annabeth’s relationship, oh also angst

word count: 2.7k

series masterlist ||| previous ||| next

the summer heat combined with the florida humidity is stifling. you feel like you’re boiling in a pot of soup, as opposed to lounging on the pool deck of a cruise ship. even the ocean breeze does little to quell the heat. you almost feel bad for the other demigods — who you know are training on a deck somewhere on the princess andromeda — but you can’t bring yourself to that point. not when you, chris, and katrina offered for them to ditch too. 

“how long do you plan on tanning for?” someone asks, and you recognize the voice as your boyfriend’s.

“until the sun goes down,” you answer, holding a hand up to your forehead as you give him a once over. 

it is obvious that he hasn’t been training, not in khaki pants and a light blue polo, but he still has his sword hanging from a sheath around his waist. his arms are crossed over his chest, and he shoots you a disapproving glare. yet, all you can focus on are his muscles.

“you’re gonna get a farmer's tan, dude,” chris jeers, eliciting snickers from you and katrina.

“oh you’d like that wouldn’t you?” katrina teases, elbowing your side as you get up from your lounger and walk towards luke. 

you lift up your shades, pushing them to the top of your head and smile softly at him. you’re trying your best to be apologetic, or at least seem apologetic, but you’re sure it isn’t working. your eyes flicker across luke’s supposedly serious gaze, but you can see the humor swirling in his eyes. 

“you’re not mad are you? we were really just taking a break,” you explain, a soft pout on your lips to try and sell your story. 

luke raises an eyebrow along with the corner of his mouth, and while you know he doesn’t believe you, he doesn’t provide a lecture or try to contradict your words. it’s clear to all the demigods on the princess andromeda that while you’ve aligned yourself with them — with his cause — your loyalties lie in the palm of his hands, a sentiment which isn’t lost on luke either. he has the ability to cradle it or squash it like a bug. there is no inbetween. yet, he continues to push his luck. 

even now as you laugh poolside with chris and katrina with his firm hand resting on your hip, he knows that you’d slip away from him if you knew what was going on in the brig. if you knew who was there and what he’d done to lure them right into his clutches, you’d flee. 

he clears his throat, demanding your attention. only when all three pairs of eyes are on him does he muster up the courage to actually be a leader: “i better see the three of you at training later, otherwise you can kiss those free nights goodbye.”

luke squeezes your hip once more before departing, walking back down the hallway he originally came from.  

*****

the continuous rocking back and forth is starting to get to percy. with each sway of the large cruise ship, he can feel the insides of his stomach turning. the sounds of the waves crashing against the strong hull should be calming, soothing even, yet they only increase his feelings of nausea. 

“don’t tell me you’re seasick, seaweed brain?” annabeth snaps, but there is a hint of sympathy behind her cold words. 

“ugh as if,” he answers, but promptly squints his eyes after a particularly large jolt.

“i knew this was too good to be true,” he mumbles, leaning his sweaty forehead against the cool metal bars in hope of some relief. 

“it wouldn’t be if you’d just accepted my offer. it’d make things a lot easier for the both of us,” another voice chimes in. 

percy opens his eyes, immediately reaching for the ballpoint pen residing in his pocket. he can’t help but stare at the older boy, the person he once called a friend, with nothing but resentment and hatred. luke is leaning casually against the wall across from their holding cell. his arms are crossed, sword sheathed, and he looks like he has all the time in the world. there even seems to be a flicker of annoyance in his brown eyes. 

“we both know things could be much easier. right percy?” luke continues, but he doesn’t make any moves or even reach for his sword. 

“what are you doing here?” percy asks, mustering up enough strength to stand from the floor of their cell. 

luke chuckles, shaking his head back and forth with a small tsk. “c’mon percy, you’re smarter than that. i bet even annabeth has this figured out. isn’t that right banana?” 

“don’t call me that,” annabeth growls, fists clenched at her sides. 

percy watches their interaction, an intense stare down. he’s only even seen luke partake in one, and he remembers how luke was the first to recede. you’re the only person who luke allowed to bully him into getting your way, and annabeth must remember that as well as she turns away from the boy she once called a brother. percy looks at annabeth, asking her a silent question, but she doesn’t even acknowledge him, simply keeping her gaze locked on a questionable stain on the floor. 

“hmm, guess not. makes this even more entertaining,” luke says, stepping away from the wall and towards their cell. 

percy doesn’t hesitate this time, swiftly lifting the cap off his pen with the flick of his thumb. his sword appears in his hands, and he grips the hilt so tightly that his knuckles turn white. 

luke holds his hands up in surrender, “no need for violence, percy. i haven’t even gotten a chance to speak yet.” 

“really? cause you’ve been doing all the talking,” percy snaps, his eyes never leaving luke’s figure as he searches for any impending danger. 

luke chuckles again, but it’s humorless. his eyes turn back to percy lacking any and all warmth. with a clenched jaw, luke looks him up and down. percy feels his breath hitch in his throat; he remembers all too well the last time he fought luke. he also remembers that he has more training under his belt than he did a year ago. 

“i’ll be honest with you percy, because i think we owe that to each other. i know my dad sent you here, hoping you’d convince me to change my mind, but it’s not going to work. we both know that,” luke starts. 

“you, on the other hand, still have time to join me. percy, join us and all will be forgiven,” he finishes, extending his hand to percy. 

percy stares at it, and without a second thought spits at the older boy.

luke grimaces, wiping the saliva on his white linen shirt. “well then.” 

he turns to walk away, leaving the two teens and their cyclops companion behind, but he stops suddenly. his black curls bounce as he whips his head around over his shoulder, brown eyes meeting annabeth’s watery gaze: “i’ve done a lot of things, banana, but associating with a cyclops isn’t one of them.” and then he’s gone. 

*****

the training room is already packed when you and katrina arrive. although a majority of the space is taken up by demigods, you can see some monsters hanging around the outskirts of the crowd. their presence is looming, much like their size, and you nervously adjust the bowstring strapped around your upper body. it feels like it’s choking you, a sensation only amplified by the lump in your throat. try as you might, you can’t seem to swallow it down, and it only worsens as other demigods focus their attention on you. while katrina leads you through the crowd towards chris, their whispers echo in your ears. it’s giving you deja vu. 

you blink, and you’re back at camp half-blood. the dining pavilion is silent as you walk behind luke, weaving in and out of tables to get to cabin eleven’s. they’re trying to be subtle, quiet even, but their voices are much louder than intended. not to mention, all their eyes are on you, making it fairly obvious who their target is. a young girl turns to her friend, whispering something in her ear while making direct eye contact with you. you hear every word. 

