#it's not anywhere close to being ready to publish

[marleysfinest]

because I'm an idiot who loves pain I decided to open my Big Work In Progress for another round of edits for the first time in 2 years and I actually just hate myself

[squishycheekanon]

Limerence | One

C H A P T E R O N E

limerence / lim-ê-rêns / (noun)

“Obsessive romantic attraction towards another person”

Summary: In which the owners of Jujutsu Incorporated, the Ôgami brothers, are suddenly interested in you.

Pairing: Alpha!Sukuna x reader, Alpha!Itadori x reader, Alpha!Gojo x reader, Alpha!Geto x reader, Alpha!Nanami x reader, Alpha!Kenjaku x reader

Status: Ongoing.

Genre: werewolf au, soulmate, polyamory relationship, angst, fluff, omegaverse, a/b/o dynamics.

Warnings: smut, violence, mentions of knotting, heats, ruts, insecurities, some descriptions of reader’s body, mention of possible ED, omegaspace, domdrop, swearing, blood, depression, suicidal thoughts, possessiveness, obsessive thoughts, Alpha tendencies.

Chapter warnings: self hatred, insecurities, mentions of insomnia, anxiety, depressive thoughts, Sukuna being a little shit, reader being sick, anxiety medication.

Masterlist | Teaser 1 | Chapter 2

Taglist: @better-imagination-9 @tiredjuniper @jjkz @honeybeeboobaa @cherryblossomdelusion @dependsonthedream

Taglist is open.

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Happiness is a fickle creature. A constant companion to some, hides herself entirely from others. She’s been an elusive creature to you. You don’t particularly remember the last time happiness had visited you, it had been so long since she’d hidden herself away, you barely remember what she looks like.

Nevertheless you feel yourself still seeking her out, even if you’re wholly against putting yourself into situations that are good for you. Why would you when you don’t deserve for her to find you. Maybe she never will and maybe that’s all you’re worthy of.

The distress and utter despair you always feel are now numbing agents to you. It feels like a heavy weight on your shoulders weighing you down so intensely but you should be used to it by now. It’s been years. You’ll be celebrating the ten year anniversary soon.

Ten years since you had parents. Over ten years since the world went to shit. Years of being thrown around the foster system, never settling in one place, not belonging anywhere, never feeling wanted. The people who took you in just wanted the money that came with you.

You tried your hardest despite being moved around constantly and being part of shitty families, to study your best. To get good grades and have good attendance. You could say you threw yourself into your school work so one day you’d be smart enough to leave wherever you were.

The bullies certainly liked to choose you as their target, and despite some teacher’s best interests, the bullies always got to you.

Even when you graduated and went to university, you were still bullied, though again you worked hard and kept to yourself.

You graduated university and got the first job that was offered to you, an assistant editor at the best publishing company there was; Panda. Your job kept you busy and allowed you to not only support the publisher but also the commissioning editor with development and delivery of a manuscript.

You also worked closely with authors and editors, supporting the editor with admin help and coordinating with other departments such as sales and production. With reading all the manuscripts, it allowed you to fall into the worlds authors had made. It let you take your mind off of the reality you faced.

So wrapped in your self loathing and hatred you almost missed the alarm telling you to ‘wake up’ though you’d been awake for hours. Insomnia really is a bitch. You were slow getting up and ready, but your early alarm prepared for that. The kitchen floor was freezing against your feet, you practically ran to get your glass of water and anxiety medication.

Taking your time you grabbed your outfit for the day, a black Solid Cable Knit Sweater Vest With a white Blouse underneath, and black slacks to match. Removing your house slippers, you pulled on your ankle socks and slipped your feet into a pair of black loafers. A little gold chain across the tops of the shoes, easily matching the gold chain bracelet you wore.

Not bothering with a jacket, you simply grabbed your bag and the manuscript you finished before leaving your little apartment.

On your walk to work you passed cute bakery’s with mouth watering smells emanating from them. If only you had the time and money to get a sweet baked good, they all looked so delicious.

A frown slipped onto your face as you approached Jujusu Incorporated Headquarters, the tallest building in the city, the biggest being The Jujutsu incorporated training compound. The Ôgami brothers really have done so much for, not only the country but also the world.

Too bad they weren’t around when all this werewolf mess started. It would have stopped your tragedy. You stared up at the massive sky scraper, no expression on your face, it stayed that way even after you walked away.

In said building, Sukuna relaxed back into the black swivel chair, his body tired and in desperate need of rest. He was reaching close to his limit, he would soon pass out from exhaustion he knew that much. Being more than a little irritable and moody, it was like Christmas Day when his easy to wind up brother walked into Kento’s office.

“Saw you on tv pisshead, you have fun?” Sukuna taunts his older brother with a dirty grin plastered on his face, one of his sharp eyebrows arched. Satoru sighs glancing at the face Sukuna was making, it grated on him, causing an itch to settle in his nerves. Gritting his teeth to do his best not to show the younger that he was affected.

“It was riveting.” Satoru spat running a hand through his white hair as he walked further into the big office, “Don’t be jealous Sukuna. I know you don’t like the spotlight but I love it. I’d appreciate you putting aside the competitive little narcissist that rages within you and letting me savour it.” Satoru had a grin of his own now, knowing he hit a nerve too.

Sukana growled deep within his chest, the noise causing Satoru to challenge him with a growl of his own. “Enough brothers.” Kento scoffs at the display of childish behaviour, “Satoru, the public is pleased with our imagine because of you. You should be proud of your achievements.”

“Thank you Kento.” Satoru nodded his head toward the pack Alpha, the sides of his lips curving up in the tiniest of smiles.

“Kiss ass.” Sukuna scoffed with a roll of his sharp red eyes. Kento shot him a small glare, being pack Alpha had its perks. Each of his brothers had to obey him, nothing to do with being the eldest to. Kento was simply born pack Alpha, his personality traits were that of a pack Alpha and his scent reeked of his leadership.

“Let’s wait for the rest of the pack before we start with the kiss ass comments, Yuji isn’t even here yet.” Satoru joked, a smirk playing on his lips causing his brothers to smirk in turn. Almost as if he knew, Yuji, Kenjaku and Suguru walked through the large double doors.

Kento pulled off his armless glasses dropping them on the desk, “So now that we’re all here, we can begin our weekly meeting.”

“Saw you on tv-“

“Shut up Kenjaku.” Kento cut Kenjaku off.

“Already said it.” Sukuna laughed his head thrown back at the similarity between his brother and him. You’d think that Sukuna and Yuji, and Suguru and Kenjaku would be the most similar due to being sets of twins however they could not be less alike.

“Let’s just get started so we can get on with our days yes?” It was rhetorical, “great.” Kento answered himself, joining his brothers as they all took their seats at the table. He went over, press statements about the company. New Alphas that are one route to be transferred. Alphas that are graduating their training. And an upcoming interview at Panda.

“Don’t they publish books?” Suguru questions looking down at the list of things Kento was reading out.

“They’re branching out, wanting to get involved with the news and since the owner of the company is a close friend of mine, I’ve agreed for one of us to do an interview.” At this Satoru looked up his bright blue eyes harshened by a frown.

“One of us? But that’s my job.” He squeezed his hands together.

“Yes but you’ve spent the past two months travelling for publicity and away from your pack as well as your home. You will be resting for two weeks, remember strain on yourself…”

“Puts strain on the pack.” The entire pack spoke the last sentence, all of them nodding in agreement.

“Fine then who’s it going to be?”

-

You’d arrived to work on time and after fifteen minutes of being there, you wished you’d called in sick. The whole building was going crazy, people running from one place to another. You felt severely overwhelmed and overstimulated, it was taking a second for your brain to comprehend everything. Usually work was slow, a few meetings that were a slightly faster pace, but all in all work was slow.

This right now was crazy. That was the only word you could use for it. Then it got worse.

“I need you to do an interview.” Mr. Panda, your boss, didn’t ask but demanded. You knew you didn’t really have much say but a small part of you wanted to argue against it, that wasn’t your job. You nodded anyway taking the list of questions he had handed you.

You watched him walk away with a sick feeling clawing its way up your throat, it burned and tasted of chemicals. Maybe you should’ve had breakfast this morning before you took your meds. Anxiety swirls around your head and in turn has your stomach flipping, your feet are moving and before you can process you’re over the toilet dry heaving.

A tiny bit of sick comes out, your face scrunches up with the horrible taste. You pant hard as you come to terms with what’s happened, your body shaking while you try to calm your mind. Tears threaten to spill onto your cheeks, you try to control your shuddering breath. Picking yourself up and dusting yourself off, you flush the toilet and head to the sink to wash your hands and mouth out.

Staring at your reflection in the mirror, you notice how dark the bags are under your eyes, how small and frail you look, how lifeless your eyes look. You are the perfect representation of how dead you feel inside.

As if your brain picked the most unimportant thing to worry about instead of being critical of yourself, you realised you didn’t have the interview questions with you anymore. Sighing you left the bathroom and went back to the main office area.

You spot them on the floor, thank goodness they’re still there, you think as you make your way over to them only for someone to grab them first. Irritation settles in your bones, you huff annoyed before looking up at the thief who stole your interview questions, more like the thief who took your breath away.

Your heartbeat was pounding in your chest, so loud that was all you could hear. Your cheeks were tinted pink and you felt flustered the longer the man in front of you stared down at you with his piercing red eyes. His lips were slightly parted, pink hair messy and he. was. big. You felt so tiny with the way he towered over you, your omega for the first time in ten years let you know of her existence with a deep purr.

It had his wolf purring too. Sukuna prided himself on control. Control over his body, mind and wolf. Yet one simple look at you and he felt his control slipping out of his possession. His wolf snarled inside him, the usually peaceful barrier between the beast and man already breaking. His wolf desperate to get out, mark you as his. Claim you.

“Ah I see you two have already met.” Mr.Panda comes over with a smile, “It’s good to see you Sukuna. This is the woman who’s going to interview you.”

Sukuna hadn’t taken his eyes off of you for a second even when you looked at your boss while he spoke. Mr.Panda introduced you to each other, hearing your name, Sukuna did everything in his power to stop his eyes from rolling back into his skull, instead the rubies moved down your body.

You were truly beautiful, his wolf wanting nothing more but to sink his teeth into your delicious thighs. Your luscious, sweet chocolate scent made him want to devour you mind, body, and soul. He knew immediately, by your scent that you were his mate.

The interview was intense, he never looked away from you. He was always studying something, your eyes, your thighs, your figure, everything. It made you squirm in your seat, it had you uncomfortable and self conscious yet you felt adored at the same time. It was a confusing new feeling to you, it made you wonder where it had come from.

You stumbled over every question, your hands shook as you wrote down his answers. You weren’t scared just so incredibly nervous, no one had ever made you feel this way before. Sukuna asked you if you had anymore questions, all you longed to ask was if his heart was beating as fast as yours but you were too afraid to hear the answer.

“N-No I don’t,” You stuttered, “that was the last one.” You looked relieved but he looked disappointed. Quickly you stood, bowed to him and rushed out of the room, you were basically jogging to get back to your office when you felt a strong hand on your shoulder spin you around, he pulled you in close, you began to tremble all over. You felt his warm breath against your lips, red eyes staring at yours intensely.

“T-This is highly inappropriate.” You tried to look anywhere but his beautiful eyes as he spoke.

“Maybe for regular people.” He nodded in agreement, then his voice took on a deeper octave, “But certainly not for my mate.”

[thisismeracing]

His protector | CL16

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!comedian!reader (she/her)

Word count: 0.4k

Genre: regular imagine + smau (overall fluff)

Warnings: not proofread; mentions of Ferrari's disastrous strategy; fluff;

Summary: Yn is a comedian, who happens to date the f1 driver Charles Leclerc and who loves to joke around about how horrendous Ferrari is, but beware: she is the only one who can laugh at her boyfriend’s disastrous races. No one pokes fun at Charles in front of her, especially not on live TV.

A/n: This request has been sitting in my inbox forever because I'm a freaking perfectionist who loved the idea but wanted to get it to be perfect. It's my first time mixing social media au and regular images, I don't know if I'll be doing it again, but I hope you guys like it! Anon who requested: thank you sm for being so patient and kind with your request, it means a lot. I hope it's a bit like you imagined it to be. Every piece I write here it’s a new experience, so your feedback, comments, and asks are more than welcome. *mwah* 🤍

A/n2: A huge shoutout to Leri ( @elitebarzal ) for helping me with this (she was the one who sent me the jokes and helped me with the story's structure). ILY, Le!

A/n3: None of these jokes are originally mine, they're all from the internet, just like all the pictures used are from Pinterest. The writing, however, is all me, and I do not consent for it to be published anywhere else!

Based on this request.

see my masterlist | check here if you want to be on my new taglist

you can support my writing by liking, reblogging, and leaving a comment

“Why did Charles Leclerc take up gardening?” Yn asks eyes focused on the main camera in the studio, ready to deliver her joke. Anthony, Yn’s colleague, and part of the Saturday Night Live cast, was already trying to hold back his laughter when she added, “Because he wanted to be in "pole" position at least once this season.” 

The crowd hollered in laughter, and Anthony almost couldn’t hold his own back.

“This one got me, I gotta give it to you that this is way funnier than whatever I had for tonight,” he bantered.

“It’s a live show for a reason, right?” she winked and turned back to the camera. 

Yn was dating Charles for over a year now, and he was a constant topic of her jokes, the audience, and fans were used to her always roasting him, but everyone knew it to be just part of their relationship. Yn being sassy and playful as she was would make fun of whoever she was close enough to know her jokes wouldn’t come off as offensive. 

Charles loved that side of her. It was nice to have someone who would cry with you but also make you laugh and take the hardships of life with a degree of lightness. 

It was race week, Yn was in the paddock and it wasn’t uncommon for some channels to call upon her for a quick interview about her thoughts on the race. She usually wouldn’t mind, she would be polite as usual, answer their questions, sometimes even tell a joke or two and then follow her path back to Charles if he was free to have her around. 

This time, however, this interview seemed to stress her more than to amuse her. 

“We all know he can do better-”

“Can he?!” Yn asked, brows furrowing a challenging look on her face. “With Ferrari’s current strategy, I don’t think he can.” 

“Well, most people seem to think he could, and I tend to believe that maybe that’s right. It’s not always the team’s fault.” 

“Eric, have you tried driving a formula one car?” 

The reporter gaped, taken aback by Yn’s question, before answering, “Well, no, I’m a journalist.”

“If you’re so sure he could do better, then maybe you should go there and try driving the car. See which position you get,” she kept her instance, lips pursed in a tight line. 

The reporter chuckled, trying to light the situation, but Yn didn’t, and everyone watching the live interview saw the tension in the air. Everyone got the message: nobody downplays her boyfriend in front of her. There’s a line between making fun when it’s known Charles is comfortable and openly talking about how he could do better in a sports program. 

taglist: @sachaa-ff @mickslover @formulakay3 @mishaandthebrits @crimeshowjunkie @iloveyou3000morgan @saintlewis @fdl305 @chaoticevilbakugo @carojasmin2204 @wondergirl101ks @smiithys

[monstersandmaw]

Male dullahan x gn reader (sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

OH boy, this is a personal one for me on a number of levels (which usually means it's gonna tank), but here's the first of my five new commissions - this one is for the incredibly supportive and sweet @doomfisthero.

It features one of the Supernatural Biker Gang I mentioned in this post, which a lot of you seemed to like, so I hope you're keen to meet the cheeky, goofball dullahan with a heart of gold! Not gonna lie, I went way over the agreed wordcount for this one because it's the world I've already started building, and it's got characters I've already been thinking of for a while.

Content: gender neutral reader who experiences severe anxiety around being pranked/practical joked, which occurs at one point in the story. There’s no malicious intent or bullying behind the prank, and it gets discussed afterwards. The reader is a writer, doing research for a story about bikers, and has no idea that there's something a little 'extra' about this gang. Their friend, Adi, is dating one of them already, and I hope to write their story soon too.

Wordcount: 9216

“God, this was such a stupid idea,” you muttered as you approached the only shop on that wide, empty side street. Its metal sign swung gently back and forth in a light, autumn breeze, displaying a full moon on a black background, with a cruiser-style motorbike silhouetted in front of it, and the white, artfully-distressed font underneath it read ‘Full Moon Motorcycles’.

A second later, your friend stepped out onto the pavement and you knew there was no turning back. Adrianne grinned at you, so you kicked your feet back into motion and closed the distance between you, offering her a small hug. Your leather messenger bag bumped against your hip with the movement, and you wondered if perhaps you should have left your notebook and stuff at home for this first time. It felt more like an interview than getting to know them, and you were worried the group of unfamiliar bikers might take offence that you essentially wanted to study them for your novel.

“Ready to meet the gang?” she laughed, sweeping her messy, dark blonde hair back out of her eyes. “God, you look terrified. Come on, they’re nice! Except maybe Pixie. Don’t mess with her, but she’s not here today. Or Demon, but even he’s ok when you get to know him, I swear.”

“Not helping, Adi,” you grumbled.

Ever since she’d started working for Dahlia Ink across town about six months ago, Adrianne had been hanging around with the group of bikers who all got their ink done there it seemed, and it had almost felt like serendipity in action when she’d told you about them over coffee last weekend. You didn’t tend to talk much about your writing, even with your friends, but you trusted Adi, and she’d always been supportive of your career as an author, so you’d shyly opened up to her about your latest idea for a story featuring a group of bikers. You did leave out the part where the bikers in your story were mostly vampires and werewolves, with a few other supernatural species thrown in as well. Fantasy had always been your comfort-genre, but people had snickered in the past and made you feel like it wasn’t a ‘serious’ genre that ‘serious’ writers pursued, so you’d omitted it this time while telling her about it.

“It’s the perfect excuse for you to come and finally meet Țepeș then!” she’d blurted excitedly into the foam of her cappuccino, her green-brown eyes going wide with excitement at the idea of including you in her group of new friends. They all had weird nicknames, and you had no idea if it was a ‘biker’ thing or just a ‘them’ thing, but you’d been burning up with curiosity about them ever since she’d first started dating the one called Țepeș. “I’ve been dying to find an excuse for you to come meet him. Plus you can ask him anything you want to know for your story, and — oh…”

Her face had fallen, and you’d frowned, heart dropping already. “What?”

“Eh, he’s… he’s not completely non-verbal, but Țepeș doesn’t exactly find talking easy. Maybe you could come to the shop and meet the rest of them instead though? I’m sure Pickle or Pumpkin would love to talk your ear off about their bikes…”

“I dunno, I don’t want to get in the way,” you’d said, trying not to let that tiny, kindling ember of hope in your chest wink out completely. “But if you wanted to ask them…?”

