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seventeenpins · 11 months

Text

west

prologue

pairing: Joel Miller x nb!character

word count: 2.7k

genre: period western/horror

summary: Dakota Territory, 1879. Joel Miller, a widower, lives on the outskirts of Deadwood with his brother and daughter. After travelling north from Texas two years earlier, they've put down roots in the community. Tommy came for the gold rush, and Joel came to keep an eye on Tommy. The end of the world arrives piece by piece, and then all at once.

warnings: glaring historical inaccuracies, canon typical violence, allusions to a suicide attempt, essentially just the opening of the show/game but set in 1879 with some bits adjusted, the horrors of being a person in the 1800s, nb love interest is essentially a reader self-insert but is named (tho won't appear till the next chapter), it will be a slowwwww burn.

a/n: Ok, a funny thing that didn't come up in my research till I was ninety percent thru the outline and halfway thru the chapter but had independently decided on 1879 as the setting -- Deadwood actually burned down on September 26, 1879. Figured it was serendipitous. Happy Birthday, Joel! 🫠

The day the world ended, the sun rose bright across the valley. Autumn was just starting to emerge and dust motes appeared suspended in the bright sunbeams, forested wilderness surrounding the town of Deadwood. The leaves weren't changed, not fully, but here and there you could find a red tree amongst the green ones, and you knew they'd follow soon.

Joel was exhausted. His head ached. His bones ached. He could already feel the stiffness in his muscles from yesterday's work, and today would be no better.

The first few cries of the rooster hadn't done so much as stir him, but now as morning truly broke, he could smell mouth-watering aromas wafting up from below, heard the bustling in his kitchen and his belly rumbled, waking him up right quick.

He scrunched his face up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and went over to the basin to splash cool water on his face. He stared at his reflection in his glass. Another year older. Another strand of silver in his hair. Thirty six. He'd made it to thirty six.

He pulled a shirt from his drawer and frowned. It was soft, cotton, and one of his favorites, but he was sure this one was torn at the shoulder, left to waste away in the oft forgotten mending basket. He shook it out and peered at it–sure enough, it had been torn, but now it was mended with fine, careful stitches.

Sarah. It must've been.

That girl was busy herself, but it warmed him, that she'd taken the time to mend her old pa's shirts without him ever having to ask.

He dresses quickly, tucking in his mended shirt, buttoning his trousers, adjusting his suspenders. He wasn't a vain man, but he takes pride in his work, and his mama always told him "It ain't about vanity, Joel. You take yourself and your appearance serious, others will too."

He grew up with little, but his mama was an accomplished seamstress. Her mending was impeccable, and any time she found a discarded bit of fabric, she'd bring it back to life and make it twice as pretty as she found it. Joel reckoned she was the best dressed woman in all of Texas. She collected issues of Good Housekeeping and Harper's, taking account of all the latest fashions. She built corsets and cages and all the ladies would flock to her to do them up just as pretty.

Joel combed back his hair. Stared in the mirror for just a moment longer, lost in his memories. Nodded, and stepped downstairs.

"Pa!" Sarah grinned at him as he entered the kitchen, "Lookin' mighty fine this morning."

She pulled him in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you, baby girl," he grinned back, "You makin' us breakfast?"

"Yep!" She nods, and hands him a plate. Drop biscuits, a little burnt, swimming in gravy, a cup of wild berries on the side, and a hot cup of coffee.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the spiraling tendrils of coffee vapour and let out a delighted hum. "You spoil me, kiddo."

"'Course," she nodded, and took a big bite of her own biscuit.

"Uncle Tommy home?" Joel asked, and Sarah shook her head, a couple of biscuit crumbs scattering around her, "Nah, he went out early today. Said he wanted to get done with his work early so he can celebrate your birthday."

Joel raised an eyebrow. "Celebrate my birthday?" he scoffs, "Stop by the saloon or lose all his money at cards and still make it on time to dinner is more like it."

He took one last gulp of his coffee and placed the mug down.

"We'll have a nice night," Sarah assured him, "An' I told Uncle Tommy he best be here in time for supper or else. And I'm makin' you a cake."

"Okay, baby. You'd best be off to school, now. I'll get these dishes taken care of."

"You sure?" She asked.

"Positive."

Sarah nodded, pulled off her apron, tossed a few of her favorite books in her satchel and tore out the door.

Joel went off for his work. Only two years they'd been in the Black Hills, Joel, Sarah and Tommy, but they'd made a nice little home. They came up after Sarah's mama passed, and Tommy heard about the gold rush. He insisted it was all because of the rush he wanted to come, but Sarah always suspected he came because he knew Joel would follow, and her pa needed a change of scenery. He'd almost faded into a ghost himself, sitting round their empty old house, nearly lost in memories. Grief had a way of consuming him.

So they'd traveled North, left Texas behind for good, and made a new life for themselves.

The schoolhouse had been around since before the Millers arrived in Deadwood, but there hadn't been a teacher till Spring of this year. Joel was glad Sarah finally had a chance for a proper education. Smart as a whip, that one, and hungry for knowledge. He couldn't wait to see what she was gonna do.

There weren't a lot of kids, or even that many women in the community outside of the brothels, but the Millers had established themselves. Tommy was something of a wild card, getting into bar fights more often than Joel would prefer, but he'd never gotten on the wrong side of a quick draw, and he had enough charm he managed to get out of most of the trouble he found himself in. And Joel–Joel was reliable. Whether he was fixing someone's step, or making sure to haul that extra meat back after a hunt to ensure one of Sarah's friends would have enough to eat, he could be depended on.

The day the world ended, Joel saddled up Delphine, his dapple grey, and mounted her, tools packed neatly in her panniers. Today, he'd be working on repairs at the general store. They rode from their home at the outskirts towards town.

As he approached, he slowed to a walk. Something felt off, like there was a tension about to snap. But no one was bleeding, and some days on the frontier that felt like a high enough bar to clear.

Along Main Street, he could hear strained voices.

"The telegraphs stopped coming-" He heard one man say.

"Problem with the wire?" Another asked.

The first man shook his head. "Naw, had some of my guys inspect it. Everything should be workin'. It just- it ain't."

"How long's it been going on?"

"Been five days now. Never seen it like this before."

"Ain't seen any coaches for weeks now, too. It's like the route just stopped altogether. Don't know how to get word to my folks back east about the new baby if we've got no mail and no telegraphs."

The day the world ended, Joel made it home by sunset, just in time to find Sarah plating up their dinner.

"Good day?" She asked, and he nodded.

"Yeah, got lots done. Next time you go by the general store, you'll see a door that swings smoothly on its hinges and brand new windowpanes."

"That's great, Pa!" she smiled. It warmed her to see his pride in his work.

"Uncle Tommy home yet?" Joel asked.

"No," Sarah frowned, "Thought he'd be back a couple hours ago, too. Guess you're right."

"Reckon he's lost track of time. Though- Huh, I didn't see him at the saloon when I rode by."

"There's always the cathouse?" Sarah suggested, and Joel snorted and shook his head. It wasn't an impossibility.

"Well-," Sarah paused, "There'll be cake waiting for him, but at least have your supper before it gets cold."

"Thank you baby," Joel smiled, took his plate from her, and dug in.

The night felt heavy, something in the atmosphere pressing like a weight through the world. All the food was eaten (besides a small plate left for Tommy) and the cake was cut, when the gunshots started outside.

Sarah started and Joel bolted upright, swinging around to grab the rifle by the door without a second thought.

"What's happening?" she asked.

Joel shook his head, crouching down by the window, pushing the curtains aside and peering through.

"I don't know, baby. Just stay calm, stay low. We're gonna be okay."

There was no one directly outside, but the gunshots continued, and the more Joel stared, the more he could see smoke rising from town.

"Looks like a fire," he told her, "Don't know what the shootin's about, though. And–" His eyes narrowed, heartbeat pounded. "We gotta block the door, baby, there's someone coming."

"Is it Uncle Tommy?" She asked, eyes wide and voice small.

"No, I don't think–" Joel had grabbed the heavy mahogany table by the legs and started tugging, but did a double take out the window. "Wait, you're right!"

It was Tommy, galloping towards their home on a mount Joel didn't recognize. Before Tommy was even a hundred feet away, Joel could hear him call out his name.

"Joel!" Tommy bellowed, "We gotta get outta here!"

Joel swung the door open and Tommy stumbled in.

"Somethin's happening," he wheezed, breaths coming quickly, panic etched across his face, running to the cabinet and filling his pack with ammo. A knife. Another revolver. "We gotta pack up anythin' we can't afford to lose. The town's on fire. There are these people, fuck, Joel, it's like they're the Devil's got 'em."

"Like the Devil's got 'em?" Joel asked, pulling two bags from pegs by the door. "The fuck you mean? You been on the shine again?" He turned to Sarah. "Start packin', baby. Clothes, medicine. Cash, too, you know the drawer?"

She nodded and ran upstairs, and Joel turned back to Tommy, fumbling through papers and photos, knowing he had no time for sentiment but couldn't bear to leave without trying to think of everything.

"They're fuckin' possessed," Tommy explained, "Won't listen to reason. It's a fuckin' mess in town. A few coaches came through today and there were men on it raving, saying some kinda devilry was coming through. They seemed crazy, so we just laughed. Didn't think much of it."

He shook his head and ran a palm down his face. That's when Joel noticed the blood on his sleeve.

"Jesus," Joel said, "You hurt?"

Tommy shook his head, confused, and then looked where Joel was looking and exhaled. "Naw," he exhaled, "That blood ain't mine."

"So what happened?"

"Well," Tommy continued, "An hour or so later we heard screaming. Turns out a couple folks who'd come in by train from down South a day or so ago, who weren't feelin' all that well, they'd been to the doctor and went crazy. Started twitchin'. Bitin'. Proper bitin' people. They got these things in their mouths, these weird fuckin' tendrils-"

Joel stared at him, a muscle in his jaw tensing.

"I know it sounds crazy, Joel, but something bad is fuckin' happening. Don't know what it is. All I know is people are tearing each other up. And we gotta get outta here."

Joel was silent a minute and then nodded, solemn.

"Okay." He took a deep breath. "We're gonna get outta here."

"We are," Tommy agreed, "But we both know the only way out is through town, and it's a shit show right now."

"Fuck," Joel hissed and looked out the window again, "Looks like the whole town is on fire."

"It is," Tommy nodded, "But we can avoid Main Street. Go to the outside, and around to the thoroughfare."

"Fine." Then Joel called upstairs, "We gotta go, baby!"

Sarah re-emerged, two bags packed full. "I got clothes for both of us. Money. Few other things."

"Thank you, baby."

They saddled up their horses, Tommy on his stolen mare, Joel and Sarah on Delphine.

Joel hated this, hated that they had to pass through town to pass by Deadwood and across into the Black Hills, but they were at the edge of the gulch. No way to go but through.

Before they rode, Joel cupped the back of Sarah's head with one hand, closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He nearly didn't, worried her pa would be embarrassing her. But he did. For the rest of his life, he was always glad that he did.

As they rode through flames, they saw the foundations of the place they called home begin to crumble. It was chaos. It was worse than Joel ever could have imagined. The town was engulfed in madness, men eating one another toppled over onto the dusty ground. Smoke choked them and made their eyes water as they rode through with cloths pressed to their mouths, trying to avoid the worst of it. There were a few folks who had built barricades and stood beyond them, guns aimed, trying to take down the most violent of the possessed. It was horrifying, their friends, colleagues, and neighbors engaged in a fight to the death. It was wrong wrong wrong and by God it was the end of the world.

They saw the younger Adlers torn to pieces, and the elder running on all fours as she tried to rip apart someone else.

"Hold onto me, baby," Joel said, pulling her in in an attempt to shield her from the bodies. She'd already gotten a glimpse and couldn't help but stare, and she stared for a moment before she felt nauseous. Then, she screwed up her eyes and held on tight.

They saw Jimmy's place in flames. The baker's. The saloon. There were women running from the brothel, still rouged and bright as they aimed their guns at the monsters around them.

Through side paths and shortcuts, down alleyways and in the gaps between houses, they rode desperately through Deadwood. The buildings Joel had helped erect and the repairs he'd completed in the past few years had given him an intricate knowledge of the settlement. They rode fast and sure, evading the devils that clutched at the air, reaching for their ankles as they rode by.

Makeshift barricades had been put up all along the outskirts of town. Each way they turned, there was no way through. They rode back and forth, crisscrossing the streets as they tried their best to pull away from the writhing bodies in the dirt.

It wasn't till they passed the very last buildings down Main Street, right by the edge of town, that they slowed.

The sheriff lay dead, a bullet right between his eyes, bleeding out on the dusty street corner. A circuit rider loomed ahead of him on his mount, hands resting on his shotgun that, slung over his shoulder. Blood drenched his forearms, spattered against his coat, so soaked it shone visible even against the heavy wool. There was a fear in his eyes, a terror that unsettled them.

When he saw the Millers, he straightened and raised the weapon.

"Preacher, let us through," Tommy said, and the homilist darted his eyes between the men.

"Can't let anyone past," the man said, "This here's the reckoning. No one's gonna escape the inevitable."

Tommy raised his revolver. "I ain't askin' again. Let us through."

The preacher steadied his shaking hands and aimed his shotgun "But the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night; in the which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up-"

It's hard to say who fired first.

In a split second, two gunshots rang out, fragmented echos of one another. The preacher fell. So did Joel and Sarah.

The bullet grazed through Joel's side, and he clutched at his abdomen, holding the wound.

"Joel-!" Tommy cried as he flung himself from his mount, the preacher dead and already forgotten.