“and she gets to skip morning training for a pool day. like how is that fair?” an auburn haired girl whispers not-so-quietly to her friend. 

your gaze snaps towards her, lip curled in a sneer. her blue eyes widen when they meet your anger-filled irises. she takes in a shaky breath followed by a cautious step back. after giving her a once over, you recognize her as holland, a fifteen year old daughter of athena. 

luke’s hand grips your shoulder roughly, pulling you along before the situation can escalate despite your incessant protests that you can handle yourself and this girl. he’s not here to do that this time though.

“remind me again, holland, how many bullseyes you’ve hit? oh that’s right, none because you can’t even keep the arrows in the quiver, much less on target,” you ridicule. 

her eyes gloss over and bottom lip trembles, yet she still manages a comeback: “i’m just confused as to why luke’s girlfriend gets special privileges.” 

the silence in the room is loud. everyone was already eavesdropping, but now it’s blatantly clear; you can hear a pin drop. your nostrils flare at her words, and you straighten your spine. scanning over the crowd of demigods and monsters alike, all their eyes ask the same question: what’s your next move? 

“is that what you all think?” you ask rhetorically. 

“well, let’s put those theories to rest,” you continue, marching to the front of the room. 

silently, and with hundreds of eyes watching, you remove your bow from your shoulders. the quiver filled with a dozen arrows brushes against your right thigh as you remove one. the wooden shaft is light and pliable in your hands; if you weren’t so determined to make holland eat her words it’d probably be snapped in half. you load the arrow, inhaling as you pull back the string. on the exhale, you release; a perfect bullseye. 

“let’s see if i can beat holland’s record,” you taunt, already loading up for your second shot on the second target. 

it’s bullseye after bullseye, and the silence in the room only gets heavier with each shot. finally, you run out of arrows and targets. you turn on your heel, facing the crowd. it’s arrogant, but you bend over into a deep bow with your eyes focused on holland’s blue ones. 

“once you can do that, holland, you can skip morning training too,” and with that, you walk out the door. 

you barely make it three steps before someone stops you. it’s luke; you can tell by the way he holds your bicep, firm yet delicate, and the rough calluses on his palm. you shrug, easily wiggling out of his grasp. his eyes are burning a hole in your head, but you refuse to meet his gaze, keeping yours locked on the vast horizon. 

“what was that?” he asks, voice gruff. 

“your army is getting cocky. someone had to put them in check,” you snap, crossing your arms now. 

he scoffs, stepping beside you with his body turned so that he’s looking at you. he waits patiently for you to acknowledge him, but you don’t. the waves rippling out on the ocean are much more entertaining. 

“maybe they know they’re on the winning side,” he replies, voice oozing confidence. 

you’re silent. 

“and i think you need to remember that too,” he continues, walking away. 

“really? cause it feels a lot like camp. if i wanted to be judged, i would’ve just stayed there. i thought my boyfriend, camp half-blood’s golden boy, would understand,” you say. 

luke freezes, but he doesn’t turn around. “then go back there,” he mumbles, opening the door to the training room. 

you blink, registering his monotone voice and hurtful words. maybe i will, you think.

and yet, you still end up falling asleep next to him that night. whispering apologies to each other in between kisses and tangled limbs. 

*****   

percy promised himself that he would never see the princess andromeda again. turns out promises are meant to be broken. he thinks you might be starting to realize that too. 

“and poisoning thalia’s tree was just the beginning,” luke confirms, standing across from percy. 

sword at the ready, percy waits for luke to make the first move. his eyes flicker over to you, and he’s stunned by your confused expression. it’s clear that luke is the mastermind here, but percy always assumed it was more of a co-parenting situation with heavy emphasis on your involvement in the child’s — luke’s plans to restore the golden age — life. it appears, however, that he was wrong. 

“thwarted again luke. the golden fleece is already on its way back to camp. i guess clarisse can be good for something,” percy taunts, but he’s just buying time.

annabeth already has an iris message queued up, broadcasting his conversation with luke to the entirety of camp half-blood. percy’s sure that he’s never beating those seaweed brain allegations, not when he’s so obviously struggling to bait luke. yet, the older brunette clenches his jaw at percy’s words, anger flashing in his eyes. 

“kronos was right. i should’ve killed you when i had the chance,” luke yells, before going on offense. 

percy throws a quick, albeit sloppy, parry. luke grunts, and percy thinks that playing dodgeball with joe bob and his laistrygonian siblings at meriwether college prep really paid off. for one, it definitely made him stronger. and two, he was able to deal with all the chaos of the party ponies around him, much like he was able to win that final dodgeball game. 

in between percy fighting off luke, and the ponies demolishing anything in their sight, annabeth and grover get cornered. percy can see them, backs literally against a wall, as a hellhound growls in annabeth’s face. it’s not afraid of her dagger, and grover’s pipes aren’t doing anything to help the situation. percy turns, ready to jump in and leave his side quest with luke behind, (he’s sure there will be other opportunities), but he doesn’t need to. 

*****

you know it’s wrong. somebody from kronos’s army should not be protecting the so-called enemy, but you can’t help it. annabeth is the little sister you never had, and even if she doesn’t see you in that light anymore, you refuse to stand by and watch her get hurt. 

you whistle, and the hellhound fixes its beady red eyes on you. it probably expects you to run or cower in fear, but it only takes one swipe of your knife to turn him to golden ash. now, there’s nothing standing between the three of you. 

annabeth steps forward, her gray eyes cold and calculating as she tries to determine your ulterior motive. you never once break her stare, even though your chest is heaving, and you feel like passing out from all the new information you received today. 

“i swear i had no idea,” you say, voice breathless. 

annabeth’s gaze softens slightly, and you only know that because you know her so well. you can’t imagine that she believes you; you wouldn’t believe yourself. yet, there are only three people who have seen your true colors, the person buried underneath the mask of hera’s daughter, and annabeth is one of them. unlike grover, annabeth can detect the hurt in your voice. she sees the disappointment in your eyes, and that proves she can trust you. 