She’d run it past her boyfriend, and Țepeș had said he’d ask Hank. Hank, apparently, was the guy who ran the bike shop where they’d all met and first formed their group, and two nights later, you’d got a text in all caps from Adi saying ‘BASIC BIKER 101 FOR WRITERS IS ON!!!! When are you next free?!!!’

A week later, you and your messenger bag with notebook and pens had shown up outside Full Moon Motorcycles, with little clue what to expect, and a heart full of trepidation.

Adrianne giggled as she ushered you inside, and to your relief, you found there were only two other people inside instead of a shop full of strangers. An array of bikes for sale was lined up around the right hand side of the space, and against the back wall there was a wooden counter almost like a bar, where the vintage till and a few key chains were displayed, while the left side of the space appeared to be a more general spot for tinkering and hanging out. Even with the light flooding in through the two huge, picture windows on either side of the door, the lighting was soft, and the polished concrete floor created a mellow atmosphere. The scent of coffee and motor oil hung heavy in the air, and you found it oddly comforting as you soaked it all up.  

Behind the counter, a stocky man with greying, wavy hair that wasn’t quite long enough to tie back but was too long to look tidy smiled you and raised a meaty hand. His blue tartan shirt stretched precariously over a hearty paunch, and he exuded a jovial kind of warmth as his honey-brown eyes crinkled. “Hey there,” he said. “I’m Hank, though most people round here just call me Dad —”

“— he adopts literally everyone who walks through that door, so congrats on joining the family,” Adi laughed.

“Take your pick on names,” Hank chortled. “I understand you’re a writer…” He seemed interested and a little impressed, which was a bit of a confidence boost.

“Yeah,” you croaked and cleared your throat. “Yeah… uh… thank you for letting me hang out here for a bit. I don’t know anything about bikes… I’m just looking to learn a bit so it makes sense for my novel, you know? I’m not going to get in anyone’s way.”

“Oh, you’re fine,” he smiled, gesturing dismissively with his massive paw of a hand. “You just ask what you like and we’ll do our best to help you out. You must know Țepeș already if you’re Adi’s friend?”

You shook your head and Hank looked across the room to where the other person was lurking at the back of the space. You hadn’t noticed Adi leaving your side, but when you turned around, you found her standing with both hands pressed fondly against the chest of the tall, imposing biker dressed all in black and wearing his helmet too, which you thought was an odd choice. But what did you know about the habits of bikers? You were there to learn after all; learn and observe.

Adi waved you over, and you swallowed your nerves and cast Hank a farewell glance before approaching. When Adi stepped back, Țepeș pushed himself off the wall and held out his hand to you to shake. It, like the rest of him, was covered in leather or padded gear. There wasn’t a scrap of skin showing on him anywhere, and with your own face reflected in his black visor, it was impossible to get a read on him.

As if she’d read your mind, Adi smacked Țepeș in the chest with the back of her hand and said, “At least put your visor up, you big, intimidating doofus.”

He snorted a silent laugh and lifted the catch on his visor to reveal a sliver of pale skin and irises as black as the rest of his leather gear. Like Hank’s though, his eyes were kindly, and he closed them briefly as he inclined his head in a kind of apologetic bow. You shrugged, and he laughed breathily.

Hank chose that moment to come over, and you jumped as he clapped you on the shoulders. How a man built like a grizzly in autumn had moved so quietly was a mystery. “Come on, Țepeș, why don’t we give our new friend a demonstration of how a bike works? Since your Ducati is in, why don’t we use that?”

Țepeș gave a quick nod, and ducked away through the door that stood in the centre of the back wall, and a moment later, he pushed an absolute monster of a bike out into the empty space. He jutted his chin towards the front door, and Adi nipped over to open it for him, and when you frowned, she laughed. “That Streetfighter is so fucking loud,” she snorted. “You do not want him starting it up in here.”

“And nor do I!” Hank called, now mysteriously back behind the till though you hadn’t heard him leave. You made a mental note to weave something like that into your story for the supernatural biker characters, and then nodded, feeling sheepish, and followed the two of them out of the shop and onto the quiet side-street outside.

Until six months ago, Adi hadn’t known anything about bikes either, so she used your introductory tutorial as a kind of test for herself, interspersed with little glances up at Țepeș to check that she’d got it right. He either nodded or pointed to correct her, but he didn’t speak. She hadn’t been kidding about him being mostly non-verbal.

After Adi had shown you the basics of the bike’s anatomy, Țepeș patted the seat of the bike and gestured to her to get on it, but she laughed and shook her head. “No way, babe. I’m way too short.”

He put his fists comically on his hips and shook his head, then patted the seat again like he was trying to get a wilful cat up onto a chair.

She made a noise of protest, but did swing a leg over and then hoisted herself evenly into the seat, both legs dangling freely a good way off the ground.

“Happy now?” she shot at him and he nodded emphatically, bringing both hands to the sides of his helmet in a way that mimicked a person losing their mind over a cute kitten. “You’re lucky I love you, you overgrown dork,” she muttered. “Anyway,” she said, turning back to you. “Since this beast has made me get up here, I’m going to start his bike. Not so funny now that I could actually fuck it up, is it?” she grinned.

Țepeș remained perfectly still, and you got the impression it was a comical warning.

“I can’t flat-foot it,” she said to you, “So I’m gonna rest my left foot on the curb after I’ve flicked the kickstand up,” she said. “You can’t start most bikes with the kickstand still down.”

You noted that down, and let her get on with the rest of the sequence uninterrupted, which seemed a lot more complicated than you’d imagined.

Near the end of your tutorial on how to start a bike and the basics of clutch control, and the apparent struggle to find neutral, the sound of a number of approaching engines tore through the quiet afternoon. You looked back over your shoulder to see three sports bikes round the corner and make their way towards you.

The three riders couldn’t have been more different. The one you noticed first was riding a big, brash, bright orange bike that reminded you a bit of a sporty looking dirt bike, and he was wearing, of all things, a black and white cow onesie, with a cow helmet cover complete with fabric horns and ears.

“Fucking Pumpkin,” Adi laughed. “Honestly. I think you’ll love him.”

“Pumpkin?” you asked, wondering how on earth he’d got that name. Then again, Țepeș was a pretty unusual nickname. Perhaps he was a vampire under all that leather, shielding himself from the fury of the sun with his biker gear just so he could spend more time with his human lover during the day… You yanked your over-active imagination back into the present and out of your fantasy novel, and watched the trio of bikers approach down the quiet side street.

“Yeah, Pumpkin’s his name. It’s because he’s a —” Țepeș elbowed Adi in the ribs sharply enough that she had to grab the handlebars to stop herself toppling off his bike. Her eyes went wide and she instantly clicked her jaw shut.

As an author, you were used to watching and studying people, and noting your observations for later. Another writer you knew online had called it ‘cataloguing the everyday’, and it was an apt description. Adi had very nearly given away something huge about Pumpkin, and Țepeș had given her a silent but stern warning.

“Because he loves pranks, like on Halloween?” she finished a little too quickly. “He dresses up with silly helmet covers all the time and he likes to play jokes on people.”

Maybe he wasn’t your kind of person at all. The very idea of having a practical joke pulled on you was enough to make you feel sick and shaky all over. You'd always hated them, and they’d always left you feeling devastated and on-edge if they happened to you. The more you trusted the person, the worse it felt afterwards.

Țepeș’ huge hand landed carefully on your shoulder joint and you looked up to find him smiling reassuringly at you. At least, you thought he was smiling reassuringly. All you could see were his glinting black eyes that were creased at the corners, and the way the apples of his pale cheeks were slightly more squished than usual behind the padding in his helmet.

You tried out a smile of your own, and then realised that Adi was talking again.

“He’s such a goofball, but that’s got to be his craziest outfit yet! You should see his other helmet covers; they’re all bonkers. My favourite is the pink rabbit one.”

Țepeș nodded once in agreement and let go of your shoulder. You swayed a little at the loss, feeling untethered.

“The guy on the red Ducati is Demon, and the short one on the Ninja in the middle is Pickle.”

When the newcomers spotted the three of you standing around Țepeș’ bike, Pumpkin revved raucously, almost seeming to make his bike laugh with joy at the sight of you. Then he hauled it up into a massive wheelie, only dropping back down once he’d torn past you in a near-vertical pose. Your heart was in your mouth the whole time, but he looked relaxed and even amused behind that absurd costume as he landed it and swerved the bike around to make his way back towards you while the other two came over in a more sedate fashion. In fact, they were so sedate it reminded you of two sharks approaching, and your mouth went dry. Adi had said they were cool with you being there and asking questions, but just then, it didn’t really feel like it.

The one riding the lurid, neon green bike was so short that you wondered for a crazy second if maybe they were a child. The owner of the red bike revved his something wicked as he cruised to a stop, and you had to fight the urge to step back. It felt like being roared at full in the face by a lion, and it didn’t help at all that the guy had curling ram’s horns adorning his black helmet. Even though it was a nippy autumn day, he was wearing a white t-shirt that showed off a golden tan and a truly impressive physique, and his black jeans had a rip in the knee that added to his tough-guy appearance.

Standing beside his own bike, Țepeș folded his arms and jutted his chin in a warning. Demon revved his deafening bike once more though, and the back wheel skimmed from side to side on the tarmac as blue smoke churned up into the air.

Țepeș shook his head and a few seconds later, Demon stopped his mini burnout, and instead leaned forwards on the bike, resting one arm casually on the tank. His whole attention was fixed on you and you tried hard not to regret all of this. It was research. You were here for your story. It was fine. His visor was tinted like Țepeș’ was, but you could feel the intensity of his gaze through the plastic just as clearly as if there had been nothing blocking his eyes from yours.

“Just giving a welcome to your new friend, Țepeș,” the guy purred in a silky baritone that made you think of teeth in the dark.

As the brief puff of acrid smoke from his tyres cleared, the short rider flipped their visor up and regarded you with beady, golden eyes that had to be contacts, surely? Even the pupils were slitted like a cat’s. 

“Who’s this?” came a reedy, tenor voice from under the helmet. Definitely not a child after all, and their skin had a strange, greenish tinge to it that you initially took to be makeup until you realised it went all the way down their cheeks as well. Tattoos? Some kind of condition? You tried not to stare.

Before either you or Adi could respond to their question, the cow onesie rider screeched to a comical halt beside the other two, locking up the front wheel and making the rear of his bike kick up like a bronco, and Adi shook her head. “Pumpkin, honestly. What are you like?”

“I’m Legen-dairy!” he grinned, gesturing wide with both hands. “Oh, hey! New friend?!” he exclaimed, waving enthusiastically when he saw you standing awkwardly beside Țepeș’ bike. He had a lilting Irish accent and a playful intonation that warmed you to him immediately, despite knowing about his penchant for practical jokes.

“Don’t mind Pumpkin,” Adi smiled at you. “He’s… something else.”

“I’m highly a-moo-sing, is what I am,” the guy chuckled. His words sounded clearer than the others behind their helmets, and you wondered if it was something about the design that made it easier to hear him.

“Oh god, please stop with the cow puns,” Pickle groaned, casting him a withering look with those unusual eyes.

“But Pickle, I’m udderly fantastic!”

“Stop.”

“This is just plain bull-ying!” Pumpkin whined, and then he started to bop up and down on his bike as he sang, “My milkshake brings—”

“If you howl one more out of tune word, Demon will eat you for breakfast, and not in a fun way,” Pickle said, casting a glance at the biker with the horns on his helmet.

For answer, the biker in question cocked his head just a little to one side, and Pumpkin slumped in his seat, arms and legs dangling comically, head lolling forwards so that the soft horns on his helmet cover flopped. He let out a long, sad mooing noise sound that dissolved into giggles at the end, and Pickle punched him on the arm.

“Loser,” Pickle snorted with obvious fondness.

“Anyway, I want you to meet my friend,” Adi cut in, turning to you. “I’m sorry you had to meet Pumpkin when he’s in this mood, but —”

“Moo-d!” Pumpkin interrupted triumphantly and immediately burst out laughing. He almost tipped backwards off his big, orange bike. Even you managed to crack a shy smile at that one. It was infectious.

“I give up,” Pickle said, and hopped down off his green Kawasaki, disappearing into the shop without a backward glance just as Hank stepped out.

“How’s that lesson going?” he asked you.

“I’m not planning on riding solo any time soon,” you smiled, “But I’ve got enough of an idea of how things work to start writing, I think.”

Hank nodded and, glancing around at Pumpkin who was still bouncing up and down and making his suspension creak a little, said, “Ah, they’re all idiots, but they’re kind, and they’re my idiots.”

He introduced you by name, and told Pumpkin and Demon why you were there. Pumpkin seemed intrigued, tilting his head to one side and calming his crazy energy a little as he regarded you through the tinted visor, but Demon growled softly as he pushed himself upright again and folded his arms across his ripped chest, muttering something about letting their guard down again.

Țepeș moved away from his bike, petting the back of Adi’s blonde head in a fond, distracted gesture, and then signalled for Demon to follow him inside, which, to your surprise, the big guy did. He walked like a Greek god — like he owned the place and not Hank — but it was clear that he had respect for Țepeș.

Pumpkin took advantage of their absence and leaned a little way off his bike towards you. “So, you’re a writer? That’s pretty cool. And you’re writing a… a book? A story? About bikers?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s not the main focus, but it’s a big part of it.” If you hadn’t wanted to open up to Adi about it being a supernatural fantasy story, you sure as heck weren’t going to admit it to a bunch of intimidating, high-octane bikers. “It was Adi who suggested I come and learn a bit more about it all from you guys though…” you said, not wanting them to think you’d just inserted yourself into their group without invitation. Especially given Demon’s weird reaction.

“Awesome,” Pumpkin said, fist-bumping Adi then turning back to you. “You gonna ride with us? We’re all heading out in a bit so you should come too!”

“I… maybe?” you faltered. That had not been on the cards for the day, but the more you thought about it, the more your heart began to race.

“The KTM has a passenger seat,” Pumpkin said, gesturing behind him and patting his pillion seat. “You can be my backpack if you like! I promise I won’t wheelie. I’m not taking the onesie off though,” he added, mooing and shaking his head so that the fabric horns waggled comically.

His energy and enthusiasm really were infectious. He bounced up and down again like an excitable, cow-print puppy, and you bit your lip. The idea of holding onto him, of being perched on the back of his mad, orange bike, was oddly… enticing. Even with his embarrassing costume.

“Come on,” he said. “It’ll be fun! It’s only a short ride because Coco’s Honda’s playing up for some reason,” he added. “Is she here yet? I don’t see her little bumblebee…”

“Bumblebee?” you asked.

“Coco’s bike is a Honda Hornet,” Adi supplied. “She’s got these little antennae for her helmet too. It’s so cute. And no,” she added to Pumpkin. “You guys are the first.”

It didn’t take long for the rest of the day’s riders to arrive, and soon you watched a screaming pink bike roll up, with its rider wearing baby pink leathers and a pink helmet. Her name was Barbie, appropriately enough, and a few minutes later, a skinny guy in all black leathers with a black helmet bearing a decal like a maw full of teeth pulled up, alongside Coco on her black and yellow Honda Hornet that looked very much like the Transformer.

“I see why you call it Bumblebee,” you said to Adi, who was standing on the pavement with you, chatting and slipping you random bits of information about both the bikes and the bikers. The others had all gone inside, leaving you with Adi still casually sitting astride her boyfriend’s enormous, black Ducati Streetfighter outside in the sunshine, and honestly it was nice to catch your breath and let your heart rate settle again.

Pumpkin, apparently, was only a few years older than you, and he had moved to the city to get away from his family and their career expectations for him. His name was actually Callahan, or Cal, but literally everyone called him Pumpkin.

Pickle was non-binary and surprisingly a full decade older than you. They lived with their mother, who needed a bit of extra care these days, and had taken up riding only a year or so ago. Demon, Adi didn’t discuss at all, and she said little about Barbie other than that she kept herself to herself a lot and was pretty shy.

Coco came out to soak up some autumn sunshine a while later, and was one of the only bikers who actually took off her helmet. Beneath it, she had thick, wavy, chocolate brown hair and brown eyes that made you want to drown in them, and a smile so pretty it made your heart skip several beats. She gave off the kind of energy that made you feel safe and relaxed, and you let out a long, slow exhale, feeling the sun wash up over your skin.

That peace lasted until Demon stormed out of the shop, followed by Pumpkin, Țepeș, and Pickle.

“Everything ok?” Adi whispered to Țepeș when he came over and hugged her tightly from behind before passing her a spare helmet. He nodded and jerked his thumb towards his bike. “Yeah, I’m good to go. You coming?” she asked you, and you found yourself nodding before you’d even realised.

“Yes!” Pumpkin bayed in triumph and you startled, not having heard him return to his bike. “You’re mine! I claim you. You’re my backpack!”

“Like anyone else wants a human for baggage,” Demon muttered so quietly you weren’t sure you were supposed to have heard it. As he passed, he slammed his visor back down and you could have sworn that he’d had completely scarlet eyes. You wondered if you were losing your mind a little bit, or if the fantasy of your novel was beginning to bleed into the real world through your over-active imagination.  

Pumpkin practically vaulted back up onto his orange bike and he held out his hand to you. “Alright! My precious and beautiful backpack,” he said, “Hop on!”

Easier said than done, you thought, ignoring the compliment. You watched your reflection distort in his visor as he turned his head when you faltered anxiously.

“I’ll look after you, I promise. But I’m gonna rely on you to tell me if Pickle’s coming for my killswitch, ok?”

Recalling your brief lesson with Țepeș, you eyed the red switch on his right handlebar and said, “That?”

“Yeah, that. Protect it at all costs,” he giggled. “I mean, not all costs, obviously but… Actually, scratch that. It’s Ninja you wanna watch out for. He’s a sneaky, sneaky boy. He blends in so no one sees him coming…” A few of them laughed in a way that made you feel like there was more to it than just an inside joke, and your stomach churned.

A glance back at the skinny guy on the black bike behind you revealed Ninja tilting his hands outwards in a ‘who, me?’ kind of gesture. Hank came over and gave you a helmet, taking your messenger bag from you and promising to keep it safe behind the counter. You slid the helmet on and buckled it up, trying not to feel like an impostor.

Getting aboard wasn’t as hard as you’d thought it was going to be, with brief instruction from Adi and Pumpkin on how to put your feet on the pegs, though you did clunk your helmet against Pumpkin’s when you leaned too far forward, but he made things easier by telling you to hold him round the waist. He turned back over one shoulder and said, “It’s kinda forward, but I don’t mind. You’re cute and I don’t want you falling off.” He had such a lovely voice — warm and rich and reassuring — and you found yourself laughing softly.

“If you say so.”