Joel rolled over and crawled towards where Sarah lay. The bullet that had gone through Joel pierced her belly and she shook, blood spurting and pooling from the wound.

He tried to apply pressure, tried to slow the bleeding, but her screams and sobs stilled him.

"I'm sorry, baby," he cried, and she shook, eyes darting around, trying to focus and failing.

"Pa-," she croaked.

"It's okay, baby girl," he lied, "You're gonna be okay."

She exhaled in a final gurgling puff, blood spattering across her perfect face, and Joel howled.

She was gone, he knew it, but still he cradled her.

Tommy stroked her hair and wiped the blood off her cheek. Joel pressed his head to her chest and wept, horrible strangled heaves caught in each exhale.

The day the world ended, Joel's world ended, too.

They carried her body with them for miles, Joel holding her close even as he felt her begin to cool and stiffen. Time escaped them as they rode, and around sunrise, they found a creek with wildflowers blanketing the banks. A small herd of pronghorns leaped along the water.

Tommy dug a hole and Joel told her stories, rocking her back and forth in his arms. All the ones he could remember, that she loved so much when she was little. Told her to rest easy now, baby.

They lowered her into the ground, and Joel wept. Tommy assembled a small cairn at the head of her grave. Joel looked down at his mended shirt and realised it was ruined with blood. The last gift from his daughter, and he'd ruined it.

Joel embraced Tommy. Held his brother close and told him he loved him. Muttered something about needing a moment to himself and wandered off.

The day his world ended, Joel tried to follow her into the darkness. A gunshot rang out, echoing through the hills.

Tommy ran to the sound and found him, crumpled but very much alive. He held his big brother close, cloth pressed hard to his bleeding temple, brushing away his streaming tears as he cried himself, terrified to lose all of his remaining family in a single day.

The day the world ended, the last two Millers were covered in blood and filth and tears. All they had was each other, their horror and their fear.

#tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x nb!reader

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assortedseaglass · 1 year

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The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Eleven

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Language, era typical fatphobia (blink and you’ll miss it) World on Fire spoilers.

Word Count: 4.7K

Note: Hi my loves! I’m sorry for the angst in the last chapter! I’ve had a dip in confidence recently with writing, so thank you for the support that’s been shown towards me, it’s meant such a lot. Despite the distance between them, we’re gonna start exploring what’s going on with Tom and Bess. By the way...the letters are back 💌

April 1940

“Hello you!” Cora hugged her sister and stepped aside to allow her into the house. “Leave the door open, bloody boiling in the kitchen.” She bustled away.

“Good to see I’m not the only one in a uniform!” Albie brought Bess into a one-armed hug and kissed the top of her head. “Alright, duck?”

“Speaking of uniforms,” Fergal descended the stairs. “Could you let the waist out on my trousers? They’re a bit tight.”

“You need to stop eating so much,” Dot chimed in.

“Evening, Bess.” Roger smiled from where he sat at the table.

Bess looked around at her family. Albie was home for a brief spell of respite before heading to France. Cora and Roger were as in love as ever, and Bess fully expected Roger to kneel down every time she saw him. Dot finally seemed to have gripped the seriousness of the war and was stepping into her role around the home and at the factory, though her joy of life had miraculously remained. Dear old Dadda was working as a warden, helping the war effort at home, and lonely Bess had left the factory and begun training as a nurse at the Royal Infirmary. Tom was right, she was good at it.

Bess shook off her coat and jumped into helping Cora lay out the food. Roast chicken and potatoes, cabbage and gravy. Despite the rationing in place, Cora was determined to give Albie a good meal before he went back. His cheeks were gaunt, the orbits of his eyes were purple, and the shoulders of his jumper were sloping down his arm. No matter how bright his dark eyes were, the sisters could see the realities of war slowly embalming him.

A few children ran past the house. Easter had come and gone, and spring was settling into Manchester. The sun was warm, the wind was cold, and everyone was enjoying the blooms and weeds that peeked through the pavement. After a winter in war, spring was a welcome change. The family settled at the table, Fergal and Albie sat together, followed by Dot, Roger, Cora and Bess.

“Grab mam off the mantel, Dot.” Cora said to her sister. Dot leaned across, picked up the photograph of Etta and kissed it, before placing it next to Fergal and Albie. As soon as Etta was placed on the table, the men lunged for the food and the meal began.

“I’m starving,” Dot said through a mouthful of potato. As Albie laughed at her, Cora leant towards Bess.

“How’s training going?”

“Um,” Bess paused. She was trying, my God she was trying, to be better at talking. “It’s not so much training as learning on the job.” Cora chuckled. “I don’t think we really have the time to be trained. They need nurses and they need them now.” The sisters fell silent as they ate.

“It must be hard for you, Bess.” Roger said as he indicated for the salt.

“How do you mean?”

“I was at the infirmary visiting a friend last week. It’s overwhelming.”

Bess thought carefully of what she was to say next. The moment Albie and Fergal engaged in conversation, she spoke lowly to Cora and Roger. “Already, they’re coming back with such horrific injuries. And that’s just physically. I still think what a miracle it is that we all sit here, considering Dadda made it out alive.” She looked at her plate and pushed the food around. “I’m terrified, Cora. For Albie.”

Underneath the table, Cora squeezed her hand.

“And for you, Roger.” He smiled at her gently, and Bess’ affection for him grew. She wanted to ask him to marry Cora then and there on her behalf.

“Roger!” It was Albie, from the end of the table, trying to rope the other young man in to convince Fergal of something or other. He turned away, and Cora whispered in Bess’ ear.

“And Tom?”

Immediately, Bess regretted speaking. Her body tightened in her seat and she avoided her sister’s gaze. “What about him?”

“You must be worried-”

“Of course I am, I have a heart, Cora.” Bess snapped under her breath. Cora held up her knife and fork, indicating that she meant no offence.

“Have you heard from him?”

“Not for a while,” Bess was intentionally haughty.

Cora nodded. “And have you written to him?”

“Not for a while,” Cora made to speak but Bess stopped her. “Please Cora, I’ve come home to say goodbye to Albie, I don’t want to think about Tom bloody Bennett.”

After Bess and Tom’s argument in January, Cora found Bess in the bathroom, the bath water cold as she sat curled up, puffy eyed and shaking. Cora had always known, told Bess she had always known. She knew that Tom snuck in at night, she noticed their stolen glances. She even made Bess laugh when she told her that she saw them kissing in the window. When she missed Tom’s train, it was Cora that Bess ran to.

The truth was, Bess didn’t want to think about Tom because she spent every last second doing just that. Each day at work, when a young man with blue eyes looked at her as she administered treatment, she saw Tom’s gleaming at her from behind cigarette smoke. When she got the bus home from the hospital and saw teenage boys on the way home, she remembers Tom at that age, pulling Lois’ hair and sneaking Bess looks. At night, as she waits for sleep, she looks at the photograph of him propped against the lamp, and cries.

Cora didn’t mention him again. When Dot had cleared the plates, the tablecloth was pushed to one side for dominoes and cards. Fergal retrieved his bottle of whisky from the cabinet by the stairs and poured a glass for himself, Albie, Roger and Bess. Cora and Dot drank sherry, placing a cup by Etta’s photograph. Miraculously, Fergal kept to one glass. Dot partook in multiple sherries and, as was her way, began to cry.

“Play something for me, Bess.” Albie said softly from his chair. His eyes were gentle, and Bess felt the string that tethered their hearts together pull. Of course Dot and Cora would miss him, but sometimes Bess felt that there was a deep set sadness to her and Albie that they could never understand. Maybe that’s middle children for you. Bess just wished she could have some of his joy. She stood and lifted the lid of the piano. Imagining Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, she played Cheek to Cheek and Cora sang along. Albie swept Dot into her arms and spun her around, her tears of sadness turning to tears of mirth. Cora sang at Roger as they swayed together, and Fergal clutched the photo of Etta to his chest. Bess continued to play, fingers remembering their path over the keys. She didn’t have anyone to dance with.

The evening wore on. A few of Mrs Mason’s children poked theirs heads round the door at the sound of the family’s singing, and for a little while they joined in the dancing. Fergal requested a few ballads, Black is the Colour being his favourite, and everyone stilled as he sang solemnly to Bess’ playing. Come nine o’clock, Dot’s tears had returned and Cora was stifling her own. It was time for Bess to head back into the city.

Bess hugged her sisters goodbye, kissed her father’s head and did the same to Roger’s cheek.

“I’ll be back in a week or two, keep an eye on them for me,” she whispered to him.

“Will do, captain.” Roger smiled.

“And don’t leave it too long.”

“I don’t know what you mean-”

“I think you do, Rog.” Bess winked and put on her coat. Albie was waiting outside the front door with a cigarette in his mouth. “What time’s your train tomorrow?”

“Eleven-thirty.” He said.

“I’ll come down and meet you, it’s only round the corner.”

“Ta-ra,” he watched as she retreated to the end of the road, and out of sight.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

Mrs Russo was coming down the stairs when Bess arrived at her tiny flat in Manchester. A large brick building that once housed mill workers, Carver Mills was now home to nurses, one to each cramped room.

“If you’ve got any washing, love, leave it outside your door and I’ll do it in the morning.” Mrs Russo said as she squeezed past Bess in the narrow corridor. “How’s your family, pet?”

“You know families.” Bess said with a sad smile.

“Aye, I do.” Mrs Russo was a portly woman of about fifty, plum faced and feisty. A nurse too, she had married young and lost her husband in the Great War. When her two girls were grown, she became the matron of this boarding house for trainees. She was turning into her room on the ground floor when she called back to Bess, now halfway up the first set of stairs. “Some post came for you today, by the way. Left it on the table-”

Bess didn’t hear the end of the sentence. She raced up the next two floors and grappled with her keys, bursting through the door and lighting the lamp.

“Shit,” she ran to the window and pulled across her blackouts.

The letter was propped against her vase of flowers. It was from him. That was his writing. She ripped open the letter.

Dear Bess,

Cheers for the last letter. I hope you all had a good Easter? Ours was dreadful, but when have I ever worried what the Lord thinks?

How is training? A few of our lads got a little hurt during a training exercise in dock. Let me tell you, they’d have much preferred you to the sister we had in France. Looked like someone was trying to overstuff a pillowcase. We’ve mostly been trundling around the coast on supply runs. I can’t tell you much, obviously, but things are hotting up here. It’ll be back to the battles for us. A few Lancasters flew over the ship the other day and I told my mates that you made the wings.

We had a little shore leave recently, though I can’t say where. There was a market selling some fabrics. If I had the money, and I knew I could send it, I would have bought you some. There was a dark green sort of thing, that soft fabric you like? I don’t know the name. And a pink linen. I know you think pink clashes with your hair, but it reminded me of your cheeks when you get flushed.

The weather is a lot better where we are than I imagine it is in Manchester, but I miss home. There’s nothing quite like a trip to Belle Vue or a walk round Alexandra Gardens at this time of year.

I don’t know when I’ll next be home, but I hope you’ll save an afternoon for me. You’re always on my mind.

Tom.

The flat was silent. Bess re-read the letter, then moved to the bedroom adjoining the kitchen. Sitting on the bed, she removed her shoes and hair pins. She opened the draw by her bed and placed Tom’s letters with the pile of others she had accumulated since the war began. Tom watched her as she did, from the photograph by the lamp. Bess eyes drifted from the letters to the photograph, and her body convulsed with sobs. This had become the evening routine for Bess. Come back from the hospital, eat with alone or with the other girls, wash, reread her letters from Tom, and cry. How long she sat in the blackout darkness of her room, she did not know, but no sooner had she looked at the photograph was she waking to her morning alarm.

The uniform she still wore was a little creased but relatively clean. Changing her underwear, Bess washed with a cloth and began her morning. A breakfast of bran and a cup of tea downed in ten minutes. She looked to the clock. Half past nine. She had time before she was to meet Albie at the station, and her shift was not until the afternoon. The letter in her bedside table seemed to be humming, like some sacred talisman alerting her to its presence. No matter how hard she tried, Bess could not stop thinking about it.

Since their argument, their letters had been infrequent and terse. Little detail, rarely more than a page. Tom had written first, though was yet to address any of the offences Bess had accused him of in January. Bess wasn’t blind. She could see his attempts at tenderness, but it just wasn’t good enough. In return, Bess was haughty and stubborn. If Tom Bennett could not bring himself to say sorry, then Bess would not tell him how much she craved him. Imagined the press of his body on hers or the warmth of his kisses. How she thought everyday of his face as she ran alongside the train. How, until the day she dropped, she would regret not saying goodbye to him. Every time she opened the newspaper or turned on the wireless, watched the newsreel at the picturehouse, she feared seeing Tom’s face among the soldiers lined along the ground. But she wouldn’t tell him, couldn’t. Instead, she picked up her pen and paper, and wrote the following.

Tom,

We had a good Easter, Albie is home. After I write this, I’m going to the station to see him off. He’s going back to France tomorrow.

He looks dreadful. Cora’s been trying to fatten him up while he’s been back, but nothing seems to stick. I’m terrified. A stiff wind could knock him over. Still, he puts on a brave face for us, and he and Dot together are a whirlwind.

Training is going well, though as I told Cora, it’s not really training but learning as we go. I don’t need to tell you what sort of horrible things we see, you already know. What I can say is that our matron is terribly strict and the other girls are lovely. Mrs Russo, who runs the boarding house I’m staying at, takes good care of us but you’d hate it. Curfew of ten o’clock and no gentlemen visitors.

I must say, it’s a relief not to be at the factory. Now, I have my own money that it doesn’t go into the family pot, and I don’t stink of grease. Besides, blood stains are easier to get out. The girls here too are much more mature. You have to be, with what we see and living away from home. None of that incessant gossiping and giggling to put up with.