“leave with the ponies. i’ll make sure he doesn’t follow you,” you instruct. 

on her nod, you turn away, heading back into the craziness of the party ponies to stop a red boxing glove from punching out ethan nakamura. she pats grover’s shoulder, leading him towards a less congested area, and waits for their chance to slip out. 

true to your word, luke doesn’t follow them home.

taglist: @percabethlvr @iwantahockeyhimbo@hottiewifeyyyy @loveryoushouldcomeoverr @maraschinocherry3 @used2beeeeee @harrysnovia @cami-is-reading @mxtokko @cxcilla @obxstiles @dracoslovergirl @vanessa-rafesgirl @l1a-pjosversion @vikimontethegirlblogger

[f1crecs]

Fic Rec List - Carlos/Oscar

if your fic is on this list and you don’t want it to be, please let me know and we will remove it immediately, no questions asked. we have contacted most of the authors on this list, but sometimes people fall through the gaps - just pop us a message🤍

have a pairing you want us to do next? please read the faqs and then head to the inbox.

don’t forget to give the authors featured on this list some love in the form of kudos, bookmarks, and comments!

the carlos/oscar ship (affectionately known as carcar) has taken off in recent weeks. we wanted to share some of our favourite fics with you!

new to the fun? you can find a carcar primer here, written by @blueballsracing 🧡❤

enjoy!

nsfw: reckless attention by @janinaduszejko | E | 4.2k Carlos and Oscar have a casual hookup arrangement. Both have very different ideas about how significant it is. I really like unreliable POV in fic like this. Oscar thinks he's having casual, convenient hookups with Carlos, and is determined not to examine his feelings too closely. Carlos, meanwhile, is having a crisis over it, experiencing wants and urges he has no clue how to even begin handling. Being into a guy is confusing enough, but apparently to be submissive as well? No wonder he can't do it sober.

A quick-fire flash of something mawkish blitzes up Oscar’s spine and he sets his jaw against it. He keeps Carlos’s head in place and sets a new rhythm, fucking up in quick, even strokes. Carlos groans and Oscar can feel it around the head of his cock, the taut vibration of it, the hot clench of Carlos’s throat. Oscar’s skin feels like it’s got a current running through it, prickling sharp. His brain feels fuzzy, thoughts unable to get purchase and linger.

nsfw: the better half of a good time by @antimonyandthyme | E | 4.4k Canon divergence, future fic, sex work. Oscar, a few years into his Formula 1 career now, is locked in a bitter WDC fight with Lando. Their relationship has completely soured. He cruises the streets one night and finds a sex worker. The man, a few years older than Oscar, is vaguely familiar. Fics which explore how tenuous and elusive motorsports careers can be, how a few small changes of circumstance can result in a career failing to launch at all, are fascinating to me, and this one is no exception. The author paints a picture of a world just ever so slightly skewed from our own, one where a few unlucky moments resulted in a very different life path for Carlos.

'He’s not angry, not really. His thoughts can’t help but stray to Lando. Those last few times were mean. And being mean takes effort, more effort than Oscar sees fit to expend. Then the last few times had dried up to nothing, and Oscar had taken to searching for other ways he could keep winning outside the track, because nothing on track actually felt like winning anymore.'

nsfw: Open mouth, on my knees (for you)  by @lovelylotusf1 | E | 4.9k Oscar has a bad gag reflex and asks Carlos to help him train it away so he’d be good for Lando. What ensues is desire and power dynamics and taking what you need from the other person. I really enjoyed how the author depicted Oscar’s internal thought process and the journey of hatred to desire. The way Lando’s existence was used as almost a pawn was also written really well!

nsfw: hatred cradles you by @foggieststars | E | 6.8k Carlos comes to Oscar’s hotel room in search of Lando. What ensues is bickering, rising tension, and passionate hate sex. I love the palpable tension woven throughout this fic, Oscar and Carlos’ characterisations are so fun and fit so well together. The dialogue and the bickering is fun and fast paced and makes you want to read more! Amazing work by this author as always.

when both our cars collide by @oscarpiastriwdc | M | 8.4k Carlos finds himself stuck in a time loop, experiencing the same qualifying crash with Oscar over and over. I love time loop fic. There is something about being given the chance to fix something or change something, being able to examine a situation over and over in granular detail, that works especially well in F1 RPF where milliseconds can make a difference. As per the best Groundhog Day fics, it's not so much about what Carlos does as how he feels, and he finds himself drawing ever closer to Oscar as the loops stack. Oh, and there's a really cute dog.

'“Is that your dog?” Caligula wiggles, instinctually sensing the conversation has shifted to her. “Yes.” “I never pictured you with a tiny dog.” Carlos snorts. “What, you thought I would have a big, mean dog?” “More like a cat who scratches your eyes out.” “She’ll do that, too.” “What’s her name?” “Caligula.” Oscar makes a strange noise, a cross between a laugh and a sneeze. “Caligula? That’s an… odd name. Can I?” Oscar extends a hand, questioning. Carlos nods, and Oscar lets Caligula sniff his fingers. She catches a taste of something appetizing and nibbles at his fingers. “Sorry–” “No, she’s sweet.” The ‘unlike you’ remains unspoken'

nsfw: moth to a flame by @blueballsracing | E | 15.5k Enemies to lovers carcar with some hate sex and plot (aka Carlos moves to Red Bull next season). This was really fun to write and I loved going into Carlos' mind and writing their dynamics!

'For a split second, his thoughts fill up with wonders about the future, but he’s stuck in the past. Blue, yellow, orange, and red line his vision–and suddenly, a montage of memories obstruct his vision. He’s 20 when he drives at the Australian Grand Prix for the first time he debuts with Toro Rosso. He’s 20 when he’s next to 17-year-old Max playing word tennis in a car. He’s 21 when he crashes in qualifying at COTA, but makes up 10 positions on the first lap and finishes in the points. He’s 21 when he out-qualifies Max for a whole season, 10-9. It’s the little wins that matter–for, life is not a sprint, but a marathon. He’s 22 when Toro Rosso is a mess in the 2017 season, but he comes out on top as the superior driver of the 4 that “half” season. He leaves to save face, to get away from the screaming toxicity that is Jos Verstappen. He’s 23 when he drives for Renault for the first time and scores points. He’s 24 when he’s replaced by another Red Bull reject driver, Daniel, when he leaves Renault for McLaren. Except–he thinks otherwise. Red Bull didn’t reject both him and Daniel. Quite the opposite. The ages muddle together, but the story stays the same. He crashes and scores points and–he leaves and leaves and leaves. He gets his first podium and thanks the Brazilian audience, he leaves, he replaces a world champion, he gets his first and second and third win, is called slurs and hate names every single time for it, he leaves, he leaves, he leaves.'

nsfw: Grill the Grid by @mercurial-vroom | E | 23.2k (wip) Oscar, a very socially anxious engineering student, agrees to join Lando's pub quiz team. His rival on the team turns out to be Carlos. This fic is light and funny while at the same time examining what it can be like to be socially awkward and anxious. Seeing Oscar settle into the group dynamic is great, and the interplay among all the characters creates some great sparks.