Pumpkin talked a mile a minute and you really had to work to process everything he was saying as it tumbled out of him in a wild, happy torrent. “You are cute! You’re gonna have a blast today. I can’t believe I’m your first! Oh, and watch out for silly string too. I don’t think Pickle has any in their pocket today, but last time they got me good and it was all over my helmet and my orange baby,” he added petting the tank of his bike.

Your heart lurched at the idea of these pranks maybe escalating, and you tried to swallow down the nausea; you did not want to be sick in a motorcycle helmet. The cold sweat took a while to evaporate and you were sure Pumpkin would feel your heartbeat as you clung onto him before he’d even started the bike. The cow onesie did add a little levity though, and you tried not to feel too silly.

When Adi was safely aboard Țepeș’ bike, Țepeș revved his readiness a few times from the rear of the group, and Pumpkin nodded. “Forward!” he yelled, pointing like he was leading a cavalry charge as he nudged up his kickstand and prepared to draw away.

Adi had been right.

The ride was amazing.

Terrifying, exhilarating, wonderful, and, in the strangest way possible, it made you forget everything.

All you could focus on was the way Pumpkin moved with the bike like it was a part of him — almost like a rider and his horse — and on trying to move with him as he leaned into the corners. He was slim and fit beneath your grip, and he didn’t seem to be wearing any kind of padding under the onesie, but he was wearing biker boots instead of ordinary shoes. There was something alluring about the fact you’d not seen his face and he’d not taken his helmet off. Țepeș had a similar vibe, but it was Pumpkin and his wild, silly energy you found yourself drawn to. It was almost euphoric to be able to press the front of your body against this kind, funny stranger’s back and let him sweep you along the roads.

Of course, there were shenanigans at the first red light you came to.

Pickle came for Pumpkin’s killswitch immediately — almost like they were testing you — but you tapped Pumpkin on the shoulder when you saw Pickle stalking up the line of bikes. Ninja covered his killswitch and waggled a finger at Pickle, and when Pumpkin saw who was coming, he patted your thigh a few times. “Nice one,” he said with a grin evident in his voice. “Best early warning system and best backpack ever! You can ride with me every time!”

You glowed with pride, even though you knew it was probably only fun and games, and when Pickle failed to catch Pumpkin’s killswitch and the lights changed, you laughed with the rest of them as Pickle bolted back to their Ninja and hopped comically onto it at the very last second while Pumpkin sped away fast enough to make you yelp and grip him hard around the middle. You felt him laugh and held him tighter.

He petted your hands where they were laced securely in front of him, and even though you didn’t have comms in your helmet, you got the message: ‘I’ve got you’. You did feel safe with him despite his love of pranks, and you were literally trusting him with your life as you rode behind him.

When the ride came to an end about an hour later, and the group drew to a halt at Full Moon Motorcycles again, you were shaky with the aftereffects of adrenaline and from simply holding on, but beneath your helmet, you were grinning wildly. Secretly, you already couldn’t wait for the next ride and prayed he would ask you again.

Pickle pulled their bike up on your right, the green Ninja 400 idling gently, and when they killswitched Pumpkin’s bike at last, Pumpkin guffawed, but without missing a beat he extended his right leg and tapped the gear lever down to put Pickle’s bike into first, making the bike stall and lurch forwards.

“Gotcha!” he crowed, and then helped you off the back by letting you steady yourself on his shoulders. “And for the pièce de résistance,” he said, fishing in the pouch of his onesie, and he turned something cylindrical in your direction. “I was saving this for Pickle, but since it’s your first ride, you deserve a decent celebration!”

With a loud bang and a flurry of coloured squares of paper, a confetti cannon went off in your face and you screeched in shock, tripping over your heels and landing hard on the pavement behind you. The pieces of paper fluttered down around you while panic and fear and everything you hated about being pranked exploded out of you. Your heartbeat went through the roof. You just glimpsed the horns of Demon’s helmet in the doorway to the shop, and your heart dropped when you saw he was laughing.

Pumpkin was laughing too, and pointing, and beside him Pickle clapped their gloved hands and crooned, “Oh man, he got you good!”

He had got you good, and you hated it.

You hated that it was just a silly, harmless prank, but you were reacting like he’d done something serious. You hated that you couldn’t just laugh it off the way they all did. You hated that you took it so seriously; that it felt like the worst kind of betrayal of that fragile trust you’d started to put in a stranger. And then, behind the visor of your helmet, the tears began to flow uncontrollably.

A huge figure appeared in your blurred vision and you looked up to find Țepeș kneeling down beside you. He blocked the others from your sight with his massive body, and he lifted his visor to show his black eyes full of concern.

You nodded, trying to pull yourself together and grateful beyond belief that the helmet was still covering your face, even though it felt like you were running out of oxygen in there. Pulling yourself together was like trying to hold a bag full of sand with fraying seams. You were seeping and spilling out all over the place and you couldn’t stop. You tried to tell yourself it was just a confetti cannon. You tried to tell yourself it was just a bit of fun.

You tried, and failed.

“I’m… I’m ok… I’m…” you gulped, aware of how choked your voice sounded.

Țepeș stood and held out a hand, pulling you to your feet and ushering you carefully inside. You didn’t miss the way he put himself between you and Demon, who was still snickering in the doorway, and you let him lead you into the shop and into the back room.

He snagged a box of tissues from under the shop’s counter in passing and guided you into a chair. He signalled for you to undo your helmet, which you did with shaking fingers. “I’m sorry,” you gulped as you drew it off over your head and set it on the floor. “I’m sorry I’m overreacting.”

Țepeș shook his head and squeezed your shoulder, offering you a tissue.

“It’s just a prank, I know that, but…”

Again, he squeezed your shoulder, and you took a deeper, steadier breath.

“I hate pranks. Even the harmless ones. I always overreact like this. I’m sorry. It’s not his fault, but… I thought… I thought maybe he… he wouldn’t…”

A knock on the door made you jump, and Țepeș made a ‘stay there’ gesture with his hand and ducked out of the room. A short, seemingly one-sided conversation passed outside while you fought to control yourself again, and then Pumpkin ducked inside.

“Hey,” he said, and your heart broke a little at the change in his energy. It was like he’d completely deflated. He was still wearing the cow onesie though, which brought a slightly hysterical chuckle to your lips before you could stop it. “I’m so sorry,” he said, dropping to one knee in front of your chair. “I… I didn’t think you’d react like that.”

“It’s not you,” you said, sniffling and turning away, cuffing at your eyes. “I just overreacted.”

“You didn’t overreact,” he said, and your brain screeched to a halt.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have done it to you. I didn’t know if you were cool with it, and I just assumed that… that because everyone else likes my pranks… that you’d be ok with it too, and I shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll never ever pull anything like that on you again. Ever.” He crossed his thumb across his heart. “I swear on my True Name.”

The wording was odd, but the air seemed to crystallise around you for a second, and your breath caught. “Like a Fae,” you mumbled without thinking.

He tilted his helmeted head a little. “Yeah,” he said and his voice had an odd ring to it. “You… You know about… about the Fae?”

“I’m writing a book…” you croaked, not really thinking about what you were saying. “Supernatural theme… I’ve always written fantasy stuff… Look, I’m sorry. I’m over-sharing about stuff that isn’t even real. I’m good,” you said, and stood up abruptly, setting your borrowed helmet down on the chair and turning to look at him. He was on his feet again, but he was just standing there.

You walked out into the main shop but he called your name and you halted and turned back around. “Yeah?”

“Are… Are you gonna come back?”

You bit your lip. You probably had enough to write the book now — the biker part of it wasn’t even the main focus after all — but until the prank, you’d felt included and welcomed, and, as you thought about it, the prank had also been meant to welcome you into the fold. It wasn’t Pumpkin’s fault that you had reacted the way you did.

“You want me to?” you asked.

“Please,” he said. “Please, I’d love it. I’ve… I’ve never had anyone I’ve wanted to be my backpack before, and you rode like a natural today,” he added, taking a step towards you. “Please. I promise no one will do any pranks when you’re with us. No silly string, no confetti cannons.”

“I don’t mind it… With the others, I mean,” you said, the words grinding out of you like a boulder uphill. “I mean… So long as it’s not me.”

“Ok, we’ll dial it back,” he compromised. “I’ll even give you one of my little stretchy sticky hands if you like so you can team up on Pickle with me. We duel at the lights sometimes. Does that count as a prank?”

You shook your head, fighting back a resurgence of emotions, mostly good this time.

“Ok. I’m really sorry,” he said again.

“I believe you,” you said.

“Thank you,” Pumpkin replied, his whole body looking relieved. It was amazing how expressive someone could be, even without being able to see their face. “Let me give you my number and I’ll text you when we’re going out next. Or… Or maybe we could go out just the two of us?”

That seemed like way more pressure than you’d been expecting, but you nodded all the same when you realised you weren’t put off by it at all.

As you left the shop not long afterwards, having recovered enough to let the red fade from your eyes, Demon looked you up and down and then approached Pumpkin. You glanced back over your shoulder to see him looming down over Pumpkin, and you just caught him growling, “What happens when you need to take that helmet off eh, Dullahan? You think that cute accent is going to be enough to hide the fact you don’t have a fucking head under there?”

Your breath caught and you tripped, turning away before either of them could notice your reaction.

For a moment, when Demon had spat the word ‘Dullahan’ you’d thought he’d said ‘Callahan’ — Pumpkin’s real name — but the instant he’d said Pumpkin didn’t have a head, your mind made the connection.

Dullahan.

A Fae without a head, traditionally a headless horseman.

The way Pumpkin had moved with his bike, like it was a living creature, had reminded you of a horse and its rider, and you had to wonder if the nickname ‘Pumpkin’ had come from the cartoonish depictions of Dullahans on Halloween with a pumpkin for a head instead of their real one. They did have a head, you knew from research for your writing, but they tended to keep it hidden since that was where their power resided. They could only be harmed if you hurt their head, or if they were wearing it when you attacked them.

But that was all fantasy, right?

Then Demon’s red eyes flickered across your memory, and the weird emphasis he’d put on the word ‘human’ in his snide remarks, and the way you’d thought maybe Țepeș was a vampire because he kept his skin covered up, and the fact that Pickle’s skin was entirely green and they had gold eyes with cat’s pupils… it was all way too much of a coincidence. Right?

You walked home in a daze, not even saying goodbye to Adi who was talking quietly with Țepeș in the long, late afternoon shadows cast by the bike shop’s wall.

Over the next few rides with Pumpkin, you tried to figure out a way to broach the topic. If you just blurted it out, you had no idea how the others would react, so you dropped little hints to Pumpkin that you were writing a supernatural story and that you’d been researching the supernatural for a while, and how you’d always hoped there was more out there than met the eye. You even mentioned it a couple of times on group rides to see how the others reacted, and predictably, it was Demon who bristled, and Pumpkin who looked uncomfortable. Like he had a secret he wanted to tell you.

Each time you did it, he looked torn, like he was right on the cusp of telling you the truth.

It finally came to an ugly head one afternoon as the riding season drew to a close in late October and you all came back from a huge group ride that had included a few more riders whom you’d not met before, but who evidently knew the rest of the group.

As you went inside to return the helmet that Hank always lent you, you caught the sound of an argument and hung back in the small storage room behind the main shop to avoid it, heart in your throat and the helmet forgotten in one hand.

Pickle was standing in the main area of the shop with their helmet dangling from their hand this time, and you gasped when you saw sharply-tapered ears and a row of pointed teeth in their mouth, and green skin that went all the way down below their collar. Definitely not a tattoo. They looked sharp, their features inhuman; like one of the goblins in your novel. If you’d needed confirmation that they weren’t human, this had to be it.

Pickle was  arguing with Adi and Demon, and Pumpkin was there too, looking helplessly from one to the other of them.

Demon was shouting, and he didn’t have his helmet on either. Perhaps they’d thought you’d already left. The horns that adorned his helmet were… actually attached to his head, not his helmet. He had horns. They obviously grew from his hairline, his black hair waving around them like a river of oil that had a rainbow sheen on it, and his eyes were a luminous, blood-red with slit pupils too. He rounded on Pumpkin like a Wolf on a rabbit. “You think just because we let Țepeș’ little human blood-bag in, we can risk exposing us all to just anyone?” Demon snarled. “I thought you wanted to keep our kind a secret? Now you’re siding with him?”

“Hey!” Adi exclaimed, but Pickle’s lip curled and they turned to her.

“He has got a point, Adi, though the blood-bag comment was way out of line,” Pickle said. “We have to be careful, but —”

“This is different,” Pumpkin interjected. “Ok? I’ve never been in love before, and I love —”

“No. It’s not fucking ok! This is the one place we get to be who we are,” Demon countered, his deep voice cracking as he clearly fought off tears. He sounded afraid and upset in a way that went right to your heart. “This is the one place where we can be safe, Cal, and you’re jeopardising it for all of us. And if we start letting humans in, if our secret gets out —”

“I think it’s a little late for that,” Pickle said faintly, staring straight at you watching the argument unfold, stunned. They were arguing because of you. Because Pumpkin had taken a liking to you — in fact, he’d just said he loved you…

A pair of gold eyes and a pair of scarlet eyes stared at you, while Adi stood there hugging herself and looking hurt and unsure, and Pumpkin was standing stock still with his black helmet still on but you knew he was looking at you too. Was he going to defend you, or discard you and stick with his friends? They weren’t human. None of them was human. Demon’s eyes were blaring a violent red and he had horns growing out of his black hairline and curling back over his head, and there was a watercolour patch of red creeping over his golden tan as if he was losing control of his form. And Pickle was apparently some kind of goblin?

“You’re a Dullahan,” you said quietly, looking at Pumpkin. “A Fae.”

“You know?” Demon hissed, taking half a step towards you. “How the fuck do you know?” and then he shoved Pumpkin back with a hand at each shoulder. “You’ve taken your helmet off already? Did you disclose your head’s location while you were at it?”

Pumpkin shook his head vehemently but then he lifted his shiny, black helmet off in what looked like an act of defiance to Demon.

In the void where his head should have been there was a swirl of bluish-green smoke emanating from the stump of his neck, like the aurora in the night sky, and his skin was a dark, slate-blue colour. Your mind struggled to accept what you were seeing, but with the additional evidence of Pickle’s green skin and Demon’s horns, you knew it all had to be true.

Walking closer, as if moving through a dream, you ignored Demon’s constant, caged-animal growl, but you did jump when the door flew open and Țepeș burst in. He strode straight over to Adi and wrapped his arm protectively around her shoulders, tugging her close and putting himself between her and the others. He cocked his head in an impatiently curious manner and Adi answered his silent demand.

“Demon’s laying into Pumpkin about flirting with a human while hiding what he is,” Adrianne said, glaring flatly at Demon. “And he called me your blood-bag,” she added.

Țepeș’ fists curled, leather creaking, and he took a long, slow inhale, as though he was trying very hard not to lose control and launch himself at Demon.

Before anything else could happen, someone clapped their hands abruptly from the side of the shop where the till and the bikes were arrayed, and you all jumped.

Hank was standing there and his eyes were glowing golden. “This family is built on trust,” he said in a low, gravelly bass, and you saw that his canines were chunkier and longer than they usually were, and his hair seemed thicker and fuller, his beard a little bushier around the chops. “And if we welcome each other into it, we must be prepared to trust each other’s judgement.”

“We’re just a little research project!” Demon said, rounding on you. “Adi told you what we are, didn’t she, so you thought you’d come and study us like a science experiment?”

You were still staring at Pumpkin’s empty collar and wondering in an odd, detached kind of way where it would be considered polite for you to look now — did you look at the point where his eyes would be if he had a head, or did you look at his chest? Only a second or two later did Demon’s words filter through and you blinked. “What?”

“You’re writing a fucking book about us! How does that count as trustworthy?”

“I’m not — It’s not about you,” you shot back. “The book isn’t about you. The protagonist is dating a vampire who’s in a biker gang, but… Adi didn’t tell me anything at all about you. I didn’t know you weren’t human until… until I overheard you accusing Pumpkin a few weeks ago. You said something about not having a head under his helmet, and you called him a Dullahan.” You swallowed thickly and watched the shock filter through everyone’s expressions at your words. “At first I thought you were saying his name, but then I realised you said ‘Dullahan’, not ‘Callahan’, and because I’ve looked into supernatural stuff, I put two and two together. I’ve known for weeks,” you said, chest heaving as you fought to maintain some semblance of composure while you finished your defence. “I could have said something, or I could have just not come back, but I trusted you guys.” Tears finally blurred your vision. “You treated me like family. Why would I betray you?”

Pumpkin moved first.

He strode across he space, dropping his helmet on the floor with a loud crack that would have made anyone who needed a helmet to protect their head wince, but you figured his was purely for decoration and disguise anyway. He wrapped you up in his arms and pulled you close to his body. His arms almost lifted you off the ground and he cradled your head in one hand while his left arm curled around your waist and squeezed you so tight you gave a little wheeze.

His voice came from nowhere in particular, just like it did when he had the helmet on, and he said, “You are family. And I love you. If I have to leave this one to be with you, I will.”

Your heart stopped for a moment before you hugged him back, desperately. “Don’t. Not for me.”

He only hugged you harder.

From somewhere off to your left, Hank gave a low, rumbling growl and then muttered, “Kids. Honestly.” Then a little louder, he said, “Demon, go and cool off somewhere. Țepeș, for God’s sake, stand down, and Pickle, go and put the fucking kettle on. I need a cup of tea with half a bottle of whisky in it after all this drama.”

Pumpkin drew back at last, and you looked up at the haze of blue-green smoke that seemed to swirl upwards in a constant stream, like a recently extinguished candle. “How can you see me?” you asked. And then, with a little more alarm in your tone, you yelped, “Wait, how can you see where you’re driving?”

He laughed and leaned in close enough that the aurora-light swirled across your vision and caressed your face with a feather light breath, and you shivered. “Magic,” he whispered.

Demon hadn’t gone anywhere, and was regarding you with a more level gaze. His eyes were still red though. “You knew?” he said. “All this time?”

“Yeah,” you croaked as you refocused your eyes from the magic of the Dullahan’s body to Demon’s very much corporeal body. “I mean, I suspected.”

He sighed, still staring you down. Pumpkin stepped a little in front of you, much as Țepeș had for Adi, but Demon shook his head. He worked his jaw for a second and then slowly held out his right hand. His skin was red instead of the golden tan it had been, and his nails were black and claw-like, but the gesture was one of reconciliation all the same. “Welcome to the family, I guess,” he muttered hoarsely.

You smiled faintly, and Pumpkin took your left hand in a show of solidarity, sliding his gloved fingers around yours while you briefly shook Demon’s hand. “I really didn’t know what you guys were when you said I could come and hang out with you, I swear.”

“I know,” Demon bit out. “I can taste a lie, and you’re telling the truth.”