Keep yourself safe,

Bess.

She put the letter in a stamped envelope and shoved it into her bag. A part of her hated the terseness. No matter how hard she was trying in real life to speak, the reverse had happened in letters. I need you, I miss you, come home became keep safe, good Easter andthinly veiled digs at Queenie Warren.

With nothing else to do or, more accurately, to warrant her interest, Bess made her way to Manchester London Road.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

Albie was waiting by the entrance to the station when Bess arrived. He suited the uniform, and with Bess’ tailoring, was the best looking of the bunch. She watched him for a moment before she approached, memorising what he looked like when he thought no-one was looking. There’s a gentleness to people when they are alone. Once removed from self-consciousness, they enter their own world. One of little smiles, murmurings and inner lives being lived out. Bess loved watching them.

She whistled as she crossed the street, causing Albie to look up. “Alright, duck?” He kissed her and the cheek then wrapped her into a hug. “Got time for a cuppa?” He led her into the station and took her to one of the waiting rooms. Returning with a pot of tea, he shook off his jacket and placed his hat on the table. An elderly gentleman passed, shook his hand, and Bess watched as he muttered a “good luck” to her brother. She thought of Tom.

“You boys really do get the special treatment in these uniforms, don’t you?”

“Tell them that in France, Germans might stop shooting at us.” Albie grinned as he sipped his tea.

“Here I am making planes and patching you up, all I get is rationing and a smack on the arse from one of the doctors.”

Albie grimaced as he finished his cup of tea. “Are you managing alright with it all?”

Bess slammed her own cup back in its saucer. “What is going on? First Cora, now you-”

“You just haven’t been yourself lately. You seem,” Albie looked upwards, as though the word he was searching for might magically appear there. “Nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“You know, you were always so sure of yourself, feet firmly planted and head held high. Now, and please don’t take this the wrong way Bess, you seem like you did as a kid. Not looking at people, keeping yourself busy to avoid everyone-” he trailed off, letting Bess take the space. She thought for a moment.

“This war,” her words were careful, for fear of revealing too much. “It’s shown me what my failings are. And what really makes people ‘good’. I don’t know, everything I once thought was true isn’t. How do carry on when the whole world is as ugly as this one?”

Albie took his sister’s hand. “People are good, Bess.”

“I don’t know if I am,” her voice was barely above a whisper. She thought of Walter’s bullying, Tom’s lies and the way she was keeping him at a distance. If she couldn’t allow herself to let any light in, maybe she deserved it. This sadness.

“Hush.” Albie’s voice was firm and his eyes hard. Despite her sorrow, Bess smiled. Through the window of Albie’s eyes, their mother was looking down at her. He held out his hand. “Time to go.”

A few other families were waving off their loved ones, and as Albie loaded his kit bag onto the train, Bess looked around. Her eyes fell on a young soldier and the woman clinging onto his shoulders. Her head was buried in the crook of his neck, and when she looked up at him, Bess saw tear tracks making their way through her makeup. The solider stroked her face with the back of his hand and tenderly took hold of her chin, bringing her in for a kiss. Bess’ heart stung and she turned away. How many times had she written the last time she was here to look exactly like that? Tom gently caressing her face as he promised to come home.

Albie jumped from the train. “I’m off.” Bess gave him a glance over, adjusting his coat and straightening his hat. He smiled as she fussed. Satisfied with her work, Bess cupped his face and looked into the eyes that mirrored hers, bringing forth every ounce of encouragement and hope that she could muster. Albie’s eyes began to glaze with tears, and Bess wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she whispered. “Write, and come home soon.” He nodded into her shoulder.

“And you look after yourself, no more of this moping around.” She slapped his back and he laughed. The whistle blew and people began hurriedly boarding the train. Not again, don’t mess this up again.

“Albie, I love you. So much.”

Albie watched his sister a moment. There was no doubt of Bess’ capacity to love. It was in the clothes she made, the whispered affirmations, her willingness to defend. But he also knew how much it took for her to say it.

“I know, I love you too.” He kissed her on the cheek and boarded the train.

She didn’t wait at the station long. Once the train had left the platform, so too did Bess. It was very quickly becoming her least favourite place. She checked her watch. Quarter to twelve. Her shift began in half an hour. As Bess ran towards the bus stop, she passed by a postbox. Stopping, she retrieved the now slightly crumpled letter from her bag and, despite herself, kissed it good luck.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

An hour until he needed to be back on the boat. He’d seen an alleyway on the way to the bar, perhaps they could sneak in there. The raucous laughter of other sailors and the clinking of glasses drowned out the barely audible band. Occasionally the choice words of an Englishman caught his ears amongst the French he didn’t understand. Focus, Tom Bennett. He’d had the odd occasion where his mind wasn’t in it, but it had never happened when he couldn’t engage elsewhere. Come on.

He ran a hand along the stranger’s leg, continuing to nuzzle at her neck. Fucking touch me. Tom took one of the hands that was lazily placed against his chest and brought it to his neck. She could sense that he was eager.

“Combien du temps allez vous rester?”

“I don’t know what you’re saying, love.” He moved to silence her with impatient kisses and she sighed.

“C’est toujours pareil,” Tom brushed his tongue along the woman’s mouth, and she let him deepen the kiss. He was good-looking, a little cocky but these English sailors often were. And who knows when she’d see a young man again? She moved her body closer to his and raked a hand through his blond hair. Tom groaned into her mouth.

“Bess,”

The woman pulled away. “Pardon?”

“Ssh,” Tom moved to kiss her again. “S’nothing,” The stranger placed a hand on his chest and prevented him from coming closer.

“Qui est Bess?”

“Sorry,” Tom’s hand moved from the woman’s waist to cup her face. “Camille-”

“Corinne!” She shoved him away and stood from the booth they had hidden in. “T’es vraiment qu’un pauvre connard.”

Tom watched as she stormed from the bar. He didn’t have the energy to be annoyed, simply leant back against the seat, rubbed a hand over his face and grabbed his cap.

“I’m off, see you on ship.” Norman unstuck himself from some other French nurse and watched Tom storm away.

“You alright mate?” Tom waved his cap in reply and left.

The night was cold and, in the far distance, the sound of war boomed. He jogged to the ship, lit up in the harbour. Back to the floating, metal prison. A few men had already returned, and from the Captain’s mess he could hear laughing. At least they’d had a good night. He arrived at the bunk he shared with Norman and hauled himself into the top bed. From the pocket of his trousers he withdrew the last letter Bess wrote; it had been burning a hole there all evening. He read over the letter for the hundredth time since it arrived with the auxiliaries that morning. Not one of his questions was answered, excluding about Easter, and Queenie Warren’s name was left hanging in the air like a bad smell. He knew what she was doing. He’d known Bess long enough to see. She was haughty and quiet and used it to work people into the palm of her hand. But Tom saw right through her. From the netted store above the bunk, he took out a sheaf of paper. Lying on his front, he leant against his copy of Knots and Ropework and from beneath his pillow retrieved Bess’ portrait.

Dear Bess,

I’m not going to lie and tell you that your Albie will be fine. We’ve both seen too much now to know I’d be lying, but I’m sure Cora’s cooking will see him right. Tell her I want one of those roast dinners when I’m back.

I would say thank you for your letter, but it was a load of shit and you know it. I could easily understand if you never wanted to talk to me again, but this? These horrible half-given accounts of your day with no substance? I want to know you, Bess. You’ll be reading this and scoffing, I can see you now with that frown on your face, so I’m going to try and explain why I did what I did.

I got a letter from Lois before she went off to ENSA catching me up on how you all were. Of course, she didn’t know that you and I were writing and sent me lots of details. Told me about your factory work and that you’d been spending time with dad. Told me more about you than anyone else – got a feeling she knew before we did. She also told me that Queenie had started going with Frank Smith, and was struggling with missing him and a lot of us being away. And I know you’ll be annoyed by this point, but I stick by what I said before. You girls are intimidating and Queenie Warren doesn’t deserve your cruelty just because she likes the company of men. Anyway, Lois asked if I would write to her because I get more rest time than the army lads and she’d always been fond of me. So I did. Nothing more. One letter to say hello and reassure her about Frank. Please believe me. She asked me about the battle at the dance and it really was just one letter. I didn’t know she’d say it was more than one. And she didn’t know about us either so she couldn’t have been bragging to hurt your feelings, just to maintain her reputation.

Speaking of reputations, I know that the real reason I hurt you was because I asked you to keep us quiet. The truth of it is that you were right, I am a coward. I��m a criminal, a down and out and a nuisance. But somehow, you saw something different in me, and I was still getting used to that version of myself, one that I actually liked. Not knowing who I am terrified me, but I loved seeing myself through your eyes. And I thought that maybe, if I kept it a secret, it couldn’t be touched. If it was something between just you and me, then it would stay special. Does that even make sense? I don’t know. And if anything happened to me out here, I thought it would be easier for you if no-one knew. I wouldn’t ruin your reputation and you wouldn’t have people pitying you for a being with a dead fella. I know you hate to be pitied.

Just know that I miss you, and I’m sorry, and I’ll understand if things will never be the same.

Your friend,

Tom.

A knock came at the door and the second officer put his head into the bunk. “Any post? Auxiliaries are off.”

“Just the one,” Tom said, placing the letter in the envelope and, despite himself, gave it a kiss good luck.

Note: Norman’s back! No idea if he died or survived in WoF, but I’m keeping he and Tom together. These next few chapters are going to be shorter, as I’m anticipating dumping one bigger chapter on you (probably chapter thirteen). Bear with me, we’re in the slow burn again but it’ll get juicy very soon. Those who have seen the series know what’s coming! I promise, the end will all be worth it, thanks for sticking around 😊 Work on the next chapter begins, we're getting to some heavy/exciting stuff soon!

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring

#ewan mitchell #tom bennett #tom bennett x ofc #the seamstress & the sailor #world on fire

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shipwreckedcomedy · 2 years

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youtube

Ichabod's story, from beginning to end.

HEADLESS: A SLEEPY HOLLOW STORY A new 10-part series by Shipwrecked Comedy inspired by The Legend of Sleepy Hollow Written & Created by Sean Persaud & Sinéad Persaud Directed by William J. Stribling

CAST (in order of appearance) Rip Van Winkle - James Tolbert Diedrich Knickerbocker - Jon Cozart Ichabod Crane - Sean Persaud Douffe Martling - Joanna Sotomura Matilda Bishop - Sinead Persaud Kat Van Tassel - Mary Kate Wiles Judy Gardenier - Krystina Arielle Eugene Trousers - Curt Mega Ramona Trousers - Kim Whalen Geoffrey Crayon - Parvesh Cheena Trevor Trinkets - Christopher Higgins Lucretia Lazenby - Sarah Grace Hart Brom Bones - Gabe Greenspan Tripp - Joey Richter Cal - Corey Lubowich Blair - Brian Rosenthal The Headless Horseman - Tom DeTrinis Christa Pierson - Audrey Grace Marshall Verla Wolfson - Ginny Di Henri - Jason Huber Officer Baader Meinhof - Corey Dorris Captain "Gravy" Davy Crowbones - Matthew Mercer Max Lee - Jimmy Wong Devlyn Versace - Lee Newton Judge Pringle - Julia Cho Anne Tarry - Lauren Lopez Bruce McConnell - Dan Mintz Paulie Tahoe - Ryan Garcia Jonathan Oldstyle - Tom Lenk with Felicia Day as Henrietta Hudson And featuring John Rubinstein as Baltus Van Tassel

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socially-awkward-skeleton · 1 year

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Tagged by: @ivymarquis

Tagging: @chadillacboseman @chazz-anova @henbased @neonneurons @skoll-sun-eater @shellibisshe @eclecticwildflowers @kyber-infinitygems @nightbloodbix @roofgeese @voidika @josephseedismyfather @josephslittledeputy @inafieldofdaisies @clicheantagonist @neverthesameneveranother @adelaidedrubman @strafethesesinners @trench-rot @statichvm @poetikat @marivenah @simplegenius042 @theelderhazelnut @v0idbuggy @direwombat @florbelles @shallow-gravy @cassietrn @solstheimart @strangefable @stacispratt @madparadoxum @jillvalentinesday @confidentandgood @ladyofedens-blog @wrathfulrook

writing tag list to be added/removed

art tag list to be added/removed

wip art - capt. price (c*d)

well i said it was going to happen...and it has...(I just love his silly little smirk)

apparently army man is now my type of blorbo (shaking my fist at Jacob Seed for being a gateway drug lol) also I refuse to tell anyone how much time I spent on that chest hair...

And for those of you not in my newest brainrot fandom, a snippet from Kakia (the Herald/Role Swap AU):

Kit circles the bar, fingers drifting over chrome plated metal and glossy hardwood as she reaches the assorted crystal carafes filled with liquor. Snatching one up in her hands, she pulls out the stopper, and her pale blue eyes flick up to meet her guest’s stare. “I hear you used to be a lawyer in Atlanta, John.” She dips a finger past the rim of an empty glass and drags it towards herself, crystal ringing out like a bell, before pouring the amber liquid. Nonchalantly adding, “Before you were disbarred of course.”

He grasps at the material of his trousers with sweaty palms, his tongue dipping against his lip. “Yes.”

“What happened?” She plunges the stopper back into the carafe and spins the liquor around her glass, a wicked grin spreading across her lips. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I made some mistakes, fell prey to my vices.”

Kit nods and takes a sip from her drink, swiping her thumb across her lower lip to wipe away any drops of the scotch that tried to escape her before resting her chin on her hand. “Care for a drink, John?”

His bright eyes stare at the glass in her hand as he swallows heavily. “I don’t drink.”