Then, Carlos picked up the glass and took a long pull, his eyes still not leaving Oscar’s as he did so. “Well done,” he said with a small smile. Oscar noticed after he set the drink down that his plush lips were damp and shiny from the foamy beer. “I guess I am off my game tonight. Good show, Oscar.” And although he knew he should still be basking pettily in his moment of small-but-gratifying triumph… all of the sudden, Oscar found that all he could focus on was the fact that this was the first time he’d heard Carlos actually use his name. He was deeply unnerved to realize just how much he’d liked the sound of it.

nsfw: he just turned in like i didn't exist by @drivestraight | E | 36.5k Carlos and Oscar develop a soul bond. Neither of them are thrilled about this. This fic is wonderful. The soulbond complicates their already prickly relationship, until they start to develop an understanding and find empathy for one another. Oscar keeps getting little zings of stress from Carlos which we know are about his contract. Oscar, meanwhile, is starting to work a few things out about his sexuality and finds Carlos to be a surprisingly kind and patient presence in his mind.

'Oscar swallows. You heard me? he asks, uselessly. That first day, Oscar had assumed that everything Carlos heard, he responded to. Carlos hadn’t—hadn’t responded to any of those thoughts. Oscar hadn’t known. I heard everything. It is not very pleasant to have someone tell you how unwanted you are all the time. How you would prefer it to be literally anyone else. Bringing the incident up was the only way to get you to stop thinking about how horrible it was to have me as a soulmate. You do not think as quietly as you think. Oscar’s throat feels tight, a sinking and horrible feeling settling into his gut. Carlos hadn’t—at least not in English—hadn’t thought a single thing about how horrible their bond was. Oscar’s been the asshole this whole time, hasn’t he? I didn’t mean it like that, he tries. It feels like a lie even to himself. Carlos doesn’t respond. I’m sorry, Oscar tries again, playing with the ring on his index finger. Carlos is silent for the rest of the weekend. Oscar finds out later, from Lando, that it was Carlos’ birthday.'

[al-the-remix]

One of my favourites headcannons the fandom seems to share is that during the cruise ship rescue Buck recognizes Tommy from a sexy firefighter calendar he featured in while still at the 118 and that it's partially responsible for Buck developing such a strong interest in Tommy so quickly.

But, I find it equally funny to imagine Buck having one of those tiktok accounts where ripped men post borderlind pornographic videos of themselves finger blasting oiled up chiken or whatever while they craft a meal that looks like it belongs on the menu of a three Michelin star restaurant--tight apron, no shirt, good lighting, horny camera work, whatever tiktok song is trending in the background--the whole nine yards. (I'm imagining something along the lines of this guy's videos).

And the whole time poor Tommy’s trying to keep them all in one piece while flying head first into a hurricane, in his head there's just a mantra of: "is that the guy who makes the slutty eggs? Is that the guy who makes the slutty eggs? Is that the guy--"

(As it turns out Buck is indeed that guy)

Now there's an extra bit at the end of all his videos where Buck sets the plate down infront of a headless hunk seated at his kitchen island who makes a lot of appreciative moaning noises while he devours whatever Buck just prepared for him.

[savvytravelers]

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[midastouch013]

Seasick

I'm sorry, I just had to use this gif, but it has nothing to do with the fic, I swear.

Based on this request

Summary: You're on a cruise with your girlfriend, and so why do you snap at her?

Warnings: None, unless you count throwing up.

P.S This one's short, I'm sorry, I've been kinda stuck on my writing

----

The cruise had been your idea—a chance for Natasha to unwind, away from the constant demands of being an Avenger. You knew how much she loved the sea, the gentle rocking of the waves, the endless expanse of blue stretching out as far as the eye could see. So, you planned this getaway, a luxury cruise away from the bustling city.

As the ship set sail, Natasha wasted no time in making the most of the luxurious accommodations. You found her stretched out on the private deck of your cabin, soaking up the sun in a black bikini that left little to the imagination. Her red hair was fanned out around her, and she wore sunglasses to shield her eyes from the bright sunlight.

You, on the other hand, opted for comfort over style, dressed in an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt on a black tee and cargo shorts, a beer in hand as you admired the view (both of them).

"Enjoying yourself, Nat?" you asked, taking a sip of your beer.

Natasha cracked one eye open, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. "More than I can say, Y/n. This was a brilliant idea."

You settled into the deck chair beside her, reaching out to brush your fingers along her bare arm. "Just wanted to spoil my favorite Avenger a little."

Natasha chuckled, shifting to make room for you on the lounge chair. "Well, mission accomplished."

You hummed, giving her a forehead a peck followed by her lips

"I'm glad"

---

As the day wore on, you suggested exploring the ship and trying out some of the activities it had to offer. Natasha agreed enthusiastically, and soon you found yourselves participating in a salsa dancing class on the upper deck , against your many protests which had been override by a simple plead from the redhead.

However, Natasha couldn't help but notice that you kept disappearing at odd intervals. She watched you slip away multiple times, always with a mysterious expression on your face. Concern started to gnaw at her when you came back every time just a minute level paler, but she pushed it aside, not wanting to ruin the mood.

After the third time you disappeared, Natasha finally approached you, a slight frown marring her features. "Y/n, you keep disappearing. Is everything okay?"

You turned to face her, your expression neutral. "Yeah, everything's fine, babe. Just needed to take care of something."

Natasha's brow furrowed with worry. "Are you sure? You've been disappearing all day."

You felt a surge of frustration, your patience wearing thin. "I said I'm fine, Nat. Can you please just drop it?"

Natasha's concern turned to hurt as she recoiled slightly. "I'm just worried about you, Y/n. You've been acting strange all day."

You snapped, unable to contain your frustration any longer. "Well, maybe if you stopped hovering over me, I wouldn't feel the need to disappear!"

Natasha's eyes widened in shock at your outburst, hurt flashing in her eyes before she quickly masked it. "Fine," she said, her voice cold. "I'll leave you alone then."

With that, she turned on her heel and stormed off, leaving you standing there, regret washing over you in waves.

You stood there for a moment, your stomach churning with a mix of regret and guilt. But as you took a step to go after Natasha, a wave of nausea hit you like a ton of bricks. Clutching your stomach, you stumbled back towards your room, moving as quickly as you could.

By the time you reached the door, you were feeling light-headed and queasy. You barely made it to the bathroom before you were retching into the toilet, the taste of bile burning in your throat.

After what felt like an eternity, the nausea began to subside, leaving you feeling weak and exhausted. You groaned as you rinsed your mouth and splashed some water on your face, trying to soothe your frazzled nerves.

Feeling utterly defeated, you crawled into bed, pulling the covers up around you. You closed your eyes, hoping that when you woke up you'd fell better and apologise to your girlfriend.

--

As you lay in bed, trying to calm your queasy stomach, you felt another wave of nausea hit you. Rushing to the bathroom once again, you barely made it in time before you were retching into the toilet for what felt like the fourth time since your argument with Natasha.