With that, he stalked away and carefully slotted his helmet on over his horns. You realised that there were specially-tailored holes in the crown of it for the horns to fit through, but when it was on, some kind of glamour made it look like the horns were just attached to the surface of the helmet. Outside, he swung a leg over his Ducati and started it up, revving it and launching away amid a scream of tyres and over-worked engine.

“Give him time,” Pumpkin said as he looked down at you. In the swirl of the smoke at his neck you thought you could make out the features of a face for a moment, but you blinked and it vanished. “You’re family now though, so he won’t give you any more trouble.”

“He did just insult Adi pretty spectacularly,” you pointed out.

“And he’ll apologise to her,” Pumpkin said. Țepeș loomed threateningly beside Adi in silent agreement. “For now, you want to come for a ride with just me? Come back to my place maybe?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Bet you have questions too…”

“You going to fact-check my novel for me?” you asked with a playful smile, and Pumpkin laughed. It felt right to hear his loud, giggly laughter filling the space again.

“You’d actually have to let me read it for that, love, and you said you didn’t like showing your work to anyone until it was done.”

“I could make an exception for you, I guess,” you admitted with a bashful smile.

With Pumpkin still holding your hand, you paused on your way out to check on Adi, who looked a little hurt but otherwise alright, and you promised to check in with her later. Țepeș handed Pumpkin his helmet, and you let yourself be led from the shop. Your helmet was still in your slightly numb fingers, never having put it down, so you slid it back on with shaky hands.

After climbing with familiar ease back up onto the pillion seat of Pumpkin’s orange KTM, you snaked your arms around his middle and squeezed.

“I’m sorry it all came out this way,” Pumpkin said before he started up his bike. “This was not how I planned to tell you. I had no idea how I was going to break it to you, but that… that wasn’t it. I know you hate surprises, and that was a big one.”

“Not all surprises are bad,” you admitted. “And this one turned out ok in the end. Come on. I want to find out how much I’ve got wrong about the Fae.”

Pumpkin guffawed, his laughter audible even after he’d started up his bike and pulled away.

Turns out, you’d quite a lot wrong about the Fae after all, but Pumpkin was only too happy to put you right over pizza and a movie on his sofa that evening.

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one. If you did, please consider reblogging to show your support as well as leaving a like and/or a comment.

Do you want to see the other members of the group? Remember you can find out more about them here in this early post if you're curious. Tepes already has a love interest, and Ninja the mimic is claimed too, but if you're curious, lemme know!

| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

[ukfrislandembassy]

Ok like nobody seems to have noticed but Juliette Blevins has recently put out a case that Great Andamanese might actually have been Austroasiatic all along (to complement Jarawan possibly being an Austronesian relative). There's some stuff that's certainly suggestive, but it'll be a bit more work needed before I'm ready to accept these 32 proposed correspondences as anything more than chance, particularly after the Indo-Vasconic debacle. Still, below the cut I'm going to try and give this a fair review.

All of this is from 'Linguistic clues to Andamanese pre-history: Understanding the North-South divide', in The Language of Hunter Gatherers, edited by Tom Güldemann, Patrick McConvell and Richard Rhodes and published in 2020 (a free version of the chapter can be found on Google Scholar).

Looking through the data, it actually seems relatively rigorous as a set of comparisons; she's done a shallow reconstruction of a Proto-Great-Andamanese from wordlists (seemingly a relatively trivial exercise, though with caveats noted below) and is seemingly comparing these to reconstructions from the Mon-Khmer comparative dictionary.

Many of the correspondences are basically identical between the two reconstructions with at most minimal semantic differences, e.g. (in the order PGA~PAA respectively) *buə 'clay' ~ *buəh 'ash, powdery dust'; *muən 'pus, dirt' ~ *muən 'pimple'; *cuər 'current, flow' ~ *cuər 'flow, pour'; *cuəp 'fasten, adjoin' ~ *bcuup/bcuəp 'adjoin, adhere'. However, I wonder if the Proto-GA reconstructions here have been massaged a bit to fit the Austroasiatic correspondence more closely; in Aka-Kede for example, each of these words shows a different vowel; pua, mine, cor(ie), cup. It's not fatal by any means (in fact if the correspondences could be shown to be more complex than simple identity that would actually help the argument), but definitely annoying.

There's a couple of PGA items which are presented as having a straightforward sound correpondence in PAA where the semantics is close but doesn't quite match, but also alongside a semantic match that differs slightly in sound, e.g. by a slightly different initial consonant, e.g. *raic 'bale out' ~ *raac 'sprinkle' /*saac 'bale out'; *pila 'tusk, tooth' ~ *plaaʔ 'blade'/*mlaʔ 'tusk, ivory'; *luk 'channel' ~ *ru(u)ŋ 'channel'/*lu(u)k 'have a hole'. I think there's possibly a plausible development here, with perhaps one form taking on the other's semantics because of taboo, or maybe due to an actual semantic shift (she notes that the Andamanese use boar tusks as scrapers, which could explain a 'blade'~'tusk' correspondence in itself).

There's an item which seems dubious on the PAA side, e.g. she proposes a correspondence *wət ~ *wət for 'bat, flying fox' but I can't find a *wət reconstructed anywhere in the MKCD with that meaning, not even in Bahnaric where she claims it comes from (there is a *wət reconstructed but with a meaning 'turn, bend'). Meanwhile, *kut 'fishing net' ~ *kuut 'tie, knot' seems wrong at first, as search for *kuut by itself only brings up a reconstruction *kuut 'scrape, scratch', however there is also a reconstruction *[c]kuut which does mean 'tie, knot'.

There's an interesting set of correspondences where PGA has a final schwa that's absent from the proposed PAA cognates, e.g. *lakə 'digging stick' ~ *lak 'hoe (v.)'; *ɲipə 'sandfly' ~ *jɔɔp 'horsefly'; *loŋə 'neck' ~ *tlu(u)ŋ 'throat'.

More generally, a substantial proportion of the proposed correspondences are nouns in Great Andamanese but verbs/adjective (stative verbs) in Austroasiatic, some of which are above, but also including e.g. *cuiɲ 'odour' ~ *ɟhuuɲ/ɟʔuuɲ 'smell, sniff'; *raic 'juice' ~ *raac 'sprinkle' (a separate correspondence to 'bale out' above); *mulə 'egg' ~ *muul 'round'; *ciəp 'belt, band' ~ *cuup/cuəp/ciəp 'wear, put on'. This also doesn't seem too much of an issue, given the general word-class flexibility in that part of the world, though there don't seem to be any correspondences going the other way, which could perhaps be a sign of loaning/relexification instead.

I mentioned that a lot of these seem to be exact matches, but of course what you really want to indicate relatedness are non-indentical but regular correspondences, and here is where I can see the issues probably starting to really arise. We've already noted some of the vowel issues, but we also have some messiness with some of the consonants, though at the very least the POA matches pretty much every time (including reasonable caveats like sibilants patterning with palatals and the like). However, that still leaves us with some messes.

The liquids and coronals especially are misaligned a fair bit in ways which could do with more correspondences to flesh out. Here's a list of the correspondences found in initial position in the examples given.

*l ~ *l: *lat ~ *[c]laat 'fear', *lakə 'digging stick' ~ *lak 'hoe'

*l ~ *r: *lap ~ *rap 'count' (*luk 'channel' ~ *ru(u)ŋ 'have a hole'/*lu(u)k 'channel' could be in either of these)

*r ~ *r: *raic 'juice' ~ *raac 'sprinkle'

*r ~ *ɗ: *rok ~ *ɗuk 'canoe'

*t ~ *ɗ: *tapə 'blind' ~ [ɟ]ɗaap 'pass hand along'

*t ~ *t: *ar-təm ~ *triəm 'old' (suggested that metathesis occurred, though to me there probably would need to be some reanalysis as well to make this work)

I invite any of my mutuals more experienced with the comparative method to have a look for yourselves and see what you make of the proposal as it currently stands. It would certainly be an interesting development if more actual correspondences could be set up, though I do have to wonder if more work would also be needed on Austroasiatic to double-check these reconstructions as well.

[itsabouttimex2]

LSO AU sounds really interesting! Are we allowed to ask questions about AUs or does it count as a request?

Hi, thank you for asking! Questions are always allowed, even when requests are closed! I’ll elaborate on Let’s Start Over a little bit!

After his own journey ends and MK has his own story penned and published, peace settles across Megapolis and the world in general.

He’s even got himself a new title- “Monkie Knight”, after years of working for the king.

MK still steps in to ward off greater threats and more serious demons, but mostly steps back and attends to the noodle shop with Pigsy, who’s just about ready to pass the keys to his son and maybe take up a more casual lifestyle of teaching instead of serving. Maybe a YouTube channel where he teaches basic skills and recipes to viewers. Tang comes in to both expand on the history of what Pigsy is cooking and to taste test the end result. As expected, he adores the food each time.

Things are okay.

There’s trauma and bitterness that MK needs to work through, but… things are alright. With time, they’ll get better.

And then you come around to the shop one day to visit, right as the Ruyi Jingu Bang comes toppling down from where it’s been set- and you catch it.

So starts your journey.

Our golden-hearted hero is a little soured now, having been thrust into dangerous fights again and again. He’s somewhat resentful to certain individuals-

Mei, for not fighting beside him more often, in spite of her combat prowess and draconic powers. He gets a little twitchy when she’s around, thinking of all the fun she had off on her motorcycle, all the live-streams she giggled and joked her way through. MK doesn’t hate her. Not in a million years. Never. But damn if there’s not some bitterness. He’ll still ask her to ‘babysit’ you when he needs to go off and fight.

Though he still cares about Sandy as a friend, MK has shifted his perspective to disliking the river demon’s pacifistic outlook, viewing it as naive and somewhat selfish. He still goes over to paint and have tea, but things are somewhat strained between the two. It’s easy for someone like Sandy, a side-liner, to say “I’m not fighting anymore!” but MK never had that chance. Given that he was in his mid-teens during the start of his journey in this AU, the hero finds it messed up that he had to fight, but an honest to goodness ex-soldier chose not to. Again, no hatred. Things are just a little tense.

Macaque is pretty far down on his shitlist, actually. MK has taken some time to think on the simian’s actions and kinda wishes he had just let Wukong pummel him to death. Most of these feelings relate to their first meeting, but him assaulting Tang and attacking Mei certainly haven’t helped. Or his unnecessary destruction of the Dragon Palace of the East Sea. Or his refusal to apologize. Yeah, this guy doesn’t get to come anywhere near you. MK will act civil because he does believe in redemption and second chances, but dear lord is it hard.

(And he massively regrets the “you aren’t a bad guy” speech he gave to Macaque. Looking back on it, MK thinks he was naively seeing goodness where it didn’t exist.)

And of course, Sun Wukong, for… a lot of things. He talks rather bitterly of his mentor, viewing the Great Sage as irresponsible and rather immature. He wishes there had been more effort and care in the monkey’s teaching, and less “you can handle this”. There’s still some genuine respect and gratitude for the simian, but MK majorly fixates on being ‘different’ in his own mentorship. Problem is…

He’s choosing to be different instead of better.

Wukong had genuine and honest belief in MK, enough to let him handle trouble on his own. The Great Sage didn’t step in not out of laziness, but because he knew that the kid could handle things on his own. Sure, he was way too secretive and hands-off, but his intentions were only ever to help MK grow.

So when he decides to be entirely opposite to Wukong, our newly titled ‘Knight’ becomes a massive roadblock for you. Instead of cutting you loose with confidence, MK is stifling and protective. He’ll fight for you, cook for you, tend to your wounds, etc. Wukong tried to let MK grow without any form of safety net, but MK refuses to allow any growth without complete safety, which is rare.

Instead of being a mentor who’s trying to build you into the best you that you can be, he’s trying to be a father.

And honestly? Sometimes, he’s so good at the act that you wish it were real.

[auroravictorium]

vigilante shit (k.b.)

Summary: set nearly two years before the events of midnights, reader is fighting for survival in ketterdam after escaping her indenture contract before it can be stamped. after a confrontation with a few merchants, a certain bastard of the barrel arrives and offers her a deal that may ensure her survival in the city.

Pairing(s): kaz brekker x reader (eventually) Word Count: 4.8k Warnings: violence (stabbing, bludgeoning, shoving, reader killing four people), blood, injuries (dislocated shoulder, stab wounds, cuts, gashes, etc.), numerous mentions of indentured servitude (reader escaping this, exploitation of indentures in the city, etc.) Genre: action and lil angst Author's Note: rue publishing a new part just a few days after the last one?? who IS she?? anyway, here is reader's backstory + how she and kaz met :)) this will be important for the next part (back in the present) because it'll be mentioned, so i'm choosing to share this one first for lore purposes

masterlist

Summer in Ketterdam was unbearable. The near-constant cloud cover trapped the heat low, threatening to make residents collapse as they made their daily commutes and errands. Bright costumes of the West Stave stuck to the skin of their wearers. Good-for-nothing bureaucrats dabbed at their foreheads and pulled at their collars, trying desperately to find relief from the heat. Even gangsters had halted their usual brawls in the streets, preferring to drink themselves into a stupor until dusk arrived or avail themselves of whatever cool water could be found.

As the government ceased its already pitiful operations due to the heat, and gangsters took the day off, the city lapsed into a sleepy state. You took advantage of the sluggishness, ducking through the streets of the Financial District and nimbly swiping what you could as you went. Wallets, loose jewelry, colorful kruge poking out of pockets. Everyone was too hot to notice the thief among them, and those who did a few moments later didn't bother to give chase.

Finally, you heard a bell chime seventeen times in the distance. The Exchange was closed for the day, and merchants would be making their way home with bulging wallets and smug faces. Perfect.

You headed north, disappearing into the crowds of merchants and regular citizens alike and searching for wide eyes or furrowed brows, darting glances, and those who kept to themselves. New merchants, unaware of the dangers of being near the Exchange after it closed. 

A few merchants trailed toward the Geldstraat, packets of papers in their hands with thick red seals at the top that you would recognize anywhere—indenture paperwork. From the looks of it, each man held a dozen fresh indentures in his hands, ready to be stamped to confirm the transfer of a human being from one bastard’s hands to the next.

Yet, moving in the opposite direction, a lone merchant with a poorly-tailored coat and bulging pockets filled with colorful kruge that needed to be deposited.

Freedom, or the funds that could make a difference in whether you made it to the end of the week.

If you were wise but heartless, you'd chase the lone man and tackle him once he was out of sight of the Exchange. Ketterdam had a way of ripping the soul from a person, making them make the worst decisions for survival.

But you'd almost been one of those indentures, had your name on one of those papers that almost got stamped. You'd been just blocks from the courthouse, huddled in a clunky carriage with five other women when you'd gotten the courage to stab the driver through the small window with the sharpened edge of a piece of cutlery you'd swiped.

One moment, you'd been stuck in that carriage, passing over a cobbled bridge. The next, you had those bloodstained papers in your hand, snatched from the inside of the driver’s coat pocket, and were running. You ran until you felt your lungs would give out, until you were sure the dots in your vision would turn to full-blown darkness and you’d collapse right there in the street amongst garbage and empty bottles.

But you'd made it. You'd disappeared into the Barrel, tossed the papers in a rubbish bin, and lit it on fire. Partially an act of self-preservation, partially an act of helping the indentures who'd scrambled out of the carriage after you. Had they made it? You didn't know. You hoped so. 

Thinking of the women who’d been taken into Ketterdam with you made something spark in your chest. Swearing under your breath, you wove through crowds of merchants and market prodigies and started to trail the group of merchants heading toward the Geldstraat. Conversations of auctions, trade deals, and under-the-counter offers flowed in one ear and out the other. At any other time, those conversations would catch your interest; but you’d set your mind to something, could feel an urgency running beneath your skin like electricity, and the words passed in and out of your ears without sticking.

These damned merchants walked fast, even in the heat, and you soon made your way onto the packed Geldstraat. Glancing around for an opportunity to gain some leverage–a rooftop would be nice, or a distraction–you found none. This was the part of the city reserved for the wealthy; clean and filled with well-dressed residents who eyed you as you passed by in your loose-fitting tunic and well-worn trousers. Your boots were in an even worse condition, and you felt the ridges and dips in the cobblestones beneath your feet as you tried your best to look inconspicuous.

The Government District was fast approaching as you headed north, and your time to swipe these papers was running out. Fuck it.

As the mouth of the Geldstraat opened up to let people pour into the Government District, you made your move, darting forward and to the right of one of the merchants; as you passed, you yanked hard on his pocketwatch, pulling it from his pocket with enough force that he definitely noticed. “Oy!” he shouted, reaching for you in an attempt to apprehend you, or maybe grab the pocketwatch dangling from your hand. “Thief!”

You skirted to the side, high-tailing it back toward an alleyway you’d passed not thirty seconds ago. There’d been something metallic on the ground–a piece of pipe, you hoped–that caught what little sun came through the clouds and reflected it.

Boots pounded against the ground behind you, sending a rush of adrenaline through your body, enough to stave off the sluggishness of your muscles from the heat. Come get me, you son of a bitch, you thought, your legs burning as you skidded into the alleyway and scooped the object you’d seen from the ground: a rusty, jagged piece of drainpipe that had fallen from the edge of one of the roofs. It was perfect, especially since you had yet to acquire a better weapon than the flimsy dagger strapped to your hip and wanted to keep these bastards as far away from you–an eligible person to be indentured if they got their hands on you, as far as they were concerned–as possible.

You barely had enough time to survey it to decide which end would be better for bludgeoning before the sound of pounding boots caught up to you, and you adjusted your sweaty grip on the metal and faced the mouth of the alley as four tall shadows blocked it.

The merchants were bigger than they looked when you’d trailed them, and you recognized their clothing as being Fjerdan, rough material that did little to keep them cool in this heat. Oh, fantastic. Leave it to me to pick a fight with some wannabe Druskelle.

But their height gave you an advantage, one you’d quickly learned to utilize in the few months you’d been on the streets: being taller made them slower. And, judging from the lack of bulges at their waists and ankles, they were unarmed. 

Tall and dumb; your day was starting to look up.

The merchant you’d robbed stuffed his papers into his coat pocket. “I believe you have something that belongs to me,” he said, his accent thick as he spoke. His eyes fell to the pipe in your hand, then the pocketwatch dangling out of your pocket. “If you hand it back now, I’ll reconsider how much I rough you up.”

“You should have armed yourself before making threats you won’t be able to follow through on,” you shot back. Your voice was remarkably steady, even as you were realizing there was a good chance at least one of them would land a strike on you while you were trying to get their papers. You wouldn’t be walking out of this uninjured, but when had you ever escaped a fight without scrapes and bruises? Such was the nature of the city. It took, and it took, and it took until its people had nothing left to give aside from their bones.