“Don’t or can’t?” He looks at her unsure of how to answer and she quickly takes that as her invitation in, using his moment of weakness as a weapon against him. “You know, I lived my life for a long time entirely imposed upon. Told what I was supposed to do, had my whole life chosen for me because of my father. He raised me to believe that I had to fight and die for my country because that’s all I was really worth to him. He had me convinced that that was how I would win his love and approval. How I'd become his pride and joy. But that wasn’t true. I thought I'd seen the world because I’d traveled it, but I was still blind. I missed out on so many of life’s experiences all to make someone else happy.” She takes another sip of her drink, indulging in the warm burn it left down the back of her throat. “But I don’t live like that anymore. Now I do what I want, when I want. Taking in all of what life has to offer. It’s highs, it’s lows. All of its sensations.”

John swallows heavily, the sound of him gulping his own saliva is music to her ears knowing her claws are settling in nice and deep into the meat of him.

“Now John, will you take that drink?” A red brow lifts as she offers the temptation once more.

“Yes. Scotch. Please.”

Her smile widens to reveal jaws filled with sparkling white teeth. “Good boy.”

Pouring him a drink, she carries it over and takes a seat on the couch beside him. She passes him the glass and then pulls open a drawer on the table beside her grabbing an ornate box inside it. Lifting the lid, she pulls out a pre-rolled joint.

Long fingers caress the cool glass in his hand, stroking it as he watches her lick her lips and slip the joint in her mouth before flicking back the metal lid of her lighter. The flame dances as it’s held to the tip, making it glow orange as smoke trails up to the rafters.

“My brother wouldn’t be very happy about that.”

Pale eyes glance sideways and linger on him, narrowing as she flicks the lid of the lighter closed. “It’s legal here. I have my own crop growing up at the conservatory. Pure and organic.” She passes the joint to John. “Don’t tell me you don’t smoke either?”

“I used to. But then that led to other things –”

The corner of her mouth lifts into a smirk. “You really fell for all that gateway drug bullshit?” Her gaze traces over him judgmentally. “Didn’t know when to stop, huh?”

John takes the joint from her but only holds it instead of partaking in it. “Eventually nothing feels as good anymore, and then you need more on top of that.”

Kit stretched her arms out along the back of the couch, leaning into the cushions as she tipped her head back blowing out smoke rings. “Nothing wrong with that. I've never seen the downside to excess, taking and taking until there’s nothing left to give.”

Ash falls onto the legs of his trousers and without a spare hand he’s forced to bring the joint to his mouth to brush it away.

“It’s second nature to you. Why change that?” She asks, turning to him and pulling the joint from his mouth.

Sputtering out smoke as he coughs, she laughs and it’s warm and friendly, but it doesn’t meet her eyes – there is something cold and empty within them.

“Because I was tail spinning out of control.”

“Out of control,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “You just hadn’t found a place where you belong yet. But I think you’re going to enjoy it here, John.”

Squeezing his shoulder tight, he turns to look at her. Big, bright eyes sparkle in her direction. Looking at her like she was an angel bathed in the holy light of God. His vision swimming, body melting into the couch.

“Really, why’s that?”

She curled up against him, pushing her fingers through his dark hair. “We have what you need,” she purred.

“What do I need?” he asked, staring at her lips as his eyes glazed over.

“Freedom.” Her mouth ghosted against his and she stared at him like he was supper.

“Yes,” he managed to hiss before slumping forward, his forehead pressing into her shoulder.

#wip wednesday #wip art #fic: kakia

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davycoquette · 2 months

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Yet more exposition from a collaborative writing post. This little action sequence takes place in the old west and features cowboyoutlaw!Shiloh.

It was cat work. Lie in wait. Watch. Be still, blend in. Wait, watch. Your muscles will twitch, your jaw will work in anticipation, but you must wait. And wait, and watch. You can flick your tail, flex your claws in the dirt, take aim – but for time indeterminable you will be still and you. will. wait.

Not everyone has the disposition for it. Many will grow intolerably bored til they’re restless and agitated, and Shiloh thought his companion was getting close. Little went on at the Abners’ house – a few comings and goings, murmurs, amorphous silhouettes drifting across the curtains at night. The companion did not want to talk about Gaskell or Thoreau or Douglass – not even about himself. Not with Shiloh Kitson. Rather than sit in suspicious silence together, they separated.

Cat work favors the imaginative, so Shiloh was content.

On the arranged night, Shiloh checked ‘his’ (stolen) pocketwatch, stretched his back, kneaded his fingers into his shoulder-blades and flattened knotted muscle bordering his spine down the length of his neck. He vanished out of the shadows of the street and stepped into the overgrown yard, where shiny black crickets squirmed between grass blades over the cracked clay. Using a pry bar left lying outside the house’s little storage shed, he wedged a back window open and slipped into the muggy house.

The brother had not come home, and cat work did not trump the necessity of timing where multiple men were concerned. Shiloh had to prove he could collaborate; that he could do more than work by his lonesome. (So, not like a cat at all.) He’d been instructed to bring two men to the mill; this was why he had the boy from the Blackwater Outfit along. But, as the shadows deepened, he was obliged to make a choice: bring in the villain himself, or no one at all. Easy decision. The younger outlaw waited outside, instructed to hoot like a barred owl if the proprietor of the woolmill turned up to his appointment.

He never did.

The robber who crossed poor Miss Brown – that angel of whom Smith was so dearly fond, and Shiloh, too, not only because Smith liked her so well but because she’d cooed to him awful sweet about his wounded paw! – that robber clanked around in his kitchen come evening and whipped himself up a pot of pintos cooked in recycled fat. The smell seeped through the swollen floorboards to the second story, where Shiloh smoothed his gloved hand across the brother’s bed. There’d been a wife at some point, judging by a second divot in the featherbed. Long gone – else her brother-in-law wouldn’t be reusing week old fatback and gnawing cornbread so dry it fouled to grit in his mouth. There wouldn’t have been plates in the sink slimy with congealed grease, flies buzzing ‘round gravy that’d turned two days earlier.

Shiloh walked when Abner walked. Cat work. Waited for the man to piss off the back porch. Waited for him to suck down a little whiskey, to have a smoke. Then he came a-plonking up the stairs, sluggish. The coyote’s heart beat in time, composed. He leaned his back to the wall behind the bedroom door and waited coiled hair-trigger like a viper.

Abner ambled in, and Shiloh waited. He unfastened his suspenders, unbuttoned his shirt and let it slough off his shoulders to the floor, then he kicked his boots off, and Shiloh waited.

The robber unbuckled his belt which slumped around his boots, and Shiloh waited.

The man’s trousers slouched down to his calves, leaving him in his long underwear, and Shiloh swept out of the dark to kick the back of his knee in. Abner dropped to the floor with a startled grunt the outlaw cut off when he squeezed his windpipe shut, clasping his neck between his forearm and bicep while the other hand shoved a dirty sock he’d plucked off the floor into the man’s mouth when it gaped like a bass’. This was the part where he’d ordinarily insert a knife into Abner’s back and twist it. Bring the matter to a swift end and go about his night, or else while away last the hours ‘til sunrise shoveling dirt into a hole he’d dug ahead of time. But tonight was different – he needed to bring this man to Smith and Howard alive, and that meant he wasn’t to stick a knife anyplace. So, he mollified his mouse with, “Shh, shh,” and pressed his cheek to the back of his head as though coddling a child out of a nightmare.

Abner was not especially broad, and he was shorter than Shiloh. He was stronger, anyway, blessed with dogged strength that kicked in under pressure. This possibility had been anticipated, but not to the degree it came true. Abner rose from the floor, and soon Shiloh was rising with him, boots hoisted off the floorboards before his deceptively muscular target slammed them both against the bedroom wall.

He dropped down, toed the floorboards, averted a second impact by kicking away from the wall. Cue the ballet, his feet swept off the ground, stomach swooping when Abner tangled his ankles in his downed pants and they collapsed onto the bed in a flurry of scattered feathers. Shiloh grasped for the breath crushed out of him, then the bedstead gave before he could catch it and they fell a second time.

He dovetailed his ankles around Abner's and they were like a pair of blacksnakes mid-coitus in May. He could smell the pork fat in Abner's greasy sweat and could barely find purchase on him now that it glistened a thin film over the man’s skin. Still, H-O-L-D and F-A-S-T held on for dear life, and the robber couldn’t obtain the range of movement to crack Shiloh’s ribs with his elbow. His face turned from red to purple and he tongued at the sock in his mouth, but Shiloh clamped his paw across it til the salty wool clogged halfway down his throat.

“I need your help with something,” Shiloh said when fireworks popped off behind Abner's eyes. He gripped a handful of his moist black hair, letting the man dislodge his sock gag just enough to almost suck in a gasp of air. Almost. His arm was still a vice around his throat. “...And I’ll let go. Sound good?”

He gave him an opportunity to answer, but Abner could not. (He did make a few animal groans, to his credit.)

“Nothing complicated: You open up the mill office. Let me and my friends in. We tie you up, leave you good’n whole. Law finds you in the morning; you’ve got a story you can tell for years to come.”

This time, Abner replied, but it was nigh indecipherable. Damn you to hell, shit-stain, probably, or some alternative of get proper fucked.

Shiloh relented ‘til he could sneak a little breath around the dirty sock. Took his hand out of his hair and drew the pistol from his belt to wedge the barrel into his kidney. “Feel that?”

The robber swore at him again.

“Know what that is?” He half-cocked the hammer and waited for Abner to bob his head. “You over-imbibed,” Shiloh went on, craning his neck, then farther still when Abner’ hair clung to his scruffy chin. When he’d escaped the wispy clinging hairs, he let up in earnest and yanked the wet sock from the robber’s mouth. “Your friend’ll hold you up. You’ve got a lot of friends waiting for you, as a matter of fact. Some of ‘em the law; some just plain haints in the night.” Neither was true; the only backup he had within earshot was the other outlaw. “So, picture it: you try something, I pull the trigger. You know what a bullet does to internal organs? It goes in real neat and out real messy. Drags your bowels out with it, like the stinger out of a honeybee. You bleed out in minutes, and it hurts to where you can’t make a sound; not a peep, hard as you try. Ugly business. So, you lean on me – we rob the mill, nobody dies thrashing on the street holding his entrails in his hands.” Brightly, “C’mon.”

Abner swaggered to his feet, glaring daggers, hands hoisted at shoulder level.

“Pants,” Shiloh suggested, waving the gun at the discarded pair next to the collapsed bed before he trained it on the robber again. Then, “Shirt,” and he did not need to tell him to put his hat or boots on. Wisely, Abner didn’t go for his belt.

Cat work: when the mouse is caught, you play with him ‘til he doesn’t hold your attention anymore. This is when you realize you were never all that hungry in the first place, so you bite off his head and leave the rest for somebody else to clean up.

#original writing #western #creative writing #writing share #writing excerpt #original fiction #shiloh #davywrites

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imogenkol · 1 year

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— OCS AS HISTORICAL ROMANCE HERO ARCHETYPES

tagged by @corvosattano @jackiesarch @inafieldofdaisies to do this uquiz and I found it way too entertaining to do it for my she/her fuckbois (+ a token Boy boy) thank you lovelies 💕💕💕

tagging: @jillvalentinesday @marivenah @kyber-infinitygems @chuckhansen @adelaidedrubman @voidika @queennymeria @shegetsburned @risingsh0t @shellibisshe @indorilnerevarine @socially-awkward-skeleton @florbelles @aceghosts @simonxriley @v0idbuggy @unholymilf @roofgeese @shallow-gravy

GENTLEMAN IN THE STREETS, FREAK IN THE SHEETS

He's a GENTLEMAN. He has STANDARDS. He will not abide by a single WRINKLE in his trousers. But he willlllll fuck you from behind while fish-hooking your mouth and leaving bruises. That's just how he rolls. A coveted type, this gentleman puts on a stern facade and doesn't have a lot of patience for nonsense--but he's also solicitous, polite, and seemingly respectful. Until you give him a bit of lip in the garden. Never go with him to the garden. Or DEFINITELY go with him to the garden, if you want to get defiled. Which, let's be real, you absolutely do. This hero will wipe cum off your tits with the most expensive handkerchief known to man, fold it and place it in his pocket, and be like, "I apologize; I was quite overwhelmed by your charms. Gentleman recs: "The Duke Gets Even" by Joanna Shupe, "The Duke Who Knew Too Much" by Grace Callaway, "Waking Up with the Duke" by Lorraine Heath, "The Earl I Ruined" by Scarlett Peckham, "The Truth About Cads and Dukes" by Elisa Braden

THE SCOT

"Get on your (yer) hands and knees lass" is something you have a 60% chance of reading in a Scottish historical, and honestly? Bless. These heroes are from Scotland, which is in historical romances, "England but with an autumnal vibe" or "England but they do manual labor while also being rich and titled". They're usually (always) FUCKIN' GIGANTIC, a bit rougher around the edges, and more down to earth. Is this all stereotyping? Yes. Are they probably going to deliver a baby animal, go "look at its wee legs" and then fuck you in a stable? Yeah for sure. Scot recs: "When A Scot Ties the Knot" by Tessa Dare, "When A Girl Loves an Earl" by Elisa Braden ("put yer filthy Scot inside ye"), "The Taming a Highlander" by Elisa Braden, the entire Highland Guard series by Monica McCarty, "The Madness of Lord lan Mackenzie" by Jennifer Ashley, "When A Girl Loves an Earl" by Stacy Reid

THE TORTURED HERO

Look--he just doesn't wanna talk about it. The tortured hero has a dark past, which probably involves his childhood, may involve one or both of his parents dying (or a dead wife), and will be withheld from you for at least the first half of the book. He fucks like an absolute demon (usually to make you forget about the questions you asked regarding his scars; it's effective), he may have nightmares where he says what you think is his old lover's name so you steam about it for 20-50 pages and he's like "no, that's my childhood dog, which I had to eat when food became scarce", maybe his dad didn't love him, and he is more likely to be self made than some other heroes. Though he may also be a duke whose actions had consequences. There's a *distinct* possibility that he's mentally unwell, but everyone needs love. Your one big issue is that he... may not think he's worthy of touching you with his filthy hands. Somehow, you must overcome this. Tortured recs: "My Darling Duke" by Stacy Reid, "Dreaming of You" by Lisa Kleypas, "A Lady for a Duke" by Alexis Hall, "Pippa and the Prince of Secrets" by Grace Callaway, "Duke of Midnight" by Elizabeth Hoyt, "The Duke I Tempted" by Scarlett Peckham, "A Rogue by Any Other Name" by Sarah MacLean

THE GOOD GUY

Isn't that great for you? The good guy isn't a NICE guy. He doesn't expect sexual favors because he's nice to you; and he's so charming, he can probably get laid elsewhere. He may have a tragic backstory and a fatal flaw, but that's not going to get him down. He doesn't play at alpha male bullshit, and he may not be a duke, or a lord, or the owner of the world's first department store. But he's a Solid Guy. He will love, honor, and obey, and he will NOT! Do a nonsense. He will, however, eat pussy. He's a good guy. Good guy recs: "Unclaimed" by Courtney Milan, "Scandal in Spring" by Lisa Kleypas, "My Fake Rake" by Eva Leigh, "Unmasked by the Marquess" by Cat Sebastian

#oc insp: imogen kol #oc insp: eddy #oc insp: jayde thatcher #oc insp: kåre battle born #why are these all SO accurate #Eddy being assigned Scottish by uquiz lmao #Vaune also got the scot but that’s cause of her massive strap

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nocompromise-noregrets · 2 months

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Hello. For the emoji ask game, I'd like to ask you these questions.

