#bfb.fic

It's a little more than 19 sentences but she's getting overhauled this weekend. here's the bit until we hit the needle drop!

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Three places have emergency contacts on file for May Grant: the university, the hospital she was born at, and Metro Dispatch. They are, in order, Athena Grant-Nash, Robert Nash, and Henrietta Wilson. All three extremely capable, helpful people to call if she were having a medical emergency.

Breaking a heel is not a medical emergency. May very carefully hoists herself up the stairs on her butt so that it doesn’t become one.  

“Oof.”

 May makes it to the top of the steps and slumps gracelessly against the railing post. A few more butt scooches and she reaches her destination: a rickety old porch swing that’s probably seen more than a few drunk butts waiting for a ride home in its time. Like Old Faithful. Probably. May gives it a sloppy pat on the chain.

Less than a half hour ago she was letting guys from Phi Psi swing her around a makeshift living room dance floor while her girl friends cheered from the bar-slash-catering-slash-bong table. That was after the shots of tequila. And before the shots of tequila. And during them. She’s only pretty sure she doesn’t have alcohol poisoning right now.

May rubs her hands up and down her arms. Sarah helped her pick out this dress. It’s a fun dress. It’s sleeveless, glittery, and so thin she had to compromise with early March weather by wearing a fuzzy jacket from her own closet, which is now traveling home with her friends in the back of an Uber, because Sarah had needed it to cover a stain on her dress.

It’s stupidly cold out here. The beat of the music inside the house changes to a loud techno thumping.

tagged by @tweetsongs <3 im actually in a bit of a writing rut so here's a fragment based on a convo with @bugbugly from 1 million years ago

“I always thought I was an accident,” Buck begins, “because mom was older than my classmates’ moms. Except for Jimmy’s, but his mom doesn’t count ‘cause he was adopted.” Their class had been small when Jimmy joined, and when their health class started their sex ed unit, Buck learned about how easy it was to accidentally make a kid. Jimmy had joked that he knew he wasn’t an accident because of how many forms his parents had to sign before he came home. The teacher laughed. Buck had done the math and come to the queasy conclusion that there was no way he’d been a part of the plan. “I figured having me nearly killed mom. I uh, didn’t know about you, obviously. So I thought it was my fault. The way she looked at me.” He tries to summon the words to tell Daniel he doesn’t blame him, but they don’t come. It’s fucked up to blame a dead kid for your shitty childhood, probably, but it’s not like there’s anyone left to scold him, except Maddie, who never would. “Losing you killed her. I don’t know who your mother was, but I think you took her with you when you left.” The dirt over his brother’s grave isn’t loose because it was packed into the earth over three decades ago. The grass is a different story, recently reseeded with shallow roots that come easily out of the ground when he tugs on it. Much like how they lived their lives, the some six feet of dirt covering his parent's caskets is smoothed over and totally devoid of life. Margaret and Philip Buckley had opted for simple stones; only Daniel’s has an epitaph, a generic “beloved son”, like they couldn’t shake themselves out of their grief long enough to remember anything else.

Fandom: Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Additional Tags: Fluff, Body Worship, Lazy Mornings, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Established Relationship, Domestic Bliss, Oral Fixation, Cuddling & Snuggling, Mild Painplay

Ilya has eighty moles on his back with seven lingering around the side of his hip in the shape of a shark’s tooth. He has a single freckle hidden behind his ear that’s in the perfect place for Shane’s thumb to brush against when he cups Ilya’s head to pull him in for a kiss. The hair on Ilya’s chest and stomach hides more targets for Shane to kiss and suck at, hinted at around the shape of his untamed happy trail—well, those are uncounted for now.

☀️Read on ao3 ☀️

Tagged by @sunflowerbuckleys <3

Wrote this uhhh 2 minutes ago bc I was thinking about Connor Storrie’s moles. Move over Shane Hollanders freckles we’re going to mole town

“You have a lot of moles,” Shane murmurs one morning. Ilya is shirtless in bed, lying on his stomach with his head tilted towards Shane, watching him with a soft look in his eyes. When Shane speaks his eyes curve in amusement, lifting one of the moles on his cheek a fraction.

“Mm, yes,” Ilya says, just as soft, “I am told it is one of my charm points. Very sexy.” He’s being cheeky, but Shane can’t help but agree. They are, very sexy. Ilya grins up at him like he knows exactly what Shane’s thinking, self-satisfied like the cat who got the cream.

“Fishing for compliments, Rozanov?” He shoots back, pinching Ilya lightly where his hand has been resting on Ilya’s shoulder blade, idly tracing between the moles there since they’ve woken up. He only raises his eyebrows when Ilya pouts from where his face rests on his folded arms.