And this cause had settled itself on your shoulders like a weight you couldn’t shake. So let Ketterdam have your bones, but only after you wiped these bastards out first.

The merchant lunged, and you swung the pipe. The weight was unnatural in your hand, and you couldn’t get a good grip on it; but the pipe landed true, smashing into the merchant’s skull with a sickening crack as the other three rushed toward you. One of them took a detour, catching his comrade as he crumpled to the filthy ground, while the other two went straight for you. 

You swung the pipe like a bat, bashing it into one’s stomach and making him hunch over before whirling to land a hit on the other. You didn’t have enough momentum to do lethal damage, but the very edge of the pipe made a long cut across your new foe’s face. Redness bloomed on the skin, and blood seeped down; his progress was slowed, but not stopped.

He shoved you back against a brick wall, and the impact knocked the breath from your lungs. Son of a– Your muscles burned as you gasped, pain rocketing up and down your spine, and your grip on the pipe almost loosened.

Almost.

The man tried to wrench it from your grasp, taking advantage of your breathlessness, but you kept ahold of it. “Give it,” he growled, yanking the pipe hard enough to make your shoulder pop as you fought to keep possession of it. Pain shot up and down your arm, and you were forced to release the pipe as your shoulder popped out of place.

You swore in pain, tears pricking your eyes and your good hand dropping to your belt and unsheathing your dagger before twisting it in your hand and jabbing it as hard as you could toward the man’s chest while he grabbed at the pipe. It drove home, embedding in an upward angle beneath his ribcage; it wasn’t perfect, and you were sure it wasn’t a lethal blow, but it caused the man to stagger back and drop to his knees. You ripped the blade from his chest and the pipe from his hand, pausing only to stomp your foot down over the wound hard enough for a few ribs to crack.

He cried out in anger, writhing against the ground, but you didn’t have time to savor the noise before another merchant was on you, the one you’d bashed in the stomach with the pipe.

With the dagger in your good hand and the pipe in your limp one, you dodged his attempt to punch you. The heat pressed down on you, and sweat soaked through your clothing as you and the merchant circled each other around his comrade on the ground. The one you’d initially hit was still being worked on by his companion; apparently, the pipe had done more damage than you’d thought, which filled you with a twisted sense of satisfaction.

The last merchant standing launched himself at you, and you dodged, slamming your injured shoulder against the opposite wall with a hard enough impact that something crunched. The pipe dropped from your hand again, and you were forced to let it fall for good. Leaning to grab it would be a death sentence.

Well…

You ducked slightly, letting the merchant think you’d gone for the pipe, only to twist at the last moment and slash the dagger across his chest in a wide arc. Blood bloomed beneath his beige tunic, and you slashed again as he stumbled in pain. More blood splattered, sliding down the blade of your knife and onto the handle, making your hand slick with red. It was warm, unpleasantly so, and your stomach twisted with nausea.

No matter how long you were in the city, you weren’t sure you’d ever get used to the feeling of someone else’s blood on your skin.

The merchant cried out as you drove the knife through his throat, cutting the noise off with a nauseating gurgle. He slumped to the ground, nearly falling onto you, and you stumbled out of the way to avoid it. A hand grabbed at your ankle, and you toppled onto the merchant you’d stabbed earlier.

Grunting, you pushed yourself away, skin scraping against gravel and glass shards on the alleyway ground, and grabbed your blade, driving it down into his chest one more time. Without your bad arm, you couldn’t hold yourself steady. Or maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off that caused the trembles. You weren’t sure. Either way, you managed to gasp out, “For them,” before staggering to your feet once more to handle the final merchant who was tending to the now-dead man you’d robbed.

“The indentures,” you rasped as you approached, your knees shaking as pain took hold. It was getting harder to stay upright, especially with the heat weighing you down and making the pain feel ten times worse. “Where are they?”

“I-I don’t–” the merchant began, his voice wobbling. 

“Shall I help you remember?”

Your boot made contact with the merchant’s face, and something crunched with the impact. His nose, judging by the way he toppled over and cupped his face. A sob passed his lips, but you didn’t stop your advance. 

“I won’t ask again,” you said, stopping over the man as he lay on the ground, nearly curled in a fetal position. Your heart raced in your ears, loud enough to almost drown out the next words that left your mouth. “Where are they?”

“Warehouse district,” he sobbed, trembling as you stopped before him. “One of the big ones owned by one of the–one of the councilmen.”

That was all you needed to hear.

You could have left him alive. Could have let him scramble to his feet and leave the alleyway to report what had happened to one of the pigs that called themselves the Stadwatch, not that they’d do anything. Could have let him recuperate and return to the Exchange in a few days with too much pride to admit a girl on the streets had briefly held his life in his hands.

But you thought of those indentures, probably trafficked, waiting in the warehouse for news that their lives had been determined for them. You remembered the fear you’d felt after being captured and taken into the city with several other women your age, women whose fates were unknown after you’d been forced to leave them behind in a bid for survival. You remembered the desperation as you’d ground that piece of cutlery against the stone floor in your holding room, sharpening it into something that would free you.

You thought of them, and you dropped to your knees, driving the knife into his throat hard enough that you faced some resistance once the hilt met flesh. The man’s sobs went quiet. His body twitched, his eyes rolling for a moment before going still. His chance to live disappeared as quickly as that.

Though you longed to sit back, to collapse into the ground and catch your breath, you feared two things. One, you wouldn’t be able to get back up. Two, the Stadwatch would find you and have you hauled to jail. You’d managed to avoid it thus far, but today was not the day you wanted your luck to change. Not when you had a job to complete.

Numbly, you searched the men, one by one, until you collected all of the paperwork and kruge you could find from their bodies. Dozens of indenture contracts, a few hastily scribbled receipts from transactions at the Exchange, and a few notes recording debts to be paid. 

The contracts needed to be burned. The rest could be thrown away; let someone find them and wonder what happened to the bastards who’d written them.

As you collected your dagger and wiped it off on the tunic of the man you’d robbed, the hair on the back of your neck prickled uncomfortably. It wasn’t from the heat, nor from your conscience being stirred into an upset at what you’d just done. No, someone was watching you. 

You turned your gaze to the rooftops, slowly turning on your heel as you searched for the source of that gaze. It wasn’t threatening; if it was, the person would have attacked. It was merely surveillance. Soon, you spotted a shadow pressed against a chimney, one that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps more obviously, the shadow moved, slinking closer to the edge of the roof before grabbing hold of the remaining pipe along the edge and swinging itself over as if on someone’s signal.

You stumbled back toward the mouth of the alley and raised your dagger, but the person made no move to attack. The figure was short and slim, and you saw wayward hairs peeking out from beneath their hood; a woman. Another person trying to survive on the streets? No, she was too well-dressed for that, with new-ish shoes, and clothes that fit with no visible tears or stains.

The woman didn’t approach, and you continued taking slow steps back, hoping to get out of the alley before the woman changed her mind and tried to stab you. I don’t think I can take down another person, you thought, least of all her, with at least five daggers strapped to her that you could see; you were willing to be that there were more.

There were soft footsteps near the mouth of the alleyway, followed by a tapping between each step, the sound of wood against the cobblestones. Your heartbeat picked right back up again, and you swiveled, pressing your back to the alley wall as another figure stepped into the mouth of the alleyway and blocked your escape.

The horrendous hat on his head made you think it was an officer with the Stadwatch, but the face beneath that hat was one of a boy no older than you. His skin was pale, drawn across angular cheekbones that cast sharp shadows down his face in the poor amount of sunlight filtering through the clouds. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you felt them; they pierced you with ease, scrutinized you, and evaluated everything from your messy hair to the blood soaked into your boots. They settled on the limpness of your arm for a moment, and you fought the urge to hide it behind your back.

“You’re a difficult person to track down, Y/N L/N,” the boy said, his voice raspy like sandpaper hissing across unfinished wood. His tone was devoid of humor. Instead, he spoke with a bluntness that told you this was merely business for him. A business that somehow involved him knowing your name.

You clamped your mouth shut, fighting the urge to ask how he knew your name. You were getting the sense that you didn’t want to know the source of that information, though you were willing to bet it was the woman standing just feet away from you. “Is that so?” you said instead, keeping your voice as steady as you could.

You were cornered, and you didn’t like that at all. Your skin itched with the urge to make a run for it, to shove this boy out of the way and bolt as far as your legs could take you. You’d done it before, had escaped from that carriage and gotten to this point. But this boy reeked of danger, of power, of a willingness to be cruel, if need be. He was not someone you wanted to make an enemy with.

The boy shifted his weight, twirling the head of the cane in his hand with a precision that told you he’d been using it for a while. That piercing gaze left you for a moment, and you assumed he was examining the damage you’d done to the four merchants in the alleyway. He was silent for a few long moments, then spoke again. “Aren’t you supposed to be serving one of the councilmen at his residence right now?”

Your blood turned to ice. He knew you were supposed to be an indenture. He knew you were not where you were supposed to be. He could turn you in, could get you taken back into custody for your paperwork to finally be stamped. Somewhere, there had to be a copy of your indenture paperwork. Just my luck.

“Come to collect me, have you?” Somewhere alongside your shock and terror was anger. Your knuckles tightened on the hilt of your dagger like you might throw it at the boy, and you saw the girl with the hood shift her fingers ever so slightly toward a dagger at her waist. Definitely allies.

“No.”

“So, you’ll let me leave the alley and go on my merry way after you finish making poorly disguised threats?”

“No.”

Throwing the dagger was looking more and more tempting if only you could ignore the fact that you’d also get a dagger to the chest if you did so. You were in enough pain as it was. “State your business, then,” you said, trying to keep your chin held high as you struggled to puzzle this out. This boy had power and allies, that was clear. But who was he, and why did you get the sense that you should know who he was?

“I’ve heard some of the chaos you’ve caused,” the boy said, tapping his cane against the ground a few times, almost impatiently. “A string of robberies on the outskirts of the Barrel, pickpocketing after the Exchange closes for the day, a few brawls here and there.”

“How can you possibly attribute those to me?” you said, though every word he’d spoken was true. The Barrel was rife with crime; nobody batted an eyelash at robberies anymore, and reporting them to the Stadwatch was useless. That was gang territory, and everyone knew it.

The boy tilted his head, ignoring your question. “Now, I’m curious why you’ve graduated to murder. These men are merchants?” He nudged a limp hand with his boot. “It’s quite a jump, petty crimes to killing.”

“You speak as if you know from experience.”

He ignored you again. “I have a deal for you, Y/N.”

“I don’t make deals with strangers, especially not those who particularly enjoy hearing themselves talk.” Your words were short and deadpan, but you noticed the hooded girl’s shoulders shake slightly with silent laughter. The prickling gaze that had been on you disappeared for a moment, likely to direct a glare at the girl, and it returned to you twice as sharp as before.

“Have you heard of the Dregs?” the boy asked, tapping his cane against the ground again as if this was all a tedious chore for him. You didn’t bother answering, because he proceeded on anyway. “We control a wide area of the Barrel, and the Dime Lions and a few smaller groups control the rest, which I’m sure you know since you’ve only robbed from disputed areas where you think nobody can catch you.”

“But you have caught me, and now you’re here to enact justice,” you said. Some mocking seeped into your voice before you could stop it, and the boy sighed in exasperation. If he was concerned about getting you to agree to whatever deal he had in store, he had to realize he wasn’t earning much approval from you.

“No. I see a use for you, and I want to capitalize on it.” The boy rolled his shoulders back and tightened his gloved fingers on the head of his cane. “In exchange, you’ll have a roof over your head and get paid for each job.”

Some of your desire to be sarcastic disappeared when he mentioned housing and wages. You couldn’t deny how tempting that was; to have a roof over your head instead of fabric wrapped around you when the rain came down would be bliss, and to have an income you could regularly count on? You’d feel like the wealthiest girl in Ketterdam, like getting taken to the city had been a good thing.

“What type of jobs?” you finally said, not wanting to agree so quickly. You refused to exchange one terrible contract for another. Ketterdam could make the worst situations appear like a blessing from the Saints themselves if you didn’t ask the right questions as to their nature. 

“Robberies, mostly. Tracking leads on opportunities for kruge. Working shifts at the Crow Club in between.” He tightened his grip on the head of his cane again as if he could tell that you were considering his offer. “At the very worst, you’ll be taking out those who threaten my business. Dime Lions, mainly, but you seem to be quite comfortable with the idea of murder.”

Dregs. Crow Club. My business.

Recognition struck you. You remembered hearing about a shift in power in the Dregs that happened just before you arrived in Ketterdam. The leader, Per Haskell, had been ousted by his lieutenant, a boy called Dirtyhands. Saints, what was his name? The whispers rarely mentioned it, as if he had ears everywhere and could strike at any moment. From the tales you’d heard, you wouldn’t be surprised if he could; they’d been enough to deter you from robbing anywhere in territory firmly controlled by the Dregs. He’d been right about that, just like everything else about you.

“How often do you personally recruit people to your cause, Kaz Brekker?” you said, unhitching yourself from the wall. Slowly, you held up your dagger before making a show of sliding it back into the sheathe at your waist. The hooded girl who’d been watching you and the boy size each other up relaxed, dropping her hand from the dagger she’d been prepared to grab.

Kaz Brekker’s lips quirked upward on one side, a half smile indicating he knew exactly what you’d just been thinking. “Only when they serve my interests,” he said. “Do we have a deal?”

“Only if it serves my interests,” you said, and you thought you saw the ghost of approval cross the parts of Brekker’s face that you could see. You grabbed the stack of indenture paperwork from where you’d propped it under your bad arm and held it up, showing the vivid red stamp to Brekker and his companion. “These people are being held in the Warehouse District, awaiting their indenture notice. I want them released.”

You expected a long silence to stretch between the two of you. It was a bold move for you to make a demand as part of your deal, especially since Brekker made it clear it was a rarity for him to bother recruiting people personally. But, to your surprise, Brekker nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. He held out his hand, and you took a few steps forward to pass the paperwork into his gloved fingers. He skimmed the pages briefly before tucking them into his black coat. “Did these men tell you which warehouse?”

You cast a glance toward the last one you’d killed, frowning slightly. “One owned by a councilman. He wasn’t more specific.” 

Brekker didn’t seem bothered by the limited information. Instead, he only nodded once toward the hooded girl who had observed all this. “Inej, see what you can find. I’ll escort our new recruit back to the Slat.”

Inej disappeared as quickly as she’d arrived, effortlessly climbing back up the wall and onto the rooftop before darting off without making a single sound. You watched her go, feeling awe burn in your chest as she disappeared without a trace. How long had it taken her to master that? Would she teach you, if you asked? She radiated such quiet power, and you wondered if the new mess you’d found yourself in would teach you just the same.

Kaz Brekker jerked his head back toward the alleyway entrance. “Let’s go. I don’t fancy having to deal with Stadwatch when they find the bodies.” He turned on his heel and strode off without another word, his cane tapping lightly against the ground as he went. He didn’t bother to wait for you or make sure you were following. 

Another chance to back out, to reconsider joining the Dregs and binding yourself to a gang known for its leader's brutality. But maybe… Maybe the Dregs could give you some leverage and a better chance of survival in the city. You would no longer be fighting for enough food to make it through the week, would no longer be considered on the run; you could wipe your past clean and destroy whatever copy of your indenture paperwork Brekker had found that could come back to bite you and start over. 

And the thought of starting over, of becoming someone new, was enough to make you follow after one of the most dangerous people in Ketterdam.

taglist: @tonberry-yoda, @b3kk3r-by-br3kk3r, @futurecorps3, @statsvitenskap, @sapphiccloud, @casualladyinternet, @d34drapunzel, @noctemys, @whitejxsmine, @so6, @franzelt, @ell0ra-br3kk3r, @marlene-the-witch, @thestudiouswanderer, @lyjen, @rideacowb0y, @weasleybuns, @dal-light, @mariatpwk, @dreammgc, @elysian-chaos, @breadbrobin,@poppyflower-22, @halfofagayallofaqueer, @battleraven, @amarokofficial ,@tenaciousperfectionunknown, @madnessinwrighting, @ponyboys-sunsets, @circus-of-thoughts, @empresspenguin18, @mediocrestuff, @stonksman8, @alanis-altair, @thefandomplace, @alohastitch0626, @the-royal-paintbrush, @just-here-for-ff, @whos6claire, @jodiereedus22, @be-lla-vie, @despoinapav05, @arianyo, @willowpains, @geekmom3, @dark-academia-slut, @aeslenya, @directioner5life, @notjustsomeblonde, @osteopsycho, @travelingmypassion, @tiana76, @angelhxneyy, @princessatoru, @urlocalgeek, @lonelywitchv2, @bookloverfilmoholic, @taerae515, @morrigan-crowmwell

please note: if your name is struck through above, i was unable to tag you.

[nanowrimo]

Writing Tips for Every Age and Mental State

Not every piece of writing advice will apply to you —  and that’s okay! Sometimes, your writing strategies will change as you go through life or learn more about yourself. NaNo Participant Clara Ward shares writing advice that they've learned over time.

There’s no right way to write. Writing—like life—is about finding your best fit. What follows are tricks that worked for me. Please borrow what works best for you right now. (Then save a few ideas for future you!)

I wrote my first novel four decades ago, when I was thirteen. I’ve written while juggling three jobs or zero. I’ve written as a kid, a parent, and an empty-nester. I’ve learned from my own neurodiversity and mental health challenges along the way.

Each struggle taught me how to customize my writing practice. Here’s a list of what worked for me at different stages. Adapt as you see fit.

Stage 1: Meet Yourself Where You’re At

Outline - For my first novel, I sketched furtive notes on the back pages of a school notebook. I created headings for each page that became section or chapter titles later. Numbers helped me order the scenes and letters delineated details.

Note: Leave extra space for fun facts or snippets of overheard dialog. Years later, I heard a NaNoWriMo buddy joke, “Careful, or you’ll end up in my novel.” My apologies to my high school geometry teacher, who received no such warning.

Avoid Distractions - I needed a closed door to write at first. I couldn’t read other fiction during the week or two when I frantically converted my outline into a rough draft. Luckily, I wasn’t in charge of meals back then!

Stage 2: Find Your People

Give Yourself Permission - I first heard about NaNoWriMo in 2004, when I was parenting, working, and volunteering as if there were two extra days in each week. I hadn’t written a story, an outline, or notes in over a year, but I knew exactly what I wanted to write. I signed up for NaNoWriMo and opened a family meeting by showing the webpage to my spouse and kids. I explained how I’d budget four hours a week for writing in November.

Note: I didn’t complete 50,000 words that first November. But the next year, my kids enthusiastically joined the Young Writers Program!