You were so focused on trying to keep your stomach under control that you didn't hear the door open, or the soft footsteps approaching you. It wasn't until a gentle hand was on your back, rubbing soothing circles, that you realized you weren't alone.

Looking up, you saw Natasha kneeling beside you, her eyes filled with concern. "Babe, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

You wanted to respond, to reassure her that you were fine, but another wave of nausea hit you, and you were back to retching into the toilet.

Natasha didn't hesitate. She pulled your hair back gently, holding it out of your face as you emptied your stomach once again. Her touch was gentle, her presence a comforting anchor in the midst of your misery.

After what felt like an eternity, the nausea began to subside, leaving you feeling weak and exhausted. You leaned back against the wall, breathing heavily as you tried to regain your strength.

Natasha didn't say anything, just reached for a washcloth and wet it with cool water before gently wiping your face clean. Then she helped you to your feet, guiding you back to bed and tucking you in with a tenderness that brought tears to your eyes.

"Thank you love," you whispered, your voice hoarse from retching.

Natasha smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. "Anytime baby. I'm here for you, always."

After you had gotten back under the covers of the bed, you felt a pang of guilt as you looked at Natasha, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, near your legs, watching you with concern.

"I'm sorry, Nat," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I forgot to bring my meds for my seasickness, and I didn't want to ruin our holiday."

Natasha's expression softened, and she reached out to take your hand in hers. "You don't have to apologize. I'm just glad you're okay."

You shook your head, feeling the need to explain further. "But I wanted this to be special for you. I wanted you to have a perfect holiday, with all of the recent missions and the government being on your back. I'm sorry I messed it up"

Natasha stood up and pulled you into a gentle hug, holding you close. "Y/n, you already make every day special just by being here with me. And as for the holiday, well, I hardly ever let myself have one, but being here with you is more than I could ever ask for."

"I love you, Nat. I just want you to have a good time"

"Anywhere with you is a good time" she assured, before a smirk creeped up her face,

"And I'm sure you'll show me an excellent time tonight"

" No walking for you tomorrow, that's for sure"

----

[idiopath-fic-smile]

more Singin' in the Rain ot3, now on the honeymoon boat

part one

part two

The ship was a grand one. Cosmo, whose nautical knowledge began and ended with that Douglas Fairbanks picture about pirates, could tell that much. There was a majestic dining room and a wide, clean promenade and state-of-the-art engines that would get them to Europe in just a few days. The dining room even featured a four-piece band, who were a little stiff but not half bad.

His room, his island of privacy away from Don and Kathy and their combined magnetic pull, was bigger than he expected, well-appointed. It went a little overboard embracing an Egyptian theme, although the decorators had tastefully stopped short of including an actual mummy in a giant stone sarcophagus. He was grateful for that. The piano, as promised, sat in the place of where a desk might normally be, keys gleaming invitingly.

There was just one problem.

“How,” said Cosmo, dropping onto the bed, “did you manage to accidentally book us two adjoining rooms?”

“I’m sorry,” said Don, crossing his arms. “There must’ve been a mix-up at the offices.”

“Maybe the travel agent heard wrong on the telephone,” said Kathy. She rubbed Don’s back consolingly. Don shot her a grateful look. It was all very sweet, probably.

“How?” said Cosmo again. “Nothing sounds like ‘adjoining.’ It doesn’t even have a rhyme.”

“Are you certain?” said Kathy.

Cosmo nodded; he’d already run through the alphabet, twice. “The closest I can get to is ‘disappointing.’” Don was leaning into Kathy’s back rub like a cat, but his face was full of uncatlike guilt. “Don,” said Cosmo, “look, pal, I appreciate the free ticket, but please tell me you’ll fix this.”

“I already talked to the cruise director and there aren’t other rooms,” said Don. “We’re out in the ocean, what do you want me to do, alert the coast guard?”

“Alert the coast guard,” said Cosmo, “flag down a passing mermaid, strike a bargain with Poseidon himself!” 

“Who?” said Don.

“The Greek god of the sea,” said Kathy, like that was the important part.

“I don’t speak any Greek,” Don replied, “do you?”

“I will swim to shore,” Cosmo said, to nobody in particular.

“We can swap over to a different ship when we get to port if we need to,” said Don, shoulders slumping uncharacteristically. He must’ve felt worse about his screw-up than he let on. “In the meantime, the door locks from both sides, so—”

“I’m not—worried that you’ll barge in at all hours pestering me for a cup of sugar,” Cosmo broke in.

Don blinked. Kathy went very still beside him.

Out loud, it sounded more suggestive than he’d meant. Why had he picked sugar, the sauciest ingredient of the baking world?

“Or flour,” he amended.

“Then what’s the trouble?”

“I.” Cosmo sighed. “Why am I the only person in this room who seems to know what a honeymoon is for?”

“Why,” said Don, wide-eyed, “what’s it for?”

“D’you think, if I jumped in the sea and started paddling now—” said Cosmo.

“Don’t worry,” said Kathy. “Don and I can be very quiet.”

And the trouble was, this was worse. The prospect of hearing them from the other side of a single thin door was one thing, and honestly it was plenty bad—Cosmo had played a role during several key moments of their courtship but at least he could say he didn’t know what they sounded like in the throes of passion—but for reasons that Cosmo did not feel like examining, the thought of them stifling themselves in the act, the thought of them naked in bed together, touching each other, biting down on a giggle or a moan, and whispering, ‘Shh, don’t wake Cosmo,’ made him feel like his whole stomach was a sore tooth.

“Don’t put yourselves out on my account,” he told them. Belatedly, he realized that was maybe the worst thing he could’ve said. He blushed, and then he stood, face still flaming—Damn his Irish complexion—nodded to them both, and fled to the promenade.

.

The ocean stretched in all directions as far as Cosmo could see. It was dizzying, and also strangely calming. He stared out at the waves and reminded himself, hardly for the first time, that it wasn’t Don’s fault how Cosmo felt about him. It wasn’t Don’s fault, and it wasn’t Kathy’s fault that she was maybe the most charming woman he’d ever met. You could certainly blame Don for booking the rooms, for not double-checking over the telephone, but there was no malice to it. They were both, at the end of the day, wonderful people who had decided to open this trip up to him for whatever reason, and besides, his bed was piled with any number of pillows he could jam over his head if they did make noise at night.

He stood there holding onto the railing for a long time. Eventually, he heard footsteps behind him. 

“Feeling better?” said Don quietly, almost lost under the roar of the water. Without really trying to, Cosmo turned to look at him. Under his coat, Don was wearing a nicer suit than before, and the color had returned to his face. He looked—well, he looked like a handsome movie star married to a gorgeous starlet. Don took a few steps and rested his hands next to Cosmo’s on the rail.