🍫 Cheese or chocolate?

🐶 Are you more of a dog person or a cat person?

👖 Jeans or sweatpants?

💎 What’s your most prized possession?

☕ Coffee or tea?

wheee thank you for asking! <333333

🍫 Cheese or chocolate? Both. I cannot possibly choose. XD I particularly like a really extra mature cheddar, and dark chocolate, but I'll eat almost any kind except blue cheese

🐶 Are you more of a dog person or a cat person? Cats! We had four, we're down to one (Last Cat Standing, our ancient grumpy little 18-year-old man), and when we finally have to take him to the vet for the last time (many years in the future I hope), we'll be straight down the shelter for more.

👖 Jeans or sweatpants? Jeans if I'm leaving the house (black, skinny, I will wear no other kind), pyjama trousers if I'm not. I do not like sweats/joggers at all.

💎 What’s your most prized possession? I don't know. I have a lot of things I love, a lot of things that remind me of people I love, but I couldn't choose one over all the others. Although the signed copy of my hero's autobiography in which I am quoted (from my brief career as a fanzine writer a million years ago) is probably up there. XD

☕ Coffee or tea? Coffee. I cannot abide tea, it is the devil's mouthwash and the smell makes me feel physically ill. Coffee, though...nice and strong, proper coffee, no instant (tastes like gravy browning), a spoon of brown sugar and a splash of milk, perfect.

Thank you! <333333 Anyone else fancy sending me some emojis? :D

#ask game #go on #ask me stuff!

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prettybluelites · 11 months

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Thoughts: Fun and Games

Started this last night, accidentally deleted it, got annoyed and went to bed.

Take two.

Yes Stede, the head butt was absolutely on purpose, but not because it was you, rather because a fearsome pirate woke up from a traumatic-on-every-level experience with someone hovering over him, six inches from his face. Ed would have head butted anyone on sheer instinct.

Fascinated by Buttons choosing to check in with Ed about his gravy basket experience, and you can tell Buttons sorta understands that Ed did have a vision, even if Ed doesn't say as much. Also, Buttons has been there a few times himself? Can you get there only through massive physical injury or can you like take a vision quest?

All well and good that the unicorn can't hear without a head, but probably a bigger selling point for Izzy is that it can't talk back

The crew's at a deadlock? Really? They sounded pretty firmly in favor of banishment. Did Stede just want to make sure Izzy got to have a say?

How many takes did they have to do with the sandwich, and was "sammie" scripted or improvised? I need to know.

On a serious note, how Stede's heart must have hurt to see Ed look at him like that

How fucked up and re-traumatizing for Ed to have his lil bunny friend snatched out from under his nose mere seconds after telling it that it would always be safe with him

Did I mention how the costumes keep getting better and better? Minnie Driver looks absolutely spectacular

In Stede's place I would have been scared to death to accept Anne and Mary's dinner invitation, solely on the basis of their predatory grins, but I guess love is stronger than all that

Also stronger than Ed pelting him with backhanded comments all evening

Love the incongruity of Roach talking about reminding the other crew of their value and safety while brandishing a cleaver

Whatever either Stede or Ed was expecting from the evening, it sure wasn't this

"Actually, I was planning on killing him myself" - subtext: still might if sufficiently provoked

Stede's expression when Ed says he regretted shaving his beard - so like his expression when Ed finds him on the beach in Ep9

Taika is so good in this whole scene. The tiny, tiny change in his expression when Stede says he likes his new beard, it's like he's processing that this is happening and willing himself to remain objective. And then Stede asks about the gravy basket and it snaps him back to reality and causes him to turn abrupt/short when he says he's fine. Good stuff.

Not gonna lie, I kinda hate the scene with the pinata and the cake. I get the point, but it feels clunky to me. I do appreciate everyone struggling with the concept of a safe space, lol, and I would love to know what exactly the "fucked up sleeping arrangements" are.

Another costuming note: Lucius is wearing the hell out of those high-waisted trousers.

I personally would not have described Stede as an "artsy outsider," but from Mary's POV I kinda get it, "artsy" sounds a bit derisive, like artsy-fartsy, and outsider sounds like...well, not a pirate. If that's Ed's type, I'd love to know about past outsiders he's been involved with. Likewise, I'm fascinated by Ed calling Stede "fragile" - he's clearly not meaning it as weak, but as fine/delicate. He says it so fondly. :)

Offering relationship advice by saying that everything will be rosy for a while and then eventually, inevitably, it's all going to go to hell and you're going to be left attempting murder to "keep things fresh" is, ah, kind of upsetting. Anne's tactic is upsetting too but at least "let's make them jealous" isn't explicitly violent.

It's really important to me that Roach (along with Fang) is one of the first to try to help Izzy up, same as he was the first to approach Buttons when Karl got killed. He really is tender as hell. :)

In my previous post, I mentioned how Ed still doesn't know that Mary wasn't the whole reason Stede didn't come to the dock - and I want to know, what's going to set off Stede's PTSD? We've seen the crew grappling with theirs and Ed is a walking ball of it. Stede's kinda been skating over everyone else's damage and he hasn't really even touched his own. He says he panicked, and admits he went back to his wife, but the part where he was abducted at gunpoint and nearly murdered is a pretty key part of the narrative. Taking a wild guess that's going to come up when we meet Prince Ricky again. And it's going to lead us into the Season Finale which SHIT I do not want to think about yet.

Others have probably already connected these dots but I'm obsessed with the fact that the blanket that Ed is hiding under so strikingly resembles the Battle Jacket. It should be renamed the Ed Teach is Lovable Jacket.

I just love me some everything about this scene. I love Stede's confidence in making himself heard and I love how throughout their talk Ed comes out from under the blanket, then sits up, then turns toward Stede by degrees, and finally gives that tiny, tiny, sad smile. And the dialogue is beautiful and heartfelt and Rhys and Taika just take it to a wonderful place.

My blood runs cold on Ed and Stede's behalf when Anne and Mary bust in on them, honest to god.

Oh, Izzy. *sniffle*

Ed and Stede both so adorkable negotiating where Ed's going to spend the night

I was honestly not crazy about the whole avian transmogrification thing at first, but the more I've thought about it, the more I like it. Buttons is completely confident in his ability to pull it off and in his reason for doing it - which is, of course, love. His pointing out to Ed that love requires change/growth is just a sweet touch. Was Buttons a "good" first mate? Who knows? Was he a decent human and apparently a legit vessel of magic? I think yes.

Also, if you're going to write a character out of your story, changing them into a bird is a bang-up way to do it. No klutzy off-screen death for Buttons.

Also also, I think it's worth remembering that Zheng uses carrier birds. I predict avian espionage in the future. And no, gulls were not used as carrier birds, but we all know Djenks has been hand-wavy about bigger things.

Izzy...is himself again. Also, loving the casual acknowledgement that there's been at least one other person on the Revenge this whole time who could read :P

My week is going to be insane so I might do Episode 5 tonight and get it out of the way. Thanks for reading!

#ofmd #ofmd s2 #ofmd s2 spoilers #our flag means death #fun and games #ofmd s2e4

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morulezopelforever · 10 months

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El Sopo & Friends - Dancing and Partying in Tbilisi

Here are some tidbits from my new ATWD fanfic, which is part of a series but which can be read as an individual story as well. It involves trick-or-treating at Halloween, a party at Sopo's restaurant (El Sopo, the only Tex-Mex eatery in the Caucasus) and some unexpected romantic enhancement for Merab, Mary and Irakli!

A Halloween charity run.

When they were back on the pavement Irakli, Merab and Ninutsa lit cigarettes and checked Sopo’s goodie bag. It was fairly full after dozens of visits at various houses. Most people had given dinner leftovers. ‘The boiled potatoes and the khinkali are all smushed,’ Sopo grumbled. ‘And they gave us gravy, too, without a Tupperware box…Yuck, those chocolates are fucked. It smells revolting.’

Aleko was the treasurer. He counted the pecuniary donations. ‘Five euros, seventeen lari and six hundred Austrian shillings.’ He frowned. ‘Oh damn, those are worthless. The currency was abolished over twenty years ago. But still, people give from the goodness of their hearts and we should all be grateful.’

Sopo flung the bag onto the pavement and trampled on it with her Mexican boots. ‘It’s nothing, bloody nothing!’ she growled. ‘Makes me wonder why I bothered to come along.’

Merab smiled at her. She had recently quit smoking and had been in a continuous state of PMS ever since, as David put it. But she smiled back at Merab. It’s because I’m looking so cute in my old corduroy coat and the tartan cap, he thought.

He had Doggie with him on a leash. She was wearing a pumpkin costume that looked absolutely adorable on her. It had earned her some dog treats from nice people earlier on. It was a pity that Sopo had devoured them. Now that Sopo no longer smoked she had the most outrageous food cravings.

****

Sopo is throwing a costume party dressed as Madame de Pompadour. Pity her friends aren't.

The environment and its first visitors where looking pleasant. David had shaved his upper lip and his chin clean, leaving only hair on his cheeks. He had donned a top hat, a black suit with a white collar and a cloak. Nino was dressed as a chimney sweeper with a cardboard ladder and a brush on a string attached to her jacket. She was a luck charm.

Mary was very Victorian. Her hair was parted and braided into buns over her ears. The plainness of her black dress suggested grateful servitude. Dear Mary. She had graduated with a master diploma from London Uni a few weeks ago, but she had come home for good and she did not like it. Her boyfriend Stanley was still in England. Sopo’s heart ached for her.

The ache turned into ire when Irakli entered the room from the kitchen. He had been working at his (her) pub next door and never bothered to change into fancy dress. In his wake was a yellow something – yes, something.

‘Why are you wearing an Ajax Amsterdam shirt?’ she snapped at him. ‘They plummeted in the Dutch National League last year. You’re supposed to look extravagant tonight, not embarrassing.’

Irakli shied away wordlessly, and then the yellow something stepped forward and kissed her exuberantly, nearly causing her to lose her wig. ‘Happy birthday, Sopo!’ he piped.

‘Merab, why the eff are you wearing a Pikachu suit?’ she fumed.

He shrugged. ‘Akh, the rental agency was all but cleaned out by the other guests. They only had this thing left, apart from Playboy bunny or dictator costumes.’

When Aleko walked in she lost it. He was wearing a chokha over a plain shirt and press-fold trousers, no fancy dress, just traditional Georgian garb. He must be getting senile.

‘Happy birthday!’ he said to her. ‘What a nice party this is…Oh hello Merab, hello Irakli!’

Her madness now took over. ‘Bow down and pay your respect to Madame de Sopodour!’ she shrieked at the three freaks. ‘Bow down and acknowledge my superior being!’

They obeyed and sank onto their knees before her. Merab instantly assumed the role of the poor citizen. ‘But milady, how could we? We can’t even afford bread! Akh, have mercy!’

‘If you can’t buy bread, have khachapuri,’ she snarled. ‘And begone, or else my faithful valet shall slay you!’

***

David is sorting out some clean washing.

David was sitting on a bench outside the kitchen porch of the restaurant with a large basket of washing beside him. When he heard the clicking of Irakli’s leather soles, he looked up with a bleary gaze. Irakli felt a pang of guilt, but he was going to make good for this morning’s success, so he clutched his gift bag and sat down on the bench. The basket was between them, creating a certain distance as had been custom ever since the pandemic, but he was still close enough to elicit a grumbled greeting from the other man.

‘Bro, you smell like a duty-free airport perfumery.’

Irakli sensed David’s unintentional hostility, fished a pack of Astras out of the bag and offered him a cigarette as a token of reconciliation.

They both lit up, blew out smoke and stared at the mess in the courtyard.