Enlist Support - Eventually, my kids and I designated one hour each day for writing. There were many distractions, but it felt great! We attended NaNoWriMo write-ins at a donut shop to build community, and my kids each persuaded a friend to join. (Yes, donuts are a sometimes food, but at least they weren’t asking for coffee!). With support and determination—and for me, a bit of sleep debt—we all met our writing goals most years!

Stage 3: Embrace Your True Strengths

Emotion Mapping - In the last couple decades, as attitudes and terminology evolved, I’ve learned a lot about my own neurodivergence and mental health. Oddly enough, the self-knowledge I gained by masking and compensating before I knew those words, informed both my writing and the tips given above. As I became more honest with myself, I brought more emotion to my writing.

Note: Sometimes it helps to skip scenes I’m not in a good headspace to write. I jot down key plot and character points inside curly brackets and skip to a scene that suits my current feelings. Since I don’t used curly brackets anywhere else in my writing, they’re easy to search for when I’m ready to go back.

Fascinations - After years of being warned about “info dumps,” I realized that my own fascinations (neurodivergent or otherwise) were assets that could serve my writing. At the beginning of 2020 I did a deep dive into researching sea creatures and ways to protect our oceans. At the back of my research notebook, I gradually outlined my 2020 NaNoWriMo Novel, Be the Sea. Parts of that outline cross-referenced pages of ocean research or articles I’d saved online.

Note: The system above worked well enough for me that I now have a book deal for Be the Sea, which will be published by Atthis Arts in early 2024!

Seriously though, this isn’t a post about how to get published on a 40-year plan. By matching your writing practices to your ever-changing self, you give all your stories the chance to be told. I wish you and your stories that success!

Clara Ward lives in Silicon Valley on the border between reality and speculative fiction. When not using words to teach or tell stories, Clara uses wood, fiber, and glass to make practical or completely impractical objects. Their short fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Decoded Pride, The Arcanist, and as a postcard from Thinking Ink Press. Clara’s 2020 NaNoWriMo novel, Be the Sea, will be available from Atthis Arts in early 2024. For updates on this and other projects, follow Clara on their website. Photo by Anastasia Shuraeva from Pexels

[dominimoonbeam]

To The Edge - 8

This work is mine and I do not give consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted without my permission. I am sharing chapters as I work on this story but it is copyrighted material that I plan to rework and publish when completed.

story tags: scifi romance, hijinks in space, rogues learning to trust, violence, blood, guns, death, explicit language, so much kidnapping,

Works organized and easily found over on the patreon. <3

TO THE EDGE - CHAPTER 8.

Rory contemplated some of the worst hours of his life to reassure himself that being duct-taped to a chair in his own ship, unable to do anything but wait and see if his bounty came back alive or not, wouldn’t make a list of his top ten.

There was the first time he got in a fight with pirates and got his ass handed to him. He’d almost lost an arm.

There was that time when he was working salvage and got stuck outside a wreck of a ship in a malfunctioning suit. Hypoxia had set it and if someone on his team hadn’t gotten the hatch open and dragged him inside, he would have died. He’d never felt his heart beat that hard before.

And then there was the first time he went to space—the first time he left the planet where he’d been born. He hadn’t been able to see the stars, packed into the cargo haul of a rickety ship, shoulder to shoulder with a hundred other desperate souls. It had shaken so hard, the hull creaking and screaming as they broke atmosphere. He had never been more scared before or since. That was the worst hour. The one where he thought he’d die crammed into that dark room, so close to escape, without a single star in sight.

This was not the worst.

This was not even close.

But it definitely felt like the worst when he considered just how much trouble that strange, naïve primer could be getting into on Styx. Where were they even going? If they wanted to piss off their family by running away, why this way? Why not go to Eaton? Why not go any damn direction other than the edge? The Solar Court had given up on this stretch of space—had found their limit and abandoned settlements along the border, like skeletons to mark the beginning of no-man’s-land.

The ship door opened, his ears popping and his head whipping to the side to try to see the entrance hall. “Stardust?”

It could be anyone. His primer could be anywhere.

“Did you enjoy your time alone?” they called, sounding chipper.

Rory laughed. “I spent the last two hours contemplating my mortality and just how quickly life can go to shit…”

Nodding, the primer walked onto the bridge. “You’re being dramatic.”

He huffed a laugh but forgot what he was going to say when he saw them. “Oh, look at you. I wasn’t expecting this much leather. Okay, I’m willing to admit that you might look better in that outfit than you did in my clothes…” Because he definitely wasn’t ready to admit how much he’d liked seeing them in his clothes… Did they get their hair cut too? That side shave was clean.

Stardust smiled and even did a little turn for him to get a good look at those leather ankle boots and tight pants, the faded t-shirt and leather jacket.

“What size is that jacket?” And where had they found it? He’d been looking for something like that for years. “Wait…How did you buy all of that?”

They blinked at him like they didn’t understand the question.

Rory shook his head. “There’s no way you had time to barter my stuff for that… Did you get into my account somehow or…” He sagged into his bindings. “Oh, Stardust. Tell me you didn’t use your own accounts.”

The primer pressed their shoulders back and their chin up. “It’s not like it’s a family account,” they said. “I have my own.”

“Not the family account? You think they don’t have tabs on your private one?”

Stardust rolled their eyes and waved a hand at him dismissively. “It doesn’t matter.” They settled into the pilot’s seat—his seat—and tapped at his controls, bringing his ship to life.

Rory ground his teeth, tugging at the tape he knew wasn’t going to budge but couldn’t stop himself from trying. “You really didn’t put much thought into running away, did you? Just figured that since you were already this far away, might as well keep going? Or did you like being in cuffs?” He grinned cruelly, hoping to get a reaction out of them. “You know, if that’s the case, I can cuff you again.”

He saw their hand hesitate over the keys.

Rory leaned forward as far as he could. “In fact, I promise that I will,” he whispered.

Stardust whipped around in the chair to glare at him, but when they opened their mouth, the ship beeped.

Incoming call. L-Class Yacht.

He saw the way their eyes flared at that announcement and barked a laugh. “That’ll be one of your relations. At least they’ll be able to tell from your shopping spree that I wasn’t taking advantage… Although I am definitely going to try on that jacket when I get loose.”

“Shut up! You’re not going anywhere, Cosmic. You’re in that chair until I’m done with your boat.”

He jerked at his restraints again and bared teeth at the back of their head. “Oh, I’m getting loose. See, you don’t know this yet because you have no fucking idea what you’re doing, but no one stays kidnapped forever. I mean, just look at yourself! By all rights, you should still be in a pirate’s storage compartment, but here you are, getting comfy in my seat, touching my controls, flying my damn ship—”

Another beep. Incoming call. L-Class Yacht.

He leaned back into his seat. “Are you going to get that?”

Stardust angrily tapped a key. The ship beeped. Call declined.

Rory gaped. “Are you out of your mind?”

The primer huffed a laugh, fingers flying over the controls. “Are you scared they’ll be mad?”

“Scared? Yes. Yes, I am scared of what your nightmare family might do if they think I fucked up this job. Have you met your grandmother? I haven’t and would like to keep it that way. Why do you think even pirates won’t go into the prime quad?” He didn’t need to wait for their response. “Because your family is there and they’re too snobby to step foot past their territory lines. So, assholes like me bring damsels like you back!”

Stardust tsked and he wondered if they’d rolled their eyes at him too. “I think we can both agree I’m not a damsel… and if you’re right, then I’m free and clear.”

“No. No, that does not mean that if you stay out of the prime they won’t get to you.”

The ship beeped. Detached from dock. Resuming course.

Rory sighed. “You’re not listening.”

The ship jostled as it decoupled from the station, stars gliding past the window and engines humming. “Don’t worry so much,” Stardust said, another tap at the console and they were off—cutting a line through space. “You’re going to be fine.”

“If they think I double-crossed them, or just botched this job, they will put a bounty on my head and hire someone else to drag you back. There’s no getting out of this.” Was he really trying to reason with this spoiled brat again? “And didn’t you want to go home? You made me promise.”

They shook their head but stubbornly wouldn’t look back at him. “You said you’d take me home. I never said the prime was my home. But I’m not holding you to that promise, okay? So just, sit back, relax, and you’ll have your ship back soon enough.”

Rory watched their shape bathed in starlight from the window, like a shadow being tested. “Prime isn’t home? Since when?”

They didn’t move. They didn’t answer.

He scoffed. Fucking primers. “Fine. Fine!” He pulled at his restraints again. “But when I starve to death in my own ship, that’s on you, Stardust. You’ll be a murderer as well as a thief!”

They finally looked back at him, eyes shining. “Then I guess we’re the same.”

Rory laughed cruelly. “Fuck you. We’re not the same!” he snapped but they both smiled. They were not the same—not by a long shot. And Stardust wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t even convinced they were a good thief, though admitting that in his current state would be too embarrassing to bear. “Seriously… Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?”

They kicked the lock on the floor and spun the chair around to face him. They looked way too comfortable in his seat, leaning into the side and putting a boot up on the cushion. “It’s not that bad.”

“I can’t get kidnapped by my own kidnappee. This will wreck my reputation.”

Stardust shrugged, trying not to smile and failing.

“Oh, you don’t give a shit about that? I’m really starting to regret patching you up.”

The primer put their elbow on the armrest and their chin in their palm, watching him squirm.

“You are officially my least favorite kidnappee.”

Stardust grinned.

No primer should have a smile that crooked.

[joels6string]

More Than My Father's Son

Joel Miller x OFC

Chapter 15 - Bring it Home

Summary: The walls of Jackson finally welcome you home after months away.

Rating: E

Word Count: 6.4k

Content: NSFW, high levels of violence normal to the TLOU world, angst, fluff, miscommunication trope (it’s Joel Miller…), slow burn, Joel’s traumatic childhood, getting together, smut, canon divergence after SLC, fix it fic

Your fingers drifted over the icy metal of the doorknob, it had been weeks since you’d slept alone, and suddenly the thought of doing so again made you uneasy.

Chapter 14 || Series Masterlist

When Joel emerged from the darkened back rooms, the blood of two clickers splattered along his coat and his machete dripping, the archive room was empty. His chest was heaving, the fight slightly harder than he was anticipating, and his lungs burning as he took off in a sprint, searching through the endless corridors for any sight of you. He’d asked you to stay put, but he should have known you’d do the exact opposite. 

“Millie!” he called out, “Millie! God damnit…” he added on as a hushed curse. 

“Over here.” He hated the tone of your voice already. 

Amid a sea of pages and strewn magazines, he found you on your knees, chin to your chest, your eyes fixated on something in your lap. He approached slowly, coming up behind you and crouching down to peer over your shoulder, finding you staring down at photos from a ballet show published in one of the magazines. Scanning the page for whatever was triggering your damn near catatonic state, he found nothing of note until he reached the tips of your fingers covering a picture in the bottom right corner. 

There was no resistance when he pushed your hand to the side, a young woman with eyes in his favorite shade of green coming into view. 

He’d recognize that smile anywhere, even on a much younger face. What the article was about he didn’t care, and he suspected you didn’t either, but the blatant reminder of what life had once been was never something easy to swallow. Whatever makeup you were wearing did well to mask the freckles he knew we were being suffocated, but your shoulders were still decorated with each and every mark he intended to press his lips to at the first chance he got. Your lips were rosy pink, as were your cheeks, smoky makeup making the entrancing color of your eyes even more magnetic, the skin of your nose and cheeks smooth and unmarked by scars and time.

But it wasn’t you. Not his version anyway.

Pulling the book from your fingers, he rolled it and tucked it into his back pocket. He debated what to do with it as he pulled your hands into his; would you be ready one day? Or would this always haunt you? Taking it home was best, just in case, and if he had to keep it tucked in the attic until the pages molded then so be it. 

“Forgot what my face looked like,” you mumbled, tugging your hands from his, “At least now you get to see…”

“I don’t give a shit,” he’d barely let you get your words out, and when your eyebrows knit together he knew that was a little too harsh.

Thick fingers tipped your chin up, followed by three reverent pecks to the pink line across your face, your eyes pinching closed as you resisted the wave of emotion cresting in your stomach. Before he could pull away, you grabbed his lips with your own. It had been over a week since you’d done more than a soft kiss to his throat at night, someone had always been around, tasks needed to be done, and bodies were too tired to do anything more than collapse in a heap on whatever surface was the makeshift bed of the night. Now, you took advantage, unable to ignore the way your heart sped up and your skin heated despite the cool air surrounding you. 

His jacket was too thick, your fingers craved something thinner to feel him through, the thought of it being nothing at all sending another jolt to your stomach. You’d turned to face him, knees slotted between his bent ones as he continued to perch on his feet, your hands fisted in his worn flannel shirt. It was your tongue that begged for entrance this time, his lips parting at the gentlest brush and meeting your fervor in kind. 

A cloud of dust puffed up from the ground when he toppled backward, finally losing his balance, his hands bracing his unsteady body on the floor as your knees slid around his waist. He opted to settle down on his elbows, your chest following his down as you refused to lose contact with him for even a second. There was no fight for dominance, he was happy to follow your lead, allowing you to take his air and find comfort in the way your mouths pressed and pulled. It was natural the way he led you down further, laying flat on his back to give his hands the freedom to grip your hips and explore your thighs, your hands moving to either side of his head to hover over him.

The world disappeared in the fiery shroud of your hair, the dirty tresses that had fallen out of your top knot hours ago caging you into a world all your own. Soft grunts and whimpers echoed off the cavernous walls, the speed picking up as it all grew messier. The desire, the need, the euphoric feeling of his hands and his mouth, it was overpowering. Moving with little control, your core pressed down on the buckle of his belt, his mouth greedily swallowing down the pathetic little gasp that stung your throat as your spine straightened, the aftershocks twitching your fingers and pausing your ability to breathe; he enjoyed the sight so much his fingers dug into your waist as he repeated the motion, your whimpering cry so sweet on his tongue. 

“You need your tape,” you mewled, resisting the urge to heighten what had begun to build.

“Uh-huh,” he replied, dazed, his face tense and eyes snapped shut.

“Tommy’s probably worried.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

Thick arms wrapped around your middle as he sat up and brought you with him, your fingers immediately threading through his hair as he picked up right where you’d left off. There was no stopping your girlish giggle that bounced off his lips, his own smile stretching lopsided on his face. The weight of the world vanished for a moment, the steady heaviness of dread, guilt, and misery had lifted and you were left practically floating after twenty years of being bogged down. 

“Tape,” you laughed as he moved down to your neck, his breath warming the chill that had set in, “I wanna go home.”

“Home, huh?” he teased against your throat, his beard scratching over you enough to have your hips pressing against him again.

“Mmm.”

“I like the way you say that.”

Home. 

When you looked at him, that’s exactly what it felt like. Honeyed hazel stared warmly back at you, his dirt-smudged face and swollen lips welcoming you back as you kissed him once again, your hands cradling his face as he reciprocated your gentle affection. He was the four walls that the shutters slammed against when the storm raged, the levees that held back the floods, and the warm heat of a fire in a blizzard. 

“Anchors are supposed to sink.”

His words had haunted you, following you around with nagging regret. You shouldn’t have left. It had been weeks of wondering if you’d ever seen him again with the knowledge that his final request had been to come back to him. It was such a simple thing to ask of you, and somehow you’d failed. Yet here you were now, perched in his lap in a dusty old library kissing him like it was something you’d done a hundred times before. He was comfortable. He was warm. He was gentle. He was home. It had only taken you months to realize it. 

“Promise me everything is gonna be okay,” you whimpered against his mouth, your eyes pinched shut as you toyed with his collar at the nape of his neck.

“I swear.” As much as you wanted to believe it, the promise was empty. 

“Means no dying.” 

“Mm. Suppose it does.”

“You can promise me you’re not gonna die?”

“I think…scientifically speakin’ and all, I damn well might—“

A playful slap to his chest had a short, gruff laugh cutting off his sarcastic response, “I’m serious.” 

“Goes for you, too,” he grunted as he gripped the backs of your thighs and stood, your arms and legs wrapping around him as he steadied, “You gonna promise me you ain’t dyin’?”

“Joel…”

“Honey,” he sighed, placing you down to sit on the checkout counter, the affectionate moniker enough to have your breath hitching, “Don’t make me have to lie to you.”

It was a promise no one could keep.

“Then promise me you’ll try,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his as your fingers found his hair once again.

“I swear,” he assured softly, sighing before pulling away and offering you a hand.

Once your feet hit the floor, he didn’t let go, his grip gentle but strong as he led you back to the archive tapes. Warm, calloused fingers threaded with yours, and you couldn’t help the way you gravitated into him, pressing your body against him as your free arm wrapped around to clutch his bicep. The canvas of his jacket was coarse against your cheek, but the immediate peace you felt as his warmth seeped into your skin had your eyes fluttering closed. 

“Okay…” he drawled as the archive room once again came into view, “Make this quick.”

Dusty old VHS tapes danced between fingers, murmurs of titles and frustration barely audible as you both searched for the only one that mattered. The ink had faded after decades abandoned, some close to being entirely illegible, his eyes squinting as he tried to make out which each aged strip of tape had etched on it. His grunts of frustration had you holding your breath to prevent the giggle bubbling in your throat, the battle finally lost when he rubbed the side of the box on his jacket like polishing it would help his case.

“Somethin’ funny?” he grunted, his slivered gaze shooting over to you.

“You need glasses,” you quipped, snatching the video from his hand and easily reading that this one held some former President’s inauguration speech, “This one isn’t it, either.”

“God damnit, there’s one more shelf.”

With only three to go, you found the coveted prize: the moon landing. Joel’s eyes lit up as he smiled, sighing in relief as he pulled it from your fingers, “Guess we’ll just pray it still works, then.”

The cold battered against you like a brick wall when you opened the doors to the library, Tommy having started a small fire for himself and the couple who sat cooking over the flickering flames. Days moved slower the closer to Jackson your convey got, sleep was more restless, tempers flared, a few brotherly physical altercations were broken up, and too many clickers for comfort were taken down as the gates drew nearer. 

“We’re gonna have to send clean-up crews out,” Tommy muttered, chest heaving, blood dripping off his fingers.

“Yeah,” Joel sighed, collapsing down against a tree, “Everyone else okay?”

“Looks like it, your girl is over that way and seems to be all in one piece.”

In one piece, but hanging by a thread. The road home had made you all weary, you spent most days asleep between Joel’s shoulder blades on the back of the horse, your nights restless and panicked no matter how tightly he swaddled you against him. He’d found you staring out the window one night, watching for any threats that may come by, and no amount of gentle or stern urging had convinced you to return to the makeshift bed on the floor. 

“Two more days,” he’d assured just moments before the infected that now lay dead at his feet had appeared, and as he looked at you staring off into the graying skies, he contemplated trying to convince the party to make it a straight shot back to Jackson.

“We should find somewhere to hole up for the night,” Tommy suggested, “I think that river runs somewhere around here, we can get some water to clean up with.”