“It’s the salt air, I think,” said Cosmo, nodding. “Feels like I could do anything. Why, I might write another musical, wear my trousers baggy, become a pirate.”

“Your trousers are fine as is,” said Don.

Cosmo shrugged. “A little change can be good.”

“Sure, unless it isn’t.” Don sighed. It was an awfully sad sigh to be having about the fit of a guy’s pants, Cosmo thought, but then Don turned to him and added, “You know, we really have missed you.”

“Don,” said Cosmo patiently. “I was at your house this Thursday. I stayed for three hours. I drank all your gin.”

Don didn’t make a crack about the gin, which was probably a bad sign. “And before that?” 

Before that, it had been a while. Cosmo winced inwardly. “I’ve been busy,” he said, “you’ve been busy, Kathy’s been busy—”

“We invited you over, four different times,” Don interjected. “If I’ve done something, if we’ve done something, I wish you would just tell us.”

In front of them, the sea rolled and rolled. Cosmo thought about deflection, about twisting the moment into a joke, a sword duel where cold steel met only an outstretched rubber chicken: squeak.

He let out a long breath. “Why the Hell did you bring me along on your honeymoon?”

“We brought you along because we wanted you along,” said Don. “Whenever you’re not there, we wish you were. It doesn’t need to be any harder than that.”

“So it isn’t…” Cosmo started.

“What?” “You and Kathy aren’t having problems? Hoping for a buffer, or a distraction?” It was a very new theory on Cosmo’s part, and once the words had left his mouth, he realized how badly they fit the facts at hand.

Don smiled a private little smile. “Me and Kathy are doing just marvelously.”

“That’s splendid,” said Cosmo, because he had to say something, apparently. Marvelous didn’t bode well for Cosmo’s sanity at night, but it beat his friends being sad. “Lovely.” He let his cadences drift into a so-so British accent. “Capital show, old sport. Tip-top. Simpy spiffing.” Not his best work. 

Don lay a hand on Cosmo’s coat sleeve, at the elbow. “Do you want to come to dinner with us?” he said. “It’s meant to be a formal affair but you’ve still got time to change.”

Whenever you’re not here, we wish you were. Obviously, Don didn’t mean “whenever” in the strictest sense—Cosmo got the feeling he was not present in Don’s mind, say, when Don was in bed with his beautiful wife—but the thought now made him feel warmer than the gin had. It would be enough. It had to be.

“Sure,” said Cosmo, “why not,” and Don thumped him encouragingly on the back.

“Cosmo,” said Don as they headed back into the body of the boat, “piracy, really?” Cosmo grinned. “Don’t blame me, blame that salt air. Makes a man feel like anything’s possible.”

.

Kathy and Don looked enchanting at dinner, and Cosmo cleaned up alright too, if he didn’t say so himself.

The food was good—salmon with hollandaise sauce and French beans, braised duckling with apple sauce, some fancy beef thing, salad Dumas and ice cream for dessert—and the band had relaxed a smidge and was playing something from this century, which was nice.

Over dessert, Kathy told them about how, one night several months before meeting Don, she’d been at a speakeasy during what turned out to be a police raid.

“What were you doing in a speakeasy?” Cosmo asked before he could stop to think about it.

“Why, drinking milk and reading Austen, of course,” she replied, a picture of guilelessness. Don snickered, and she grinned.

“I walked full-speed into that one,” said Cosmo.

“Buddy, you ran,” said Don.

“I was drinking,” Kathy acknowledged, nodding, “but really that’s where the best dancing is. The best music, too.”

Cosmo, who lately only drank at parties or at home because it was easier and safer, nodded thoughtfully.

“Hot jazz?”

“The hottest, at least in Los Angeles. Once we’re back, we should all go!”

“I could always stand to take in more culture,” said Cosmo.

“Oh no,” said Don, “don’t let her pull you into her sordid past. Did you forget the end of the story is ‘and then the police came?’”

“That’s more the middle,” said Kathy. “Well, middle-end.”

“So how’d you escape the reaching arm of the law?” Cosmo asked.

Kathy swallowed her ice cream. “I saw the police were all rushing in through the front door, and I dashed to the back and through the performers’ dressing room. I’d done makeup for some of my school plays, so I fought my way up to the mirror, grabbed a grease pencil—a few lines here, a few lines there—borrowed an old coat of the back of a chair, ran maybe half a block, and pretended to be an old lady.”

“Really,” said Cosmo.

“It’s mostly in the walk and the posture,” she said. “And it helps that a few of the street lights were out.”

“And the cops were fooled?”

“One of them asked me if I’d seen any young people running that way,” said Kathy.

Cosmo clapped his hands together with glee. “Don, you married a criminal mastermind! Never make her angry.”

Don wrapped an arm around her shoulders and flashed her a besotted look. “I don’t intend to.”

Kathy nestled into the half-embrace. “Tell me more about—was it Coyoteville? With the ventriloquist.”

“Dead Man’s Fang,” said Cosmo. “And your wish is my command, but I don’t know what else there is to say. We came, we saw, we lost our sleeping arrangements to a puppet.”

“He tucked it in that night, remember?” said Don suddenly.

“He did!” said Cosmo, delighted.

Sometimes when Don started in on the official line about how they’d studied at the conservatory and the rest of that baloney, Cosmo worried that some part of Don believed it, that it was Cosmo’s job alone to remember how long they’d traveled that strange, bumpy, often farcical road together towards some measure of success and respectability in Hollywood. But Cosmo had completely forgotten that particular detail. He had burned it from his mind.

“After he fell asleep, one of you might have moved the dummy and claimed that bed,” Kathy pointed out.

“He left it with the head turned facing us, eyes open,” said Don. “Neither of us were touching that thing.”

“So instead, Cosmo had to put up with Don all night,” said Kathy solemnly.

“So instead, I had to put up with Don all night.”

He could still recall the potent mix of resignation, terror, and guilty excitement he’d felt, huddling up on that mattress together. Their act at the time had involved being in close quarters a lot—at one point, the choreography had Cosmo leap onto Don’s back and then immediately continue playing the fiddle—so it wasn’t like touching Don was a novelty, back then. But doing it offstage, out of costume, away from any onlookers except for Esther Quill the ventriloquist dummy, it had felt like an entirely different proposition. 

Don had been a real champ about it, though. When Cosmo had started shaking with withheld hilarity that this was his life, the punchline of all punchlines and nobody to share it with, not just Don’s best friend but his literal bedwarmer, Don had clearly assumed it was a simple case of the shivers, and so he’d bundled Cosmo close, tucked Cosmo’s head under his chin, and wrapped his arms around him, muttering warm in his ear about how if Cosmo dropped dead, Don was out a dance partner “and that whole routine wouldn’t work as a solo number, it’d go over like a brick.”