‘I-rak-li…!’ a venomous, high-pitched voice sounded from the flat over Mr. Beerakli’s Pub. ‘Did I tell you that you could take my car this morning to drop off Aleko at the airport and to meet your idiotic business partners? I didn’t, did I?’

‘It’s O.K., Merab, I’m only having a smoke with your brother!’ Irakli roared back. ‘I’ll be up in a sec.’

Merab now leaned over the railing of the veranda on the first floor. He was dressed in faded house clothes and wearing an old rag on his head like a bandanna. In his right hand he held a mop as if it were a spear. He looked at Irakli and David and then at his Mercedes, snorted and went back inside.

‘Merab has continuously suffered from PMS ever since he quit smoking,’ David observed. ‘I never knew that men could be like this…’ He sighed. ‘Well, Sopo has kicked the habit as well, and she’s in no better state, but it’s different with women.’

Irakli nodded, too confused to speak. He had been with women, he knew how they were, but all this had turned into a parallel universe ever since he had been in love with Merab. Love was supposed to be a ride in the sky, a fun fair of joy and bliss, but in Tbilisi, or rather in this little realm that was completely owned and ruled by Sopo, it was overtaken by everyday life, and everyday life in modern Tbilisi meant that men not only suffered when their lovers were doing major cleaning, but were also expected to help with household chores.

#and then we danced #merab x irakli #atwd #ao3 fanfic

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veryveryverytemporarily · 2 years

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Christmas fic preview; hospital fic

Can’t you see I’m burning, burning

‘Doctor’s Christmas party; Friday night. They say it’s the best party of the year; wild, terrible music of course, as far as I recall.’ Mike the Chef squinted upwards, where, following his gaze Aaron could see the leak in the ward kitchen ceiling, below it on the ground a bucket intended for sterilizing equipment, now redeployed and a third full of grey water that Mike jokingly referred to as ‘the gravy’. ‘Y’all coming, right?’ he added now.

‘I dunno,’ Aaron shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly in the mood for parties these days.’

‘Oh, you mean your uncle. How is he?’

‘Improving, the doctor says.’

‘Well then, that’s settled it: - He’s better - you deserve to let your hair down for a change; and it’s Christmas! You’re on shift that day and so am I; we can change into our glad rags and go together. I’ll get Colin’s doggie day care to stay over. And think about it; you could score; I imagine he’s coming!’

Mike raised his rather thick eyebrows meaningfully, which, Aaron conceded, were one of his best features if you were into his type, which, thankfully, he wasn’t.

They both peered down the long corridor of the acute cardiac ward where Aaron had just delivered a new patient from A&E and was taking an empty bed back when he’d been stopped by Mike as he passed the kitchen.

The ward charge nurse had just erected a Christmas tree with rather garish rainbow tinsel, but beyond that they could see the huddle of consultant, cardiographers, junior doctors and the ward nurses doing the rounds.

The ‘he’ Mike had referred to wasn’t there; well, course he wouldn’t be, why would he be in a cardiac ward? - Dr Alex Mason, Aaron’s so-called crush, was a pediatrician and would logically hang out in the children’s ward. Just once he’d seen him here, treating a teenager with endocarditis, which was when Mike had noticed him looking, and decided to crystallize what had been a casual appreciation into a thing.

Aaron had objected, but that had only encouraged Mike further, so he’d decided the best strategy was to stay silent until Mike got bored of it.

Not that Dr. Alex wasn’t amiably attractive; he was tall, he had nice hair, but what difference did it make? Paddy had said as much when he’d told them about the new job.

‘So, does this mean you’ll be bringing home some cute doctor for Christmas? Well, not doctor, probably more likely a nurse; not that you don’t deserve a doctor… nurses are nice though, doctors are a bit… What… what…what I mean is you’ll have a big pool to meet someone new in. I mean; not swimming pool, hospitals don’t have pools. Or at least only for sports injuries and you don’t have a sports injury thanks god….’

‘Shut up, Paddy,’ his Mum had said.

She’d turned back to Aaron. ‘Well done getting a new job, love, and we’d be more than happy to set another place at the table for Christmas lunch. It’s been a while since you got back from France; time to put yourself out there and maybe meet someone special.’

Well, he’d got the message: Doctors were out of his league, even his family thought so.

‘See you around,’ Aaron said now to Mike the chef. He placed both hands on the head rail of the empty bed he was pushing and put his shoulder into it. It was a narrow squeeze outside the kitchen with the trolleys of cutlery and condiments taking up space.

Ahead of him the door to the ward popped open.

A blond junior doctor swept in, twisting as he replaced his name tag - which he’d presumably used to swipe himself through the ward entrance - into the badge holder at the belt loop of his deliciously tight trousers.

Realizing his path was blocked, the junior doctor stopped, hands on hips. His fair lashes blinked over crystal eyes and his freckled lips tightened.

Aaron stood calmly. He wouldn’t reverse, not for anyone, thanks. Well, not for a junior doctor who was obviously late.

The blond flicked up his index finger and pointed at the kitchen trolley,

‘It’s pure logic, if you have the capacity,’ he said. ‘Just move it and I can come past.’

Aaron arched his eyebrows, but it was Mike who grabbed the trolley and yanked it round the bend into the kitchen and out of the way.

The junior doctor stepped through the gap turning sideways as he passed Aaron. The fabric of his shirt stretched in horizontal creases over his chest, and for a moment Aaron imagined he could see right through it. He looked up; their eyes met and held. He caught a whiff of luxurious shower gel with a hint of masculine sweat.

And then the doctor turned again and next thing he was down the corridor, joining the others on their rounds as Mike and he watched. They saw him make a quick apology to the consultant who briefly looked out of sorts before replacing his glasses and looking at some notes.

‘Now there’s a doctor I could get behind. Did you see that tush? I’ll call you junior; you can call me daddy,’ Mike murmured. ‘Gay?’ They saw the blonde lean over and whisper something to a female cardiographer who smiled back. ‘Not gay. What a loss to mankind. Still a chef can dream.’

Aaron reflected that Mike wasn’t really a chef; he might have been one in some previous existence but here he was merely a food service assistant, but everyone allowed him to be known as Mike the Chef in some sort of medieval nomenclature. But he let it go. At this rate he was going to be late. And he didn’t want to be out of work by Christmas, he shuddered imaging his Mum’s shattered dreams.

He placed his hands on the bed rails again, ready to leave, then turned a last time to glance over his shoulder; as if sensing it, the blond doctor looked up.

There was a thud from inside the kitchen.

‘Oh no! I kicked the bucket; the gravy bucket!’ Mike said. ‘Friday night! Christmas party! Now there’s a new incentive to attend,’ he added.

‘I’ll think about it,’ Aaron said, and finally wheeled the bed out into the main corridor of the hospital back towards A&E.

#robron #christmas fic preview #my writing

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umbralsound-xiv · 1 year

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Last Supper.

A waver of breath sees Eir wake, the uneasy feeling in his head quick to make itself known the instant conciousness found him. Nausea crept up his throat as the memories flooded back, beginning to quickly process all he had endured the last his eyes were open.

His legs had been broken. He’d seen them. Felt them, and the agony the held.

So why now didn’t they hurt?

Tentatively, Eir slowly pushes himself up to sitting, a hand on the stone floor to aid himself. It was just as cold as ever, something of a small comfort to him, but everything else felt somewhat amiss. He’d awoken in the middle of the room, flat on his back, rather than favoring a wall. What was the last thing, the very last thing he rememebered?

With a grimace, he brings a hand to the side of his head. He remembered a sharp pain hitting him, but even that too, was now gone. Confusion takes his features, and he quickly realises that the hand he’d pushed himself up with no longer hurt.

Eir brings it up to his face to inspect it. The skin was still angry, red... But the pain was gone. With a short inhale to brace himself, he moves to wiggle the once-broken digit, and it moves just as it had before it was broken.

His eyes cast to his legs, then. He couldn’t see them properly beneath his trousers, but could see them enough to know that his feet at least no longer pointed the wrong direction. Eir begins by wiggling his toes to only numbing discomfort, before he testingly bends one leg at the knee.

It doesn’t hurt. At least, no more than a dull ache. The other follows, and then both are tentatively outstretched. They don’t hurt any longer, and Eir begins to wonder if they’d ever been broken at all. He brings a hand up to trace along the bone of his shin, and finds no imperfection.

Eir pauses for a moment, then. Considering. It did not hurt, and it didn’t feel broken. Tentatively, he shuffles to the closest wall, and slowly backs up against it to stand.

No pain. They don’t hurt anymore. He walks a length of the cell, and then a lap, and then once again a little faster. If his legs were ever broken, they certainly weren’t now. Sometime between all his running and pacing, appreciating the relative freedom of movement more than he had in some time, he’d failed to hear a familiar pair of metal boots arrive at his door; only when the lock was turned did he use this newfound speed to launch himself at the far wall, staring.

He said he’d break them again.

All of a sudden the terror is too much, and as a thought to hide them, as though it would protect him, Eir sits on the floor, tucking his knees against his chest to keep them close.

The lock turns and opens, and Vairg’s head is the first thing that pokes up through the door, much to Eir’s horror. Mismatched eyes look him up and down... Before he finally slinks in, and closes the door behind him.

“The healers did their job, then.”

No response. Eir simply stares at him, hoping to hide away in a crack in the wall. Every footstep Vairg takes closer, he shrinks away further; but the small rattle of a tray is quick to take his attention. He eyes it warily, as Vairg sets it in front of him.

“Not hungry? It’ll keep. Though you really should eat something more... Substantial than you have. Go on. Take it.” His voice sings with some uncharacteristic pleasantry that didn’t seem to belong there.

A shank of meat stuck at an angle out of a bowl of mashed popotoes, covered in some rich gravy that had made the groan in Eir’s stomach all that more apparent. Anything was better than the food they’d been given here; some indescribable bowl of grey mush that seemed to stick to every surface in an unappetising way, and no utensils to eat it with. He’d have taken military rations in a heartbeat.

“It isn’t poisoned. There’s no fun in that.” Vairg sneers, though seems to give half a frown as Eir doesn’t move for it. He instead rises to his feet with an indifferent roll of his shoulders, and makes for the door, locking it behind him.

Eir’s gaze darts back to the meal, then. What was the purpose of this? To lull him into some false sense of security? Some kind of apology? He doubts it, and were the ache in his stomach not so great he might have considered abandoning it completely. What would he have to lose for eating it?

...If they’d have poisoned him, maybe that would have been a less painful way to go. But even he believed the Viera’s words when he’d spoken them.

He reaches to the tray, and pulls it closer.

And silently wishes he’d had someone to share it with.

#Muse: [Eir]#Chapter: [Midnight Hour]#[What We Want Most]#FFXIV #IC #Writing #Short Story

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charmsandtealeaves · 2 years

Text

Ministry of Magic Monthlies | October 2022: Fall and Spooky

Prompt: [Object] A new jumper/sweater

Read it on AO3

Summary: Remus jumpers keep going missing… the culprit? Sirius Black.

Words: 1,350

Photo by Eugene Golovesov on Unsplash

Sleeping Sweaters

Remus Lupin was the sort of bloke who had a jumper or cardigan for every occasion. In his early years his friends had playfully mocked him for it mercilessly. It’s a little breezy out? Cardigan. The leaves have started to change colour? Jumper. It’s Halloween? Festive Jumper. Just because? Jumper. Remus noticed a distinct lack of teasing by fourth year, when it became apparent that the girls liked to steal hoodies, jumpers and jackets owned by their significant others. Suddenly jumpers seemed to be the new trend. The fad eventually died down, but Remus started noticing in sixth year that his jumpers were going missing. Everytime he got his washing back from the house elves he seemed to be missing one or two he distinctly remembered putting in his hamper. Especially his favourite one. It was a slightly too big cable knit jumper in dark green. Every time he washed it, it would go missing for a few days and pop up again in places he didn’t remember leaving it. The shrieking shack, the bathroom floor, hanging from the end of his four poster bed. It was starting to drive him mental! Had he somehow managed to piss off the house elves in some way? Or was it just one of his roommates playing a prank? The likely candidate was Sirius. The last time it had turned up under his bed.

Frustrated to no end, the next time Remus put it in the washing he put it in his hamper for washing he made sure to bury it deep, sandwiching it right in the middle. That way if Sirius was the culprit he would have to do some serious digging. As expected, when his fresh laundry appeared the following night, clean and folded neatly on the end of his bed. The jumper was missing. He’d had it! Remus thundered his way down to the kitchens where the house elves congregated. Letting himself in by tickling the pear on the portrait blocking the entrance. The kitchens were busy with preparations for the Halloween feast. Steam billowed from pots boiling on the stove and the whole room smelled blissfully of roasted pumpkin and garlic. The aroma made his mouth water and stomach rumble. He called to one of the passing elves who were loading gravy boats onto the grand tables, ready to be sent up to each house in the great hall.

“Does Mr Lupin need something sir?” The elf asked.

“I was just wondering who did the laundry for Gryffindor Tower last. I seem to be missing something.” Remus told the elf.

“Socks sir? Socks is always going missing at Hogwarts.” questioned the elf.

“A jumper. A green one.” replied Remus.

“Hmmm that is most unusual. Tinker usually does Gryffindors laundry.” the elf hummed. “TINKER!”

Tinker popped his head up from the end of the table assigned to hufflepuff and scrambled over to where Remus and the other elf were discussing the missing jumper.

“Tinker. Mr Lupin is missing a green jumper. Are you sure you returned all the laundry correctly?”

“Absolutely. Tinker is most careful with students' things. Especially clothes. He has not laundered a green jumper. He is sure.” Tinker nodded enthusiastically.