“What if we just pressed on through,” Joel replied, his eyes still locked on you.

A heavy sigh clouded around both brothers, and Joel knew Tommy had been thinking the same exact thing. Snow crunched under the younger of the two’s boots as he approached the older couple emerging from their hiding spot and Joel took off in the opposite direction, cautiously slipping his hand onto your lower back. 

“Ready?” he asked tentatively, “We’re thinkin’ maybe we just go straight on through. No stoppin’. Might need you to take the reins for a minute–”

“Sure,” you confirmed, turning to catch his hazel gaze with a soft smile, “You’re a mess.”

“Huh?”

Your hands worked a ball of snow until the white powder had turned to frigid water, your fingers gently wiping the blood spattering on his face clean with focus and precision. It felt oddly good, his cheeks hot and hairline damp with sweat despite the temperature. He was still getting accustomed to these gentle touches, you both were, but as the days wore on they’d become more frequent and less tentative. It had been too long for it all to be natural–giving and receiving–but through shaking breaths and trembling hands, it was slowly becoming easier. Hearts no longer pounded anxiously and the fear of rejection had almost entirely subsided, but there was still so much missing and it was a void you could both feel.

“Here,” you cooed, pulling a small tin out of your pocket and dipping your middle finger in the thick balm that it housed, “This might help you a little.”

The way his eyebrows knit together as you dabbed the salve onto his wind-chapped lips had a smile lifting your cheeks and he breathed in this moment and the way it made your eyes sparkle in the haze of twilight.

“Whatchu got there, Joel?” Tommy called as he approached, “That’s some nice lip gloss.”

“Shut up,” Joel replied as Tommy laughed to himself, not turning his head away before you’d finished your task, “That ain’t half bad,” he commented as he tapped his lips together, testing the new sensation.

“You’re somethin’ else,” Tommy chuckled with an affectionate lilt, “We’re good to ride through if that’s still the plan. One of us might have to man their horse overnight long as you’re up for it, Millie.”

“Should be fine,” you answered quickly, eager to get back into the safe gates of Jackson.

When the sun came up and your shift atop Lee and Corbin’s horse ended, Joel nestled you into the saddle in front of him where you passed out within seconds swaddled in his warmth and subjected to the steady sway of the trot. It was too comfortable here with your head tucked into the curve of his shoulder, his other arm wrapped securely around your middle as the paths grew more and more familiar. Tommy had begun giving the tour of the patrol paths to the two newcomers as the sun began to set on the final day, and when the tall wooden barricades of home came into view, he finally slumped down in relief.

“We’re home,” Joel whispered into your hair, somehow you’d slept the entire day away and he knew it was the longest stretch you’d had in months, “Wake up.”

Jackson’s stables welcomed you, Joel’s hands guiding you down to the ground as you breathed in the familiar scent of home. Tommy had quickly taken to tending to Lee and Corbin, Joel stopping you from approaching with a stern look on his face.

“He can take care of them,” he said, the sun a ring of fire around his head and shoulders, “Let’s get you home.”

Arguing would be futile and a shower was far too tempting, as was a couch and a mattress and a pair of sweatpants. It was a short walk from the stables, you just had to make it through the center of town first. Joel had already prefaced that word of your supposed death was sure to have traveled to every ear by now.

“Ready?” he asked quietly, and you nodded.

“Well, I’ll be damned! That ain’t a corpse as far as I can tell.” You couldn’t even remember the man’s name as he came and pulled you into a hug. 

Before Joel could get you out through the doors, more people began filing in. It grew louder and louder, more hands and embraces than you could count, your heart hammering against your chest; Joel had been separated from you in the crowd as the words being said to you became indiscernible in the crowd and the air grew thick as space closed in. 

“That’s enough!” a woman’s voice called out, “Move out! Joel, get her.”

Maria Miller. You’d never been happier to hear her voice. She was standing atop of pile of boxes, towering over everyone else despite her small stature, her blond hair pulled back in a short ponytail as the townspeople obeyed her every word.

A warm, rough hand circled around your wrist and tugged, Joel’s familiar brown canvas jacket stretching across his broad shoulders as he led you out into the open streets. He didn’t stop, continuing on towards the residential area past his own white house and around the corner towards yours.

“Wait!” a small voice yelled frantically from behind you, “Wait!!!!”

No sound could have had you moving faster. You wrenched your wrist free of Joel’s grip, turning to intercept the 15-year-old girl barrelling into your arms. Her hair was soaking wet, just a thin hoodie and jeans covering a body you knew was still too thin, and it took only seconds for tears to soak the front of your jacket. She was shaking from the cold and the emotions raging in her, the way she was holding you almost keeping air from your lungs.

“They said you were dead,” she was muttering over and over, not even a hand cradling her head to your shoulder or your shushing sobs were enough to calm her down, “You were gone.”

“I’m so sorry,” you choked, and somehow saying those words made it all worse. 

This is what it felt like to let someone down, to break someone’s heart. It was painful and it was horrifying, it made your joints ache and your chest seize up; was this what love really was? As you held that crying girl in an iron grip, the weight of the consequences of your actions fell onto your shoulders. This was your doing. No one else’s. You were the one who left at the slightest hint of adversity, ran away like a petulant child, and avoided feelings you’d known were there for so long they’d boiled over and burned everyone in the surrounding area. 

“I’m sorry,” you cried out again, your cheeks soaked.

Arms long enough to contain you both pulled you in, Joel’s chin resting on your head as you leaned into him, and you stayed in that shelter until Ellie finally lifted her head. Swollen, reddened green eyes stared up at you, her expression telling you she still thought this might be a dream, and your palms cradled her face to say the words you couldn’t. 

“I missed you,” she croaked out, fighting the urge to let her head fall back down to the drenched patch of your coat, “You missed Christmas.”

“I know,” your voice quavered, “I missed you, too.”

“Let’s get you home,” Joel, who’d been silent and steady up until now, urged, dropping his arms as you slung yours around Ellie’s shoulders.

With every step, it felt like a small piece of the gaping hole in your chest filled in. Ellie had calmed enough to rattle off a few new puns she’d learned in your absence, Joel’s horrified groans at a few making smiles involuntary. When your house came into view, Ellie began to bob with excitement, confessing she’d visited every day and watered the plants and that her time on farming which she’d always dreaded had actually come in handy in keeping your green collection alive and well. 

It was just like you’d left it, not a thing out of place. It was warm, Ellie having kept the heat going for the sake of the inhabitants, tension from months in the mountain winter’s air beginning to melt away. While Ellie retold her adventures in horticulture, bringing one back from the brink of death while separating two different stems from one pot that seemed to be competing, you and Joel stood by and listened, just glad to hear the sound of her voice again. 

“Hey kiddo,” Joel piped up when she’d finished revealing she had watched a few of your movies, “Why don’t you wait for her to get cleaned up and then bring her on over to our place for dinner. There’s no food here and store’s closed.”

You audibly moaned when the warm water of the shower hit your skin. Time was limited as you rinsed weeks of dirt from your body and hair, needing to shampoo three times to get it all clean. Ellie had snuck in and warmed another pot of water, announcing it was done as she closed the door behind her. And you needed it. There were still razors in your drawer and clean towels in the cabinet, although they were a little dusty. Clean, comfortable clothes waited and after carefully combing the knots from your hair, you put the hood of your sweatshirt up and took off with Ellie down to the house on Rancher Street. 

Joel had already started dinner by the time you arrived, his beard trimmed and face weighed down by exhaustion. He hadn’t slept in what was close to three days and here he was prepping food Maria had definitely delivered for him, his fridge was just as empty as your own.

“So…” Ellie began as dinner was being finished, “We can do Christmas tomorrow.”

“It’s February,” Joel replied in a flat tone.

“But she missed Christmas! And we have gifts for her!”

“S’fine by me, but I ain’t decoratin’ again.”

“C’mon! Don’t be such a Scrooge!”

“Scrooge? How do you even know who that is?”

“I watched the movie with Cat and Dina.”

“Yeah, Joel,” you hummed over the mug of tea still hot in your hands, “Don’t be such a Scrooge.”

“Don’t take her side,” he cautioned softly as he sat back with a grunt that signaled defeat, “Fine, but no damn tree.”

“A small one?” Ellie pleaded, “Just enough to put gifts under!”

“What? Like a bush?” he asked sarcastically, that crooked grin lifting the left side of his mouth, “Yeah, go on and chop down a Christmas bush. You know where the hatchet is. Just make sure it ain’t one of Eugene’s.”

With a promise to return tomorrow for the planned festivities, you bid her goodbye with another tight hug, Joel opening up the door and leading you home like he had so many times before. Small talk about the relief of being home filled the short walk, how nice it was to shower and have a homecooked dinner, and before you knew it you’d both walked up the three steps to your front door.

“Alright then, I’m sure you, uh, want your space,” he sighed, “Just come on by tomorrow when you’re ready. I’m sure she’ll be up makin’ the whole damn house a mess.”

“Yeah,” you laughed, butterflies erupting in your stomach, “Okay.”

Your fingers drifted over the icy metal of the doorknob, it had been weeks since you’d slept alone, and suddenly the thought of doing so again made you uneasy. It was safe now, and warm, you didn’t need to share a cramped space where danger lurked in every breath, but you were afraid you’d become too used to it. You’d had a few nightmares along the way, but notably less, though at the time you’d attributed it to the lack of time asleep. Maybe it had been him, though.

“G’nite,” he decided for you, batting your hand away and opening your door himself.

“Night,” you responded as you contemplated the risk of grabbing the collar of his jacket and pulling him inside with you. 

Would he kiss you goodnight? Could you kiss him goodnight? He was so tired, you were surprised he was still standing, the purple bags under his eyes hadn’t been this dark since well before Jackson. You both just needed a solid night’s rest, this clearly wasn’t a conversation he wanted to be having right now. He likely wasn’t even capable of it. 

Closing the door and entering your home didn’t bring the reprieve you’d hoped it would. It felt too empty, too quiet; when had you begun to detest solitude? Someone had dropped off groceries, multiple people it looked like, your counter full of items that hadn’t been there before. A note was pinned to your fridge by a magnet Indy had gifted you, the simple, messy penmanship scribbled reading ‘I thought I told you to stop pulling this shit. And you couldn’t even say hi?! These were all sitting on the porch, figured I’d drop them off. You better be with Ellie. Sophia and I are a thing…by the way…and I do still live at the same house, in case you were wondering. Same address. Same place… See you tomorrow (don’t make me go to Joel’s.) -Indy’

While you were placing all the donated items into the pantry, a soft knock echoed through the house. You debated leaving it unanswered, it was probably just another bag of food or something of the sort, or maybe it was Indy, but either way, it was 10 PM and you should be asleep, whoever it was should understand.

“Millie?” 

You could have ripped the door off its hinges with how much force you tugged it open with, Joel standing on the other side with frost-blushed cheeks and a nervous expression. 

“I…uh…” he stammered, averting his eyes to the icicles hanging from your awning’s roof, crossing his arms over his chest as his tongue knotted.

Whatever he had to say didn’t matter. Flinging your arms around his neck you pulled his lips to yours, tangling your fingers into his silky gray hair as he kicked the door shut and locked it behind him. His fingers dug into the skin of your waist when your tongue brushed against his, a groan of relief vibrating from his throat into yours. With no prying eyes to find you, weeks of pent-up energy flooded out. You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d felt this throbbing at your core. Sex had been nothing but a tool, fodder for barters, or something taken by force, not something you’d ever wanted or craved, but when you pushed his jacket from his shoulders as your back thudded against the wall you couldn’t help but feel as frightened by it as you were thrilled.

The nerves didn’t stop you, however, your lips continuing in their dance and noses pressed to cheeks. His hands stayed on your hips, and you knew he was feeling all the same things you were. 

“Upstairs,” you huffed out against him, his eyes wide as he looked for signs of hesitation on your face. It took all your effort to maintain a steady stare under the weight of his.

“Lead the way,” he whispered in a husky tone, goosebumps rising on your skin and leaving a fire in their wake. 

The staircase stretched for miles as you led him by the hand to your bedroom, a fresh set of sheets and blankets put on by Ellie or Indy at some point in the hours since you’d gotten back. One less thing to worry about, but the list was still a mile long.

“Did they bring my bag back?” you asked as the door clicked closed, the empty hook jogging your memory.

“Uh…” he murmured, that hadn’t been what he was expecting, “Yeah. I think so.”

“Okay. There’s just..stuff in there that I need.”

“Uh-huh.”

You were stalling now, the butterflies in your stomach kicking up enough speed to churn, your fingers nervously wringing on your stomach. It didn’t help he was watching so intently, either, looking for the first sign of discomfort to talk him out of what he wanted just as much as you did. This was just one step you didn’t want to take first, you just didn’t know how to tell him. But it was act now or watch him leave, again.

“Can you…” you sputtered, closing your eyes and tipping your chin.

“Can I what?” he asked, the mischievous lilt to his voice was reassuring, his boots slowly creaking against your floor as he closed the distance between you.

Heat burned your cheeks so hot you knew they had to be glowing even in the dim light of the moon, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip that still tasted like him. His knuckle tilted your face up, your eyes shooting open to find him towering over you with his extra eight inches, and you did all you could with the expression on your face to beg him to continue. You tried to stay relaxed, mouth hanging open slightly, gaze fixed in what you hoped was curious and thankful. If you held his head, he couldn’t deny anything, so you threaded your fingers in his hair again, scratching affectionately before giving him a small nod. Can he … this?

A crooked smirk decorated his face before he kissed you, this time it was your turn to hum appreciatively into his mouth, and he swallowed it down as he pushed you against the door just as he had on the wall downstairs. He was slower this time, giving you time to relax or stop him if you wanted to, but you found yourself only easing into his arms that were wound around your waist, and in that comfort you braved undoing the lowest button of his flannel, pausing and giving him time to put a halt on everything. He didn’t.

There was no stopping the way you shook as you slid his shirt over his shoulders, his grip around you releasing until the fabric sat in a heap on your floor. You felt him tense, reassuring you that you weren’t the only one mortified at the thought of someone seeing what was under your hoodie and pants, but he had no reason to shy away. Dark hair covered his toned chest and stomach, a gnarled scar puckering the skin just right of his navel. 

“What happened?” you asked, concerned despite whatever it was being fully healed. You knew that this one had almost claimed him.

“Rebar,” he answered, “Fell a few stories off a balcony. Went all the way through.”

“When?”

“Bringin’ Ellie to the Fireflies.”

So, recently, no more than a year and a half ago give or take. It wasn’t hard to find the matching roughened patch on his back, and when you kissed him again it was hard enough to convey the turmoil raging in your thoughts. There’d been a chance he could have died before ever finding you. And how much different your life would be, if you still had it. Your sweatshirt was too thick, it created too much distance between your skin and his, so when you stopped to take a breath you pulled away just enough to pull it off over your head, your hair in its loose bun falling down around your shoulders. It was still warm even in just the thin, worn tank top you had underneath, and you flattened your palms on his chest to push him back towards the bed, your nails grazing through the soft hair until he was sitting down in front of you, your body notched between his knees. 

With a surge of bravery thanks to the way he was gratuitously drinking the sight of you in, you shucked your pants off as well, climbing into his denim-clad lap in just panties and the top. He needed no other invitations, the tips of his fingertips sinking into the plush of your ass as he gripped you tightly, his kiss growing sloppy as his focus was pulled to new areas and sensations. The ache between your legs was growing unbearable, and you could feel his own similar issue stiffly beneath you that was doing you no favors in containing the pathetic little mewls escaping into the dark. Your throat was currently being explored, the scratching of his beard heightening every brush of his lips and tongue, making it all the more impossible to keep yourself quiet. 

“Can I take this off?” he panted, toying with the hem of your shirt, and when you nodded he did exactly that, pushing the fabric up to your neck as he ran his hands all the way up your body before finishing the job.

Before he even drifted his gaze to what he’d just uncovered, he grabbed you by the hips and laid you down, head on your pillow, his eyes drinking you in splayed beneath him. It was nervewracking, he was taking his time, a calloused thumb circling your pebbled nipple slowly. It felt so good your whole body jerked as it searched for more, and when his lips replaced his thumb that moved to give your untouched side the same attention, your spine arched off the bed as you cried out, holding his head against you as he suckled and swirled his tongue over your neglected skin. He seemed to be enjoying it as much as you were, grunting softly as he lavished you, exploring every inch of your breasts with his lips, grazing his teeth and sucking with just the right amount of pressure to have you dizzy. 

“Oh, shit…” he whimpered, dropping his forehead to your chest as he sighed, hot hair huffing out against you as you realized he’d just come from nothing but pleasing you.

You could finish yourself off quickly at just the thought of that, your fingers would make quick work of the spell he’d put you under, but after a moment to regain his breath he was back at your lips kissing you softly, the gentleness of it a cruel tease in your current state.

“Just, gimme a few minutes,” he breathed, yours pecking at his moving lips desperately, “Am I free to do as I please?”

The gravelly way he spoke and the things he said sent another burst of pressure to your core, and you wanted to scream he could do anything if it would stop the ache, but you held your frustration at bay and nodded. His mouth tasting its way down your torso distracted you from his hands pulling your panties down and throwing your knees over his shoulders, your bare cunt centimeters from his face when you realized your current position. One hand pinned you to the bed by the stomach as the other kept one leg firmly down, his tongue slipping through your soaked slit and tasting the fruits of his labor, a wanton cry ripping free from your chest. 

“You know, I was never a big fan of sweets,” he commented as you wriggled in his hold seeking more, “But god damn.”

Tears stung at your eyes when he pushed up into your waiting hole, his thumb rubbing on your clit as he slid in and out, circling over your walls to collect all you had to offer. A thin sheen of sweat had you practically iridescent in the moonlight, hair sticking to your forehead and cheeks as you finally succumbed to the burning pressure in your belly. It was a perfect eruption of bliss and relief, his name falling from your tongue like a prayer. He seemed to enjoy that, his mouth working harder over your swollen, sensitive clit, fingers slipping into your channel and working to scissor you open while curling to press against a spot deep inside no one had reached before.

He gave you no time to come down, your body immediately responding and building up once again, needing more than just the two thick digits currently pumping in and out. The way you writhed beneath him and scratched across his back told him all he needed to know, the head of his cock pressing against your opening. You gave him consent with another sloppy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue while knotting your fingers into his hair, the stretch as he pushed in giving you pause and making him freeze.

“You okay?” he asked, clearly trying to keep control.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, trying to relax the wince set on your face and the tension in your thighs.

“I’ll go slow.”