“Just imagine what barnyard animal they’d have you opening for then,” Cosmo had whispered back, because Oatmeal, Nebraska had already happened to them. “A pig who juggles. A cow acrobat. A chicken magician. Just a little sleight of wing, folks, nothing up my feathers.”

And Don had laughed, and held Cosmo tighter, and the ventriloquist had shushed them, which had made them both crack up again. It had been a long night, and not one Cosmo would forget in a hurry.

“Who runs hot as a Holland furnace, let me tell you,” he added now, in case his tone had shifted a few shades too close to dreamy.

“Oh, I know,” said Kathy, smiling.

Don raised an accusing finger at him. “Well, you were shaking like a leaf! You’re lucky I was there, especially when we didn’t have so much as a sheet of our own!”

“Wait, why didn’t you have any blankets?” asked Kathy.

“The blankets,” said Don airily, “were for the puppet.”

.

And so dinner had been a joy, and after that, Don and Kathy invited him back to their room for a drink or two, because they’d had the common sense to bring alcohol, which was of course not offered by the cruise. The three of them sat on Don and Kathy’s bed (much bigger than Cosmo’s—not that he was jealous, he didn’t need the space, but the sheer expanse of mattress really did rival a small country, and Cosmo was determined not to picture in any detail how the two newlyweds might make use of that) and passed a flask around and had some more laughs and when Cosmo next got a glimpse of his watch, it was three in the morning.

“I should go,” he said.

“You don’t have to,” said Kathy. She’d shucked off her heels at some point and now her stocking feet were in Cosmo’s lap. Don sat on her other side, head on her shoulder. He’d loosened his tie early on, and his suitcoat was draped over one of the bedposts. While they were drinking, it had all felt very natural. Looking at them now, Cosmo had the sense he was intruding on something private, something intimate.

Granted, they weren’t exactly trying to kick him out, but Kathy was drunk, or tired, or else she was both drunk and tired, and it was up to Cosmo not to outstay his welcome. They had a whole two weeks together, after all, and their rooms were barely a wall apart.

“My regrets, Cinderella,” said Cosmo, “but I can feel myself turning back into a pumpkin.” 

He made as if to stand, but her feet were in the way. Very gently, he picked up her ankles, lifted them off his legs, stood, turned her like they were doing some sort of a dance move, and deposited her feet in Don’s lap instead.

“There,” he said to no one. 

A long pause followed. Don and Kathy blinked up at him. He sorely regretted moving her. It had seemed like the most elegant solution. Probably he should’ve found one that didn’t involve taking hold of her legs, skin warm through the thin layer of nylon–

Kathy’s brow furrowed. “What makes you the carriage?” she said at last.

“What?” said Cosmo, who really did need to make an exit. 

“Cinderella,” said Don, apparently reading her mind, which was swell for them.

“Better that than the mouse footman,” Cosmo told her. “Or the lizard coachman. Or the horse.” Or—who else? There were a lot of characters in Cinderella, he realized.

“There’s a prince in that story, Cosmo,” said Kathy. “A human prince.”

“Yes,” said Cosmo, patiently, “and you’re married to him, your highness,” He sketched a little bow but Don and Kathy weren’t looking at him. They were having one of those silent couple conversations, with mostly their eyes and eyebrows. A career in movies before the advent of sound had probably given Don a real advantage in that department, Cosmo thought, although Kathy seemed to be holding her own.

“It’s a made-up fairytale,” Kathy said at last. “Why, it can go any way you want it to.”

“The lady’s got a point,” said Don.

Cosmo blinked. He knew how it sounded, knew that to the untrained ear, it certainly—there were overtones, or undertones, or just plain tones that vibrated with suggestion. Cosmo had grown up in Vaudeville and now he lived in Hollywood; these things happened every now and then. These things did not happen to Cosmo. He was good for a dance or a laugh, and nine times out of ten, that was enough for him, but he wasn’t exactly fending off amorous advances—not like Don, and probably not like Kathy, either.

Also, Don liked women. Don only liked women, as far as Cosmo knew, and they had lived out of each other’s pockets for years.

The fact that a late-night ménage à trois rendezvous was increasingly the only explanation that held water in his head—it said more about Cosmo’s fragile mental state than it did about Don and Kathy’s true motives, he decided.

Don and Kathy who were still sitting on the bed, waiting for some sort of response.

“I wouldn’t, uh,” Cosmo started, and then realized with a stab of panic that for once, he didn’t have a joke in the wings, waiting to go. “I wouldn’t know where to start,” he said.

“You said earlier today you might become a pirate,” Don offered. Kathy cuddled up close against his side, watching with bright, intent eyes. He wrapped an arm around her waist. “Enter pirate, stage left.”

“I said I was thinking about it,” said Cosmo, trying not to sound affected and missing by a mile. “A fella can think about all kinds of things he wouldn’t do.”

Case in point: Cosmo was not about to climb back into bed with them, no matter how cozy that bed was, no matter how warm and inviting and beautiful the two of them looked together.

His hands were starting to shake, he realized, and if Don saw that, and past experience was any judge, Cosmo might spend the night being cuddled for warmth again. What was Cosmo’s life? He didn’t go in for horoscopes, but maybe he should’ve, maybe that was the key to understanding the whole puzzle: Cosmo Brown, born under the one constellation that resembled clown shoes. He swallowed back a hysterical laugh and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Why not?” said Kathy quietly.

Because he didn’t want to ruin his oldest friendship and his most promising new one, all in a single go. Because he hated rejection, and the thought of two no’s that close together made his head spin unpleasantly. Because then there would be no more innocent touches and smiles and nightcaps in Don and Kathy’s room. 

That wasn’t what she’d asked, though. Mentally, he shook himself.

“If everyone who thought about being a pirate became one, the whole US of A would fall apart,” Cosmo informed them. “Nobody would work, or pay taxes, or go to see films. Not to mention the national parrot shortage—just try to get ahold of birdseed anymore! There’d be a run on eyepatches and tri-corner hats, and the price of a simple pirate earring would shoot through the roof, in fact—”

“It’d cost a buccaneer,” Don filled in. He sounded almost sad, which was a mystery because that bit was evergreen.

“That’s right,” said Cosmo. He rocked back onto his heels, at a loss for a moment. He’d really been counting on that joke to clear the air.

“Cosmo,” said Kathy. “Do you want to go, or do you want to want to go?”

Cosmo struggled to make sense of that. He struggled to parse it in a way that worked outside his own feverish imagination. His entire mind came up short. That was where it got you, going on the road with only an eighth grade education, he thought. His was a cautionary tale. 