The house elves were not prone to lying. As far as Remus was aware, he didn’t think it was possible for them to lie when asked questions directly. Apologising for the misunderstanding Remus departed the kitchen. Looking forward to the feast that was later to delight he was sure. He marched his way back grumpily to the boys dormitory. Remus knew for certain that jumper had been in his hamper. If the elves didn’t have it, someone had hidden it. Remus withdrew his wand from his trouser pocket.

“Accio green jumper!” he cast.

The green jumper came flying at him from the direction of Sirius’ bed. Knocking the pillows off it as zoomed from its little hiding spot. Remus gave it a cursory sniff. It was musky and certainly not clean. Which meant Sirius had pinched it before it was laundered. Enough was enough. If Sirius liked his jumper so much Remus would buy him his own.

The very next Hogsmeade trip, Remus excused himself before the marauders headed for their usual round of butterbeers in The Three Broomsticks. He entered Gladrag’s Wizardwear and found an almost carbon copy of his jumper. Pleased with his purchase he returned to enjoy a butterbeer with his friends. Making no mention of the stolen jumper. When they got back to the castle and readying themselves for bed, Lupin folded the new jumper and placed it on Sirius’ pillow before climbing into his own bed.

The following morning Remus awoke to find the new jumper placed neatly on his bedside table. Confused, he looked towards Sirius’ bed. The hangings were open, bed unmade but no Sirius to be seen. Remus swung her legs over the side of his bed, took the jumper and slipped his feet into a pair of slippers. Descending the stairs of the dormitories to the common room he spotted Sirius sat directly in front of the fireplace, legs crossed, staring into the flickering flames. Sirius was also still wearing his pyjamas, except his feet were bare. Remus chucked the jumper at him, hitting him in the head and shaking him from his reverie.

“Didn’t you like it?” Remus asked.

“I mean I do. But it’s yours isn’t it?” replied Sirius.

“That didn’t stop you nicking my last one. I bought this one for you”

“So I’d stop stealing the first one?” Sirius asked.

“Pretty much.” Remus shrugged “Not being able to find it when I wanted it was starting to piss me off.”

Sirius hung his head low. Shielding his gaze from Remus.

“I’ll stop. I’m sorry. I was hoping you hadn’t noticed.” Sirius murmured. Remus took a few steps closer to Sirius, trying to read his face.

“You hoped I wouldn’t notice my favourite jumper missing?”

“If I’d known it was your favourite I would never have taken it, Moony.” Sirius said seriously.

“Well you’ve got your own now. If you liked it so much you could have just said.” Remus laughed half-heartedly.

“I didn’t steal it because I wanted my own”

“Then why?” asked Remus.

“Because I like to sleep in it sometimes. For comfort. Because it smells like you. Because I’m a freak like that” Sirius’ voice was barely above a whisper.

“Pads you’re not a freak for finding comfort in something like that” Remus consoled, collapsing to a seat beside Sirius who was still refusing to make eye contact with him.

“I am.” Sirius sniffed. Remus realised he was trying to hold back tears. He tried to place a comforting hand on Sirius’ shoulder but Sirius shrugged him off.

“I like you Moony.”

“I like you too Pads” said Remus comforting him.

“No. No.” Sirius replied despairingly “You don’t understand. I like you like you.”

“As in romantically?” he queried.

“Yeah” Sirius released a breath he hadn’t quite realised he’d been holding. It was like the elephant that had been sitting on his chest had lifted. But the gravity of the words he had uttered were coming down on him like a ton of bricks.

“What’s so freakish about that?” Remus asked kindly “Would you think me freaky if I said the same?”

“Huh?”

“You’re such a dope.” Remus pushed him playfully “You realise you could have told me a lot sooner instead of stealing my shit. I’ve crushed on you for years.”

“Seriously?” asked Sirius in disbelief.

“Seriously.” Remus reaffirmed. “Tell you what. I can rotate the jumpers. That way you always have a smelly sleeping sweater. Deal?”

“You’d do that?” said Sirius.

“So long as you promise to actually chuck them in the wash one in a while.”

Sirius lunged at Remus and caught him in a deep bear hug. Stunned at first by the sheer force that he’d been hit with, Remus staggered in place. But he returned the embrace, swamping Sirius in an embrace that made his heart race and everything was a little more alright in the world.

#Charms Library #prompted fic #wolfstar

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bilbobagginshome · 2 years

Text

A Deadbeat’s Journal 20

A Jotaro Kujo x Blackfemreader

Jotaro’s thoughts,

The drive was long but unwinding. I felt the cooling breeze after the three hour drive and absolutely enjoyed the increasing lack of traffic as I drove.Reaching the hotel though is the most relieving . I park, observing the lot.I notice a distinct quietness, only six cars parked and I’m even happier that y/n rightfully thought that the tourism season has just ended.

I think it would be best to just rest today. It's already approaching lunch and the aroma of grilled fish dances around my nostrils. The receptionist checks me in and confirms that the lunch buffet is ready. The room is wonderful with a large spacious and most importantly with a balcony overlooking the beachview. Just as I had confirmed with the virtual room tour.Complimentary fruits that y/n would have begun snacking on are nicely displayed in a sisal basket that she would have insisted we take home.

After a cooling shower and changing to a simple slightly oversized white dress shirt and white linen trousers with some flip flops , I head to the lunch room .There are quite a few more people than I expected, a family of six in one corner who were in calm discussions, two white americans who were loudly conversing although based on the continuous fluctuations of their voices, it seems that they are constantly attempting to adjust their volumes.In the middle sat a older white man who was with his trophy wife, a black woman, considering their rings. The wife shamelessly stares at me. I feel queasy .

I head to the barbeque section , choosing lobster and the mouth watering barbequed mackerel that I had wafted earlier.They offered mashed potatoes and this thick gravy that seemed good enough so I smothered it around my food. Looking back , I discover a vacant seat away from the crowd and as soon as I sit down and only a few bites into my food, one of the Americans comes beside me.

First of all, who approaches someone in the middle of their lunch? Maybe in the pool or even whilst taking a walk but not when one is attempting to alleviate their hunger. Secondly, I absolutely hate that aside from my brooding nature, I also got my good looks from Sadao.

“Hi. I’m Mikayla and you are?” She enthusiastically questions. Now that she’s closer, her voice seems the pitcher of the pair and her valley girl accent makes my teeth knaw.

“Jotaro.”I hope I put enough ‘stop talking to me’ energy in my tone but rather than that , she pulls the chair opposite me.

“Oh how exotic, Are you Japanese?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

I answer honestly which leads to an unprompted Ted like talk on how beautiful Kenya is. She isn't wrong and I would have entertained her were I not only hungry but also tired from driving non-stop for three hours. My listless hums seem only to propel her loud mouth and despite the lovely made food, I keep gulping a bitter taste. After the end of another rant, she questions,

“And why are you here alone? I wouldn’t have been able to travel alone.” Her voice suggests faux concern.

“My wife was busy and I left her in Mombasa.”I lie and I can see her eyes sharpen in disbelief and slight annoyance.

“Wife? Who is she then, can I see her?” She asks coyishly though I know she has begun a battle to figure out whether I’m lying . I know that I shouldn’t prove her wrong but for a moment I imagine introducing y/n as my wife and the woman beside me seething with jealousy at the absolute beauty she is so I willingly show her my homescreen of y/n sleeping alongside Samosa.

By now, the family of six quiet mummerings had all but dimmed to listen to our conversations and from the corner of my eye notice the teens silently chuckle at my uninvited guest’s unmasked shock.

“Well I’ll let you carry on with lunch.” She says whilst rising , schooling her face to hide the obvious embarrassment she feels at attempting to flirt with a married man. I go on to add another helping . This time getting some potato wedges and ribs. Suddenly the food no longer has a grey aftertaste and after filling myself with sweets . I head for an afternoon nap.

* * *

Waking up to a wonderful evening breeze is literally luxury living . I don’t think I’d get over the beach even though my apartment is just another beach house.After washing my face , I head to the beach bar and order a tequila to warm me up as the breeze is even more chilling once you leave the room . There are quite a few more people at the beach, most however are not from the hotel . A group of teens are playing beach volleyball. Others are swimming in the deeper areas of the beach whereas some have decided to lounge in the hotel's white gazebos . The Americans seem annoyed at my appearance and whisper to themselves as I lounge. I don’t care. She embarrassed herself when she came over.

I picked up the book y/n gave me and it's so engrossing I didn’t even realise that it was almost dinnertime. One of the staff jolts me back to reality and with a teasing smile, reminds me of the approaching hour. Walking around the hotel while reading would be hindering in more ways than one so I bookmark the page, surprisingly I’m almost halfway done. Granted it's a light novel but still.

I notice the same group as lunchtime, with a few more guests who are only here for the dinner course.The barbeque is even more abundant and the seafood buffet even more appetising .This time I opt for some macaroni and cheese with shrimp , prawns and another mackerel. A salad just to balance out the carbs and I’m off to the table with my room number. I reply to the trophy wife’s husband nod and continue reading my book while eating . Luckily it went without a hitch ,I enjoyed the varying beverages, surprised by the sweet tasting bungo juice and plan to recreate it on my own at home.

As I drift off , I think that I should call her. She seemed a bit sad and the guilt is beginning to settle in. But I need this time away, not only to sort my feelings but to understand where I’m headed in my career. I feel somewhat disillusioned, there is a lot more paperwork than I expected. Moreover, grant organisers are controlling , only interested in the underlined project and are unwilling to be flexible whenever other obstacles or more aid is needed until relentless nagging on my part.The Speedwagon Foundation has been beneficial in connecting me in many aids but I’m tired of it to be honest . I’m not fulfilled nor happy with my current position. I’m thinking that as my grant ends, I should just do research work. The classmates I recently phoned who do freelance research projects seem more fulfilled and besides the huge pay cut , it has little cons. Moreover, I have more than enough to sustain myself. Mom , Dad and Gramps have been funnelling millions in my trust fund since I was a child not to mention my personal investments.

But y/n . She needs me doesn’t she? Or would she be willing to move around with me?But knowing her, she’d need a powerpoint presentation as to why we should live a nomadic lifestyle. Also, a ring. Do I love her enough to willingly spend the rest of my life with her? The fact I’m questioning this is enough of an answer. I know she won’t willingly go with me nor will she stop me. I don’t expect her to wait for me. Why am I even thinking of marriage when I haven’t even taken her on a date yet. Wait, maybe she doesn’t even see me romantically But that’s on her for making me develop feelings for her . She shouldn’t have created domesticity in the quiet home. She shouldn't have made us parents . She shouldn’t be attentive whenever I speak, offer solid advice whenever I’m anxious and smile whenever she gets the dry jokes that others usually don’t.

I love her. But I love myself too.

* * *

That instructor guiding me in Kayaking this fine morning is an equally fine man. Dark, a tad short yet has that lean muscle that is always appreciated and a smile that almost rivals y/n. You can feel the warmth as he guides the interracial couple to their raft and instructs on the least stressful way to row the boat . The boats are two seaters and he kindly seats ahead of me for I am alone. Why is me being alone both cringy and embarrassing ?

He says we are to row to the point where the smaller silky sharks begin residing and at first,it seemed simple but my muscles begin to wear out .The boat is also small and I need to slightly squeeze myself and balance lest the boat will topple over. Moments like this are when I despise my height. Anyway, after a few mishaps from the others, we row back now. I'm facing the approaching shore and he is repeatedly praising my form . If he wasn’t so glaring straight, I would have flirted.

Everyone removes themselves from the safety garments as though they have offended them somehow. After having casual small talk , he says that he knows a guy that can rent him a yacht and teach me how to operate one.After thanking him, I head back to the hotel alongside the other group and after a quick rise dive into the pool. I’m glad this pool is deep enough to dive in . I’ve always hated the usual no diving policy that littered the hotels in Mombasa. Y/n barely knows how to dive and I’ve told her it's because of those policies. If you are building a pool just to make it deep enough to dive, the whole appeal of swimming is also attempting to dive as well as an olympic diver.

Anyways enough about my rant, the two teens who have approached me , fraternal twins fittingly called Andy and Candy want to learn how to dive and after a glance from their smiling parents who nod in approval, I teach them the basics, by the time lunch rolls by , they are practically better than me. The flexibility of youth.

“So Mr Kujo, what do you do?”Candy asks as we approach the buffet this time held outside.

“I’m a marine biologist and just call me Jotaro, you are ageing me with the Mr”

“Ok Jotaro. But what does a Marine biologist do, like anatomy work? I thought we already knew everything about the ocean.” She curiously peers at me , a pout of confusion.

“Well, we are in the midst of a global warming that could be irreversible, our work is to ensure things like coral reefs and what sustains the ecosystem of the oceanic environment plus her inhabitants are not damaged due to this.”I explain, hoping I don’t come off as preachy as I approach their table.

“So that means like work.”Andy responds

“Alot of it” and they groan in despair.

They explain that since joining form 1 , all they have been told is to start choosing their career path and they feel overwhelmed. After a formal introduction to their family , we sit down . The oldest two, another boy and girl, though not twins , are in their second and third year of University. Angel does Accounting and finance whereas John does Business Commerce.

“So, Marine Biology , does it pay?” The patriarch asks with a auto lilt on his voice

“Yeah, if you have grants coming in, which I’m fortunate enough to have.”

“But you need connections to get your applications approved.”The mother considers with a gentle yet deeper voice.

“True.You can’t get far without necessary links and to create such links for some it takes years.”

“Okay enough about that boring talk. I’m on holiday. Why did you not chat up the pretty woman that was talking to you yesterday?” Andy mischievously questions and his older brother, Mwashigadi smacks his head , but not without a slight smirk that was immediately hidden .