Gently, he pushed in a little more and waited, pulling out just enough to slip back in with more of his impressive girth and length. With every testing pulse, you eased more, your grunts of discomfort evolving to heavy breaths of bliss. You’d adjusted enough to take the second half of him in one thrust, his hips meeting yours as you sheathed him entirely, and you relished in the closeness this brought. His chest was pressed to yours, lips locked together, hands in hair, and you’d never felt better or safer. 

“You feel so damn good,” he sighed, pulling out and slipping back into your now-drenched hole, you could feel the thick thatch of curls at his base growing damp from what was leaking free.

“Yeah,” you agreed, trying to find simple words for you knotted tongue, “You too.”

Every roll of his hips grew sloppier, his desire to be swaddled by you battling his need for friction as he climbed into the clouds, you wanted him to meet you there. You were so close to release, but you wanted to topple over the edge together with him, so you pathetically whimpered 'please' against his panting lips, flicking your hips and clenching your cunt until he tugged on your hair enough to hurt, moaning quietly into your ear. At the first sensation of him spurting hot and thick inside of you, you locked your ankles at the small of his back, letting this wave of euphoria slowly wash over you like the tide. It was gentle and warm, leaving every muscle lax and pliable as you cradled his head where he’d collapsed down onto you. It lingered, the buzzing sensation, his damp hair still soft as you combed through it.

“I’m,” he started, he’s half asleep already, “I got…snipped–”

“Ssshhh,” you cooed, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head while laughing to yourself. Of course he would be thinking about that even in his current state, “Just go to sleep.”

It didn’t take long for him to obey, his breathing slowing and deepening beneath your gentle touch. You fought sleep for as long as you could, enjoying the way he was relaxed and knowing it was you who had given that to him. He needed you, or at least that’s what it felt like here as you held him in your arms while he slept. 

You wanted him to need you, to be his solace though you’d been nothing but his nightmare for so long already. The smell of his shampoo was still evident in his hair when you buried your face in the gray strands, two tears slipping free from your eyes and resting like dewdrops on the grass. 

Love could also be this. But was that worth everything else?

Chapter 16

[avatarpabu97]

On the subject of age for Betty and Simon and by some extension Marceline.

The wiki timeline clearly states that Simon was born forty four years before the mushroom war started. Clearly putting him at forty four.

Marcy was four years before the war clearly making her four.

They were 45~47 and 5~7 respectively when they met. The s5 episode 14 made it clear they were 47 and 7 at point in time and according to the official Enchiridion suggest that Marcy was about 5 or 6 when they met.

Age has always been concrete when lore was introduced and involved with the series.

Betty’s age is vague. Like the crew didn’t know what to put down for it quite yet. The Wiki putting her birth 20 to 40 years before the Mushroom.

The season 8 episode 1 where She’s infected the crown with her AI presence makes it sound they met when their both students and then the season 10 episode 11 makes you think they were both doctors at that point because of Betty’s trip where we assumed that was her apartment.

Then F&C episode 8 gives us the perspective of her being pre grad which depending on the profession being pre grad can put you anywhere to late 20s and early 30s. With Betty being a fan of Simon’s work who is an established doctorate but is treated poorly by the students he’s at lecture for. Which leads others to believe he’s a new doctorate.

And from what I can research it’s possible for undergraduates to publish work just not to larger journals. So realistically Betty can be a couple years younger then Simon and read his older work in smaller journals and by the time he has more experience he’s posting in bigger journals and she nearly ready to graduate.

Apparently from what I’ve gleaned undergrads can give lectures so it’s possible the library wasn’t the first time they met. We also have to take in the account of Betty possibly starting her studying much later. Instead of doing school right away or taking breaks during certain semesters. And the possibility of Simon being such a genius he graduated early from his school and studies he was much younger then normal to gain a doctorate.

The wiki also makes it vague how long ago Betty’s Trip was before the Mushroom war 5 to 10 years. But they discovered the enchirdion at 5!years before the mushroom war. Simon also found the crown 1-2 year before the war. But the timeline pre mushroom seems to be inconsistent given the nature of the show’s not really thinking of lore and history until after season 4 it’s hard to conclude unless we get word from god what Betty’s age is.

In conclusion I don’t know what to do about their age. What I have seen and can infer is that Betty is at least 4 years younger then Simon or close to age with him. They we’re together for somewhere between 5 to7 year as I’ve seen other on Reddit point based on how long it takes to publish books and work. He was never her teacher but Betty was definitely a fan of him. Possibly reading is work when Simon was still a student and didn’t get a breakthrough or respect until Enchiridion. Which he wanted to Share the glory with her. And he did respect her. She didn’t truly put her career on hold more like centered it around Simons because she was such a fan of his and in love that neither noticed until it was to late.

Interpert the relationship as you will. They are both consenting adults with an ambiguous age gap. That the writer don’t seem to want to confirm or wish to confirm as they expand the story of Adventure Time. Their is a lot of nuance that many are not considering when it comes to schooling and life in general because my sister herself started school for a teaching degree when she was about 19 which did put on hold because of life. She is in her mid thirties now going backwards to school until a year ago.

So do with this as you will.

[dystopicjumpsuit]

DJ! This is Carol (@clonethirstingisreal) but I have to ask from my main.

I just saw your tags on the reblog of the wild-karrde post about lack of interaction. And what you said in your tags made me cry. I hate that you are feeling this way. I totally understand if you need a hiatus, everyone needs a break. But that you are doubting your writing ability and thinking that maybe you just suck…omg NO!!

Please don't think that. I know I'm just one person and in the grand scheme of things that means nothing, but I'm sure I'm not the only one! I hate that people aren't interacting more, and I wish I knew how to make it better for you wonderful authors. But please don't think you suck. Please!!

I enjoy your writing so much. And I'm looking in my notebook, and I see I haven't reblogged a lot from you since late November except for the Boil multi-part fic. I hope I haven't been missing your posts…I kind of get buried in fics to be read sometimes, but I hate the thought of neglecting any of your fics.

I just don't want you to think you suck!! Your stuff is so fucking good!!! Your Sev multi-part gives me life (among others, of course, that's just the one that popped into my head immediately.)

Again, I understand if you need a break, burnout is no fun. But if you do, I really hope you come back refreshed and feeling better about yourself!! Big hugs and forehead kisses, my friend!

Thank you for the incredibly kind words, Carol! Please know that you are doing so much to encourage writers, and I appreciate you more than I can say. You make the fandom a better, more fun, kinder, and more welcoming place every single day.

I definitely don't think you are neglecting me! I know you have an enormous TBR list, and I'm honored to be on it. I've said before that my fics aren't going anywhere, so there's no rush to read them. I don't want people to feel pressured or obligated to read my stories, and I didn't mean to make anyone feel bad with my tags on that reblog. I'm sorry about that 🤍

In talking to other creators, I've found that many of us noticed a big drop in engagement in October, and it never recovered. My operating theory is that people got overwhelmed/buried in content during all of the fandom events like Fictober and Kinktober, and then they got busy during the holidays and didn't have time to interact. I'm hoping things will improve, now that the holiday season is over.

For me, I think part of my burned-out feelings are just coming from being so close to the end of SBN; there are only three chapters left to publish, and it feels really overwhelming to know that I don't have another longfic anywhere close to ready. Maybe it's a sign that I need to take a step back for a while, recharge, and re-evaluate.

In the meantime, I want you and all of my readers to know that I love and value you so much! Thank you for being amazing.

[thatastrologychick1111]

Y’all ready for this last Taurus/Scorpio axis ECLIPSE?

On the 28th we’re having a partial lunar eclipse in Taurus at 5 degrees. It’s going to be most felt by fixed and cardinal signs anywhere between 25* cardinals - 15* fixed.

If you are a Leo, Taurus, Scorpio or Aquarius rising your foundations are changing. Money, safety through feeling stable through having your basic needs met, debt, living situations, what you value in life has been changing since the end of 2021. If you have been working towards your goals, you may be getting hugely rewarded with property, owning something, getting out of debt, finding and honing your purpose ! Real estate is a major topic of discussion (for these particular rising signs).

Eclipses can bring pressure. You may feel like you “need” to do something “now”! Taurus is about patience, perseverance, stability, waiting it out/sleeping on it before acting.

A story that was created back in November 2021 is coming to a close.

A new story has begun October 2023.

Aries rising - this eclipse is happening in your 2H. Self worth, self preservation, money, material goods, how you earn money is shifting.

Taurus rising - this is happening in your 1st house. You’ve been under major renovation the past 2 years. Everything has changed or just you!

Gemini rising - this is happening in your 12H. Dreams, escapism, spiritual well being, the unconscious mind is shifting.

Cancer rising - this is happening in the 11H. Groups, social status, social power, social long distance interactions are shifting.

Leo rising - this is happening in your 10H. Career, success, dreams of who you want to become, traditions and family is shifting.

Virgo rising - this is happening in your 9H. Belief systems, over seas travel, ideologies, publishing, spiritual matters, morals are shifting.

Libra rising- this is happening in your 8H. Hidden truths, intimacy, loss or gains of inheritance, taboo’s are shifting.

Scorpio rising - this is happening in your 7H. Partnerships, contract, social agreements, marriage and business are shifting.

Sagittarius rising - this is happening in your 6H. Plans, daily habits/routines, overall health, mentors and pets are shifting.

Capricorn rising - this is happening in your 5H. Self expression, children, love affairs, creative endeavors are shifting.

Aquarius rising- this is happening in your 4H. Home, mother, safety, our own mothering, essential security is shifting.

Pisces rising - this is happening in your 3H. Neighbors/neighbor hood, siblings, family, communication, learning in some capacity, vehicles, ways of travel is shifting.

[krikeymate]

Fictober 2023: Day 1: "It's not too late, let's go." - Ghostface strikes again. Fandom: Scream Rating: T Warnings: None.

➖

Ghostface is back.

Kirby’s voice silences what had previously been a joyful room.

Tara’s stomach drops, body tensing. Not again. Not again. She can’t go through this again.

Only a year removed since Richie’s family and… Anika, and things were finally going right. Things were good. She was happy, for the first time in her fucking life.

Of course it wouldn’t last.

There’s a part of her that never expected it too.

But did it really have to happen now? At Christmas.

Fate is a Carpenter it seems, and it’s building them yet another fucking maze to survive.

Ha. Her mother always did call her a rat. An unwanted pest, always running to- no. No. We’re not thinking about her.

Kirby’s still talking, but Tara hasn’t been able to hear a word, too caught up in her head, in the absurdity of the situation. She doesn’t bother trying to tune in, and turns to look at her sister instead.

Sam stands tense, muscles coiled and ready for a fight, listening to Kirby intently. The frown on her face makes something inside of Tara ache.

She hurts for herself, the sensation of a year's worth of progress being kicked over and smashed to the ground, but more than that, she hurts for Sam.

Sam who has been so confident since last year, so at ease with herself, settled and happy, able to face the world like never before. Heck, since the TV interview with Gale just a few months ago, her sister had finally been able to just… exist. No more accusations and insults and assaults.

People left them alone, finally believed her.

If it all happens again… Sam can’t go through it again.

Sam doesn’t have to go through it again.

Tara’s moving before she even realises it, pulling Sam away with a hand on her arm, dragging her across the apartment and away from their friends- their family.

She doesn’t want anyone to hear what she’s going to say next.

It would only hurt them, they would only feel betrayed.

(She doesn’t want anyone to stop them.)

“It’s not too late, let’s go” Tara whispers, a hand reaching up to clench at Sam’s shoulder. Her words are rushed and desperate. She needs Sam to understand.

Sam doesn’t understand.

“Tara, what—”

“No, Sam. Please,” she implores. “Let’s just go. If we’re not here, none of this happens. No one gets hurt, nobody dies.”

Tara’s hushed words linger in the air for a moment. Time feels slow. There’s a part of her that’s scared to look away from Sam’s eyes, to turn around and realise the room is looking at her, judging her. Condemning her for her selfish desires.

(She could live with that, if it meant Sam was safe. She would take the whole world’s scorn if it meant Sam didn’t have to.)

Sam just smiles down at her, a tilt of the lips settling her face into a familiar expression, one Tara has known all her life, though never from her sister. Pity.

No, Sam really doesn’t understand at all.

“Hey, baby,” Sam murmurs softly, raising a hand to brush Tara’s hair back and rest on her cheek. “It’s going to be ok, alright?”

Tara closes her eyes. She can feel her throat closing up, her words falling away. She had one chance to convince Sam to run away with her, and she squandered it. Stupid.

She chokes back a sob as Sam pulls her forward and wraps her arms around her, comforting Tara for all the wrong reasons.

“You don’t need to stay, I get it.”

Sam speaks with certainty, assured by her own words.

“I’ll call Sidney. You know she’ll let you stay with her until we get this guy. There’ll be nowhere safer.”

Tara can’t help but wonder how long this attitude will last, if it will survive another round with Ghostface, another published story of her standing over a body with a knife.

“No,” she cries into her sister’s chest. “No, I’m not going anywhere.”

She pulls back swiping her palms across her face, determination settling under her skin.

“Whatever happens, we deal with it together.”

Tara won’t let her sister be assassinated by the media again. She won’t let all of Sam’s progress be for nothing.

Sam has sacrificed so much to protect her, it’s Tara’s time to return the favour.

Ghostface will take no more from her family.

Never again.

[azrielgreen]

Do you have any advice for publishing? Both traditional and self-pub. My work isn't anywhere near ready to be legitimately published but I'd like to gather all the info I can ✨️

Hi, thanks for your Q, sorry it's taken so long to answer. I am by no means an authority on publishing, I can only relate my own experiences to you and offer up advice based on those experiences.

I'm sure you know the basic stuff required for trad publishing: a polished manuscript, a query letter, the first three chapters (or 10K) and then you can start searching for agents to query. Traditional publishing requires an agent, who will then submit your work to publishers. Querying to agents can be tough and I recommend doing it in batches of 5-10 each time. Leave a month between each query batch for replies and I would say brace yourself for rejection, which isn't personal (but can feel like it) and is just part of the querying process. Once you're agented, it's much simpler from there as they will then work on getting your book through the door of a publisher and agents only get paid if you do. Beware of any false agents trying to charge money up front, a real agent will NEVER do that.

Self-publishing requires a polished manuscript, the will and desire to get your book out there, the ability to self market, and a reasonable budget for things like cover design, editing, marketing tools etc. Basically, self-publishing means you're doing it all yourself, but that you have a larger degree of control. I will absolutely be self publishing, I'm extremely excited for it.

So, my actual advice is this.

Hold your passion close and cradle it, remain wildly in love with your story and don't let anyone diminish that love for it. Equally, go forth with the kind of expectation that sharing your book with the world is THE desired outcome and anything else along the way will be a pleasant surprise. Once established, I do plan to write a book every 1-2 months which is obviously not for everyone, but that kind of flow and continuous output works well for me. I would say try to avoid the pitfall of any Wizard Lady Publishing Folklore expectations because those are heavily distorted and deeply misleading. Too many writers have been lost to the mythology of being "chosen" from obscurity, of not trying very hard and being plucked from obscurity anyway. And yes it can happen, it can take a single book to turn lives around but it's extremely rare and I think I healthier approach is to remain fluid. Disappointment can be debilitating in this profession. You have limitless stories inside you. You can do anything, so do many things. Level up, keep your passion close, know you are learning constantly. You are the best you've ever been. You'll only get better from here.

Hope this makes ANY sense, all my love and luck.

Az.

💜💜💜

[royalwriteroftheuniverse]

Is this what hevan feels like? Mornings with...

In-between mornings and nights with- well you can guess

Its apart of my mornings with series. I've turned it into a series now lol since I have tons of em lol

Warnings: none mostly basically all fluffness and love and insomnia. 18+ just incase

Reblogs and comments welcome and appreciated No permission to post /repost or publish anywhere

"Hey babe why are you up?"

Couldn't sleep."

"I gathered" he wrapped his arms around me

I sighed I love that warmness. And his strength I don't know if I'll ever admit that to anyone but my self.

"You want to talk about it?"

"No, not right now anyway."

"Ok, he played with the end of my hair a bit as he leaned in and kissed my cheek.

"Whenever you're ready to talk about it ok?"

"K"

We sit in silence for a few moments.

"Why aren't you going back to bed?"

"Because if you're here I'm here. When are you going to get it in that pretty head of yours that I'm with you-"

"If you say till the end of the line I swear-"

"No" he laugh "no lines no jokes. No nothin like that." He shakes his head "but I'm with you I want to be with you so I'm staying with you. I'll never leave you I promise. You're here so I'm here."

"Thought you had work tomorrow?"

"I'll call in sick" he shrugs. I roll my eyes.

"No you won't. comeone let's go into bed. I didnt want to keep you up with tv or something that why I'm not I'm bed but we're both up anyway right?" I hold onto his hand as we get up but then I stop into the hallway.

"I do trust you. You know that right? I just. Somethings are hard to talk about."

"I get that love. I do." He wraps his arms around me. "And I'll wait as long as I need you. I mean need to," he laughs a bit as a hand comes up to my face, "but I do love you. I feel like I need you to breathe." Why do you think I woke up. When you weren't there?"

"You're getting too old and needed to use the bathroom?"

"Wow. ok then you're just plain mean. And I did have to use the bathroom. But I woke up first then I realized I had to go. " he laughs "you made me miss out on about 5 or 6 minutes of quality sleep there."

"I'm sorry."

He looked in my eyes.

"Dont be. I- I'm here for you. I'm so in love with you I-I dont care if you just stare at the ceiling wake me up, ill stare you while you at that."

That made me laugh

"Ok and when you're ready to talk we'll talk."

I nodded my head.

"We could also kiss." He smirks.

"Oh so close you were so close you were being so romantic."

"What? Hey its your fault im addicted to kissing you."

"Oh so now you're addicted to me."

"Yes you and your...kisses."

"You are something else" I shake my head in laughter.

"I'm just in love."

"Me too."

"So come on Missy back in bed. And I'm going to wrap my arms around you. Until you feel safe and love."

"I know I am"

"Well then I'll hold you until the sun comes up. Regardless if you're sleeping or not."

So we got back in bed and he held me so tight against him he pulled me close to him I love thr smell of soap and downy on him."

He gave me a kiss and then I settled between his shoulder and the crook of his neck. I osed my eyes for a moment inhaling being so happy.

Then he was gently streaking my cheek and gave me the lightest kiss as I opened my eyes. It was morning.

"Good morning sweetheart." He smiled and there were heart eyes if I ever saw them.

I just smiled back at him. Still getting my bering I don't even remember falling asleep.

"How about some breakfast love? I made my specialty." He smiled.

He pulled my coverea back and grabbed my hand I nodded.

"But I swear if there is anything green-"

He just laughted at me or rather with me.

I have to wonder if this is what heavan is like?

Tags:

@nana1000night @sapphire-rogers @patzammit @sparklybarbarianninja @hawkeyes-queen @flufftober