Maybe ninth grade was where they taught you how not to twist a moment in your head to the point where it really did seem like maybe Cosmo could’ve kissed either of them, could’ve kissed both of them, and it would’ve been fine, or even more than fine. Maybe it was that, and Dickens, and Geography; Cosmo still could not locate Siam on a map. Or Paris. Come to think of it, ménage à trois and rendezvous were the only French he knew besides bonjour. This time, he did laugh. It was that or scream.

“I am both too drunk, and not drunk enough for this talk,” he said, turning for the door that led directly back to his room.

“If you’d rather stay—” said Don.

“Of course I’d rather stay, Don,” Cosmo snapped, sharper than he’d meant to. “But leave me enough dignity to fill half a shotglass, at least.” Don and Kathy said nothing. When he got to the door, he sighed. “Sorry, that was—I’m sorry. See you at breakfast.” “Goodnight,” said Kathy.

Alone in his room, Cosmo closed the door and ran his hands through his hair. Pirates in Cinderella, he thought. Offers to stay, with his room not 30 paces away, at three hours past midnight. Maybe it would all make sense in the morning.

[northameicanblog]

Blue Hole, St. Ann, Ocho Rios, Jamaica: The Blue Hole is 25 minutes drive from Ocho Rios, A place where the fun never ends. Local and tourist visit this beautiful place to swim, jump and rope swing... Ocho Rios means Eight Rivers is a town in the parish of Saint Ann on the north coast of Jamaica, and is more widely referred to as Ochi by locals. Beginning as a sleepy fishing village, Ocho Rios has seen explosive growth in recent decades to become a popular tourist destination featuring duty-free shopping, a cruise-ship terminal, world-renowned tourist attractions and several beaches and acclaimed resorts. Wikipedia

[kaijuborn]

cozy, slightly spooky games for Halloween season!

Night in the Woods - an adventure game focused on exploration, story, and character, featuring dozens of characters to meet and lots to do across a lush, vibrant world.

Haunt the House: Terrortown - haunt your way through a town in the dead of night! Possess objects with your soul, to scare people away from a museum, a hospital, a theatre and a cruise ship.

Oxenfree - a supernatural thriller about a group of friends who unwittingly open a ghostly rift. You are Alex, and you’ve just brought your new stepbrother Jonas to an overnight island party gone horribly wrong.

Sunless Sea - LOSE YOUR MIND. EAT YOUR CREW. DIE. Take the helm of your steamship and set sail for the unknown!

Beacon Pines - a cute and creepy adventure set within a mysterious book. Sneak out late, make new friends, uncover hidden truths, and collect words that will change the course of fate!

Costume Quest - in this charming role-playing game, choose your hero and trick-or-treat through beautiful environments full of humor and story.

Death's door - reaping souls of the dead and punching a clock might get monotonous, but it's honest work for a Crow.

Hand of Fate - in a cabin at the end of the world, the game of life and death is played. Draw your cards, play your hand, and discover your fate.

LIMBO - uncertain of his sister's fate, a boy enters LIMBO.

Wytchwood - a crafting adventure game set in a land of gothic fables and fairytales. As the old witch of the woods, explore a strange countryside, collect magic ingredients, brew sorcerous spells, and pass judgement upon a capricious cast of characters.

Cult of the Lamb - start your own cult in a land of false prophets, venturing out into diverse and mysterious regions to build a loyal community of woodland Followers and spread your Word to become the one true cult.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1970 Chrysler 300 Hurst

One of the great unknowns about the 1970 Chrysler 300 Hurst is exactly how many cars were built. Estimates put the total as low as 485, and as high as 502 cars. Regardless of what the figure actually is, the car itself is a pretty special piece of machinery.

The 300 Hurst is a giant of a car at 19′ in length. All of the Hursts rolled off the production line finished in Spinnaker White. The cars were then shipped to the Hurst factory in Warminster, Pennsylvania, where a substantial transformation was performed. The first change to be made was the removal of the standard Chrysler steel hood skin, which was replaced with a fiberglass unit. This featured a decorative hood scoop and the obligatory set of recessed hood locks. The deck lid was also removed, and once again, a fiberglass replacement, complete with a spoiler integrated with the rear quarter panels, was also installed. The White paintwork was complimented by the addition of Satin Tan highlights and contrasting pinstripes, and the wheels were adorned with the same Satin Tan color in the centers. This Hurst is a clean car, with a small area of rust visible in the lower section of the driver’s side front fender, and surface corrosion present on the car’s underside. The Spinnaker White paint appears to be in good condition, but there has been some deterioration of the Satin Tan paint on both the hood and the deck lid. The exterior trim and chrome all look good, while the tinted glass is close to perfect.

The 300 Hurst was a premium car at a premium price, so naturally, it required a premium interior. In this case, seat upholstery was available in a single type and color. Continuing the exterior theme, the color is Saddle Tan, and the material is leather. The plush front seats are not standard 300 items but have been pilfered from the Imperial parts bin. While the original intention was for a Hurst shifter to be part of the interior features, this is something that never eventuated. The interior of this Hurst is close to perfect, with a single discolored spot on the dash pad being the most obvious fault. The rest of it presents in virtually as-new condition, and as befits a luxury car, it is loaded with luxury touches. These include air conditioning, power windows, six-way power seats, cruise control, a remote trunk release, and I think that there also might be an 8-track player hanging under the dash.

The 300 Hurst was the biggest of the muscle cars, and as such, it needed a big motor to get it moving. In this case, it is the TNT 440 engine, pumping out 375hp. The Hurst also features a 727 TorqueFlite transmission, a 3.23 rear end, power steering, power brakes, heavy-duty rear springs and front torsion bars, and sway bars. The exhaust was a full dual system, ending in quad tips. This Hurst hasn’t seen a lot of recent use, and documentation confirms that between 1986 and 2019, it managed to accumulate a grand total of 20 miles! Since being removed from its climate-controlled storage, it has undergone a meticulous mechanical check and recommissioning, and it is now said to run and drive perfectly. The owner does suggest that while the tires look good, they are pretty olds, and replacing them might be a good idea. He also says that the Hurst may need mufflers fairly soon. The car does come with a fair collection of documentation, including the original Build Sheet and Window Sticker, a pristine Certi-Card, Owner’s Manual, as well as dealer paperwork and other assorted items.

While there has always been some question surrounding the build totals for the 1970 300 Hurst, one thing is certain, and that is that there are less than 300 cars in existence today. Pristine examples can fetch sums in excess of $30,000, and even a rough example in need of restoration can still sell for anywhere around $13,000. This one doesn’t need a major restoration, but it does require some cosmetic work. I’m not sure where bidding is eventually going to go with this one, but I would suspect that it will be somewhere around the low to mid $20,000 mark. Even at that price, it probably wouldn’t be a bad buy.