“Yeah, She seemed interested.We couldn’t hear all you guys said but we definitely heard her whispering to her friend about how hot you are.”The oldest sister,Chanel, brazenly adds to which Candy eyes her with a disapproving look.

“Well , I’m married.” I lie and the table seems shocked at the revelation. I can feel y/n’s slight tug on the ear at once again misrepresenting our relationship but I can’t lie, she does the same thing and it's a solid enough lie.They ask to see the famed ‘Mrs Kujo’ and I unlock my screen to show them.

“Hold on , and she’s Kenyan too , Jotaro, you just keep surprising us.” Chanel nods at Andy who claims that she's ‘very beautiful’. It feels like a warm towel was on my heart with the way they ogle at her beauty.. I told them that she was a lawyer and the compliments kept flooding in . Martha, the mom, handed me her business card for she works as a consultant in the field.

After slight banter, I leave the hall early, promising the kids to dive one more time with them. I head back to get the book , some shades , a towel and a bucket hat. After reapplying the sunscreen and placing the business card in my suitcase . I head out.

I taught the twins a few more diving skills and as they were content, they let me off their shackles to continue reading by the beach and by the time the lamps of the gazebo are switched on, I’m reading the end of the book. Somewhat ironic she gave me this book unknowing that I’m mulling over making a personal change myself.

Mr Handsome Instructor approaches me and says that he has acquired the yacht for the remaining days of my stay for three hours a day at a considerable rate.I approve of this and he questions why learning how to steer a boat. To be honest, I just want to learn something new and I tell him so. Though somewhat unconvinced , Mutisye shrugs in acceptance and leaves for home after closing up the kayak warehouse.

While dining with the twins' family, they inform me that they were headed to Watamu early in the morning . I exchange numbers with the parents and Candy who is mildly interested in what I do and after another lighthearted dinner filled with funny anecdotes the twins supply on boarding life in high school including a potential arson incident,they bid me goodbye as we head to our respective rooms.

I decide to journal. I bought a small book back in Mombasa and I vividly recall y/n journaling a few times and I thought I should do the same. Reading what I write feels like uncasing my deepest thoughts and it feels relieving . Though still unsure, I know that I don't what my career path to be stagnant and it should evolve as my interests continue to develop.

Third Person Narration.

Jotaro woke up a bit later than expected though not too late to miss breakfast and be late for his boat lessons.He felt the hotel emptier now that his friends had left but the breakfast was absolutely delightful and he was grateful that the chef who was making personalised eggs, had made his omurice perfectly though he did question if eating it with bread is still omurice or just omu.

After a stomach filling breakfast, he quickly headed to the gym for a light workout.He didn’t get those muscles just for them to deflate during the vacation.After the gym, he headed to the beach and Mutisye was just moving the yacht closer to the beach. He gave Jotaro a warm smile and greeting and after insisting on wearing the heavy safety gear that Jotaro hated, he began teaching .

Jotaro, despite being competent in a lot of things, tends to error a lot whenever he’s learning something new. This was no different. The first hour was solely spent on repeated attempts to manoeuvre the boat and he slowly got the hang of moving the , at first, heavy transportation device during the later parts of the second hour of the boat . Considerable improvement had been made on the third. He wasn’t as loose with the wheel and at least he knew exactly when to pump in the brakes.

Mutisye was a proper instructor, firm enough when giving instruction yet willingly heaped compliments at the slightest display of improvement.After the third hour, Jotaro thanked him, though slightly embarrassed that he hasn’t drastically improved.

“There is a phrase in Swahili that says this, ‘Droplets of water gradually fill a bucket.’Your improvement might seem miniscule now, but will prove to be worthwhile in hindsight.”

The makings of a great teacher Mutisye continues to prove to be.

After a casual conversation once they alight from the boat,Mutisye asked,

“Hey, there’s a club that’s starting to pick up. Want to join me and my friends tonight?”

“I haven’t gone clubbing in a while so I don’t really know.”

“It’ll be fun, I’ll make sure you don’t get scammed out of a couple of drinks and there are really pretty women.”He wagged his eyes as he insisted on the preposition.

“Sure, but only for a few hours.” He finally agrees.

“Let me tell them that I’m adding someone.” He says as he pulls out his phone. Though Jotaro insists, Mutisye refuses to let him help anchor the yacht. After confirming the meeting time Jotaro headed for lunch. There is practically no one aside from the couple. The Americans are no longer there. However the buffet is still a delight. Jotaro decides on rice with coconut creamed fish and tomato soup and despite how seemingly hot it is, it remains comforting enough.

* * *

Jotaro decided on a simple shirt and shorts with sunnies atop his head, The orange sky cast a brillant golden glow in the ocean and as he slowly breathes in the salty air, he noticed Mutisye coming up to him with the most outrageous style he’s ever seen

He simply can’t look away from the distressed white vest and the almost miserable skinny jeans combo. Now that he’s looking at his face, he wears a slick back cap in the most awkward angle. And let's not mention the neon high tops, and the obviously fake large silver cuban chain link.Jotaro pondered whether he was being elitist by considering those are his only white outfits but he himself is wearing the cheapest outfit and does not look like every teen in the horrid early 10’s of the 21st century.

“Why are you dressed so boring? Do you not want girls looking your way?”Mutisye tsks whilst looking up and down in slight annoyance.

Jotaro simply thought that the man had the audacity to question him on his picking up skills despite Mutisye willingly walking out of the house looking like he jumped in a time machine to the present day. He simply answered that he’s not interested in picking up anyone and Mutisye guided him to his parked car at the hotel front.

“Too bad you’re married. The girls here love a man like you. It definitely helps that you are rich and handsome. Total Jackpot.” He stated as he coughed the engine.

Jotaro, attempting to lie the car seat a little lower says

“I’m really not interested. I have a wife you know.”

“Yeah and I have a girlfriend. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Slimy. He remained silent at that and after a short drive , they pick up two of Mutisye’s friends waiting in an isolated, rusted bus stop after formal introductions and a sligh look of intrigue from one of the boys, they turn up the radio and amp up the pre gaming with cheerful yet heavily explicit dancehall and loud cheering whenever Mutisye overspeeds.

After an almost frightful drive on Jotaro’s part they finally arrive at the club. From outside the base and cheers are clear and despite the beautiful ocean view in the beachside club, no one was outside, too busy enjoying the almost blinding neon lights and sharing the same air. At least it's not too cramped, Jotaro thought as he tried to walk through the crowd.

Some of the patrons look at him and the group with muted smiles and longing stares. As soon as he sits, just barely able to sigh , a waitress in the most skin tight and cleavage showing outfit goes onto them . Jotaro orders a beer , cold and despite the glances sent as she takes the orders of the clearly drooling Mutisye, he ignored her, hard and she huffed while she walked away.

“Bro, that girl was interested in you! You should have flirted with her.” Jonah says .

“Not interested.”Jotaro inwardly questions why guys with biblical names are the most unhinged because Jonah decides to walk up to a girl, attempting to grind on her and she, after she looked back at his cheeky smile , scoots closer to him and he sends a thumbs up to the table. Mutisye is the least interested in his friend's catch and instead sweet talks the waitress, already bored with Jotaro and she vibes with him heavily. After a few whispers and a heated stare , Mutisye rises up and says,

“I’ll be gone for a few.Take care of Mutua for me.”

Mutua,to Jotaro, is an enigma. He seems as lively as his friends yet does not engage in any clubbing activity except dancing . But he's a very pretty boy. Lean .yet muscular and tall. A bit heavier than a Kenyan trackstar but still not close enough to a heavyweight. After he comes back they get into talking. To this point, they are tipsy, Jotaro smiles as he talks and Muua continuously gives him a one up that is extremely provocative.

He finds out that Mutua’s almost done with university and pursues a degree in mechanical engineering.Returns his heated stares willingly and the liquid courage whispered to his ear. Jotaro asks.

“How old are you?”

“26. Why?” Mutua coyishly replies, at this point it's been an hour since they last saw either of the other parties and the smile on his face is enough to tell Jotaro that Mutua is into him.

“Bathroom?” Jotaro asked with a slight smirk and Mutua eagerly rose up., following him with a hand slightly tugging his shirt.

* * *

They walk out of the bathroom more scruffled than they came in.Unknowingly to them Mutisye , who himself was still annoyed that the club owner had demanded him to get out , went out looking for them and found them heavy breathing whilst silently laughing outside the men’s washroom,

“Where have you guys been, I’ve been…oh?”He punctuates the end with a teasing lilt to his voice.

“So you decided to have some fun, where are the girls?” He questions , looking around the nearby area. Mutua’s hitches and Jotaro remained silent, smiles wiped off both of their faces

Mutua accidentally trips and Mutisye quickly helps him up , paraphrasing his anecdote. Turns out he was flirting with the club owner’s girl , complaining that it should be illegal for pot bellied men to still become younger girls sponsors*

“Hey why are you limping? Did you get hurt?”Mutisye worriedly glanced over to Mutua after the long rant that ended in the parking lot. Jonah decided to go home with the girl from earlier and bids them.

“Hey , what happened? I told you to look over him Jotaro, he’s the fragile one here.” He irritatedly questions as he opens the door.Suddenly Mutisye stills, and with a sharp glare looks at both of them. He notices a bite mark on Jotaro’s neck , no lipstick. He realises that they don’t remotely smell like any strong women perfume his entire outfit is currently smothered with . A look of utter disgust stoically remained over his face , then he asked,

“Are you a f*****?”

Jotaro looks back at him with an eyebrow raised, a slight smirk endows his face and responds,

“What do you think?”

Mutua at this point was shaking, eyes downcasted , too scared to look at the glare Mutisye sent him.

“I thought you stopped this shit. It was fine in high school but even now, seriously? Why are you always whori-”

“HEY! What’s that supposed to mean? Can’t you accept him for who he is ?”

“I’m not speaking to you homo, I’m speaking to him . This is Kenya. F***are tortured and killed here. I’ve been telling him to get his act straight but he still doesn’t act better.”

“He chose to come out to you and you repay him by referring to him as a slur?” Jotaro questioned, silently fuming at how Mutisye forced Mutua in the car and locked him in.

“This is my cousin and therefore my responsibility.And It's not natural to act that way . Besides, wasn't he just a one night stand to you?”

At this Jotaro punches Mutisye’s face hard. But Musinya relented despite how his cheek almost hollowed out, he stayed up.

“I’ll not fight with you. Better yet I’m not speaking about this again. You’ll have someone else teach you how to steer the boat. Goodbye .”

“So you refuse to admit that you’re wrong for treating him this way?”

“I’m not wrong. He’s lucky I didn’t beat the gay out of him to begin with.BTW, wouldn’t your wife be disgusted to find her husband engaging in homosexual acts?”

“Firstly I don't have a wife, the woman I’ve been referring to as my wife is my close friend. Secondly ,She accepts my sexuality as it is unlike you, she doesn’t judge.”

“Maybe not to your face but she’s inwardly disgusted.” Mutisye huffed and got in the car, refusing to even say one last word for someone he had at least considered a friend at first.Mutua mouths an apology and Jotaro nods back and watches Mutisye desert him in the parking lot.

Back at his hotel room , he decided to call y/n

“Hey.”

“Hi, how’s your trip?”

“Great, just went clubbing.”

“Really was it fun?”She excitedly questioned

“Yeah” He lied with a wry smile.

“By the way. I wanted to ask you something.” He quickly added

“Sure.”

“You do know I’m queer right?”

“I mean, the ‘queer rights’ sticker on your laptop was a dead giveaway but yeah, I’ve always known.Thought you came out a while back , Is this like a second unveiling? Are you going through an existential crisis?”

“Oh…and you have no problem with it?”His heart beat like it was imploding on his ribcage.

“Your sexuality? Because of my religion? My faith has nothing to do with you or your orientation. Why bring this up? Is something wrong ?”y/n sat up, preparing her body to listen.

Jotaro narrated the incident. she listened keenly,a bit jealous at Mutua,and responded

“He’s the problem. A lot of youths in Kenya are accepting . He’s a relic when it comes to these matters.”

“So you aren’t mad at me for sleeping with him?”

“Isn't it your body ? I’m a bit confused.”

Nevermind. He thought, slightly annoyed at how unphased she was.

“Anyways I’m swearing off sex. I’m a celibate man.When I find the right person,I’ll break my celibacy.”

“Haven’t you been these past couple of months?” She mockingly questions.

“Haven’t you too?” He jeers back.

“I’m actually a virgin.” and the pin drop silence afterwards makes y/n slightly panic.

“Looking back,” Jotaro muses, “ The signs were there.”

And this ensues a collection of highly invasive questions that are completely out of character for Jotaro. But he’s still slightly shocked.

“It's okay , a bit shocking but nonetheless okay.It’s good to wait for the right person. I know I did.”He reassured

“Really, can you tell me who it was?”

“No.”He deadpanned.

“You literally just asked me if I’ve gone till third base.”

“Okay fair enough. They were my high school sweetheart.”

“Was it Noriaki?”She curiously considered

“It's absolutely despicable to make me even ponder about Noriaki as anything but a friend.” Jotaro replied, a slight cough expelling the inappropriate and to him, a tad disgusting, thought.

“Why?”She slowly smiled as she waited in response,

“He started washing his ass in college.” He countered and y/n squealed in absolute laughter, muffled microphone leaving out the hitching of her voice as she attempted to compose herself.

“Nooooo why would you expose him like this?”She rhetorically questioned as she finally got her breathing to be less sporadic.

This cues in an entire onslaught against Noriaki and co. . Jotaro switched to video just to watch her fall to her bed in glee as he narrates bizarre events about his friend group. By the time the call ends, his heart felt like lava, a euphoric rush making his head woozy.

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