Shane ruins the effect less than a second later by leaning over to press a chaste kiss to the mole on Ilya’s cheek, then lazy, open mouthed ones to the moles dotting his jawline. Ilya smells musky and sleep-warm, comfortable like Shane’s never seen him, morning sun washing over his skin like a divine glow; the low hum Ilya lets out when Shane reaches the moles on his neck tastes like ambrosia on his tongue.

I've been tagged for a few different days by @livesbetweenpages and @tweetsongs and i finally got around to writing something other than paper calendar edits [something suspiciously calendar sounding rustles in the corner] AH!

anyway: snippet from Maiden Name (wizard chris)

He trails a finger through the thick layer of dust covering the dresser in his new room. Grandma clicks her tongue when he holds it up for inspection, even though she’s the one who brought him up here instead of the room he usually stays in. “I tell your Abuelo, we have to dust every week or it piles up—” She catches Chris looking at her and changes track. “Ah, it doesn’t matter. Christopher, why don’t you go wait in Adriana’s room while I clean this up, okay honey? Your Abuelo should be back soon and then we can eat, it won’t take long.” Adriana’s room is down the hall. “I can help.” Sitting in his aunt’s room while his grandma cleans out this one is weird. He can handle a little dust. “No, sweetie, that’s okay, you must be tired.” She smiles and makes a little shooing motion with her hand, ushering him out of the room and down the hall. “All that dust is one thing, but your dad left a lot of his things behind when he enlisted. I don’t want you hurting yourself trying to move those boxes out of the closet.” So it was his dad’s room. He’d kind of guessed from the shelf of trophies and the peeling Texas Rangers poster tacked to the wall, but he hadn’t been sure. The second floor has always been off limits because his grandparents didn’t want him tripping up the stairs, so he’s never seen it when they’ve come to visit, even when they lived here. He lets himself be shooed out of the room, feeling weird about snooping through his dad’s old stuff when he’d come all the way here to avoid him.

“When we get into shallow water we’ll pull the motor up so we don’t hit the sand,” says Eddie, “you remember how to do that?”

Buck is having trouble remembering what a motor even is with Eddie’s hands covering his atop the steering wheel. He’s got callouses on his palms that scrape gently over Buck’s knuckles when he shows Buck how to guide the boat towards the mouth of the canal, and Buck has to repress a full bodied shiver at the sensation.

Eddie knocks a knee into Buck’s shoulder. “Hey, you remember? It’s coming up.”

“Y-yeah, uh, yes. One motor coming up!” He fumbles with the gear shift and they slow, coming to a smooth glide into the shallow mouth of the canal. The motor comes up with no trouble.

They’re not the only ones running errands on the canal this morning. Eddie waves to an older couple manning a smaller speedboat on their way out, they smile and call a greeting back. Their boat leaves a small wake that sends little waves out to splash against Eddie’s, like little high-fives from the water.

Aside from that, the water is as smooth and untouched as the morning. Clusters of vibrant green lily pads puff out their flowers along a bank of milkweed and sedge. The silt at the bottom of the canal stays sedentary as they pass over it; Buck marvels at how clear the water is despite the daily traffic of pedestrian boats that pass through the narrow waterway.

From his perch on the back of the captain’s chair Eddie gives Buck a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Great! Now keep her steady, it’s a no wake zone and Gladys is always watching.” He points a long finger towards a glaring wooden owl perched on a post sunk into the bank. There’s a sign nailed to the post reading:

[SLOW. NO WAKE.]

The sign is fun-faded and chipping, but the owl has freshly painted yellow eyes that glare out from a furrowed owly brow.

Buck snorts. “Uh, very scary.”

Eddie flicks him in the ear.

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He ducks into the kitchen next and finds Pepa nursing a glass of wine with her sister-in-law, whose name escapes him—she’s short and round, and both her and Pepa’s cheeks are rosy from the alcohol. He asks after Eddie and Pepa shakes her head.

“Oh! You know, he might have gone down to the water?” says the sister-in-law, tapping her chin with one manicured finger. Despite the somber affair, Buck hasn’t seen a single person without a bit of color worked into their outfit. Pepa has a blue floral scarf draped around her neck, and her sister-in-law’s nails match the deep green of her shawl.

He’d been on the look out for Eddie’s splash of color, when he arrived, which turned out to be Chris with a red bow tie. Eddie himself was monochrome, the only concession to the theme being a firetruck band-aid wrapped around his thumb. Kitchen accident, he’d explained.

Pepa looks at her in surprise. “The docks, Dani? You think so?”

The rain smacks against the kitchen windows as if to emphasize how stupid that would be. Buck eyes the torrents of water uneasily. The rain has been coming down steadily since before the memorial started, smearing the landscape into an extension of the lake. No boats would be out in this weather, not with lightning threatening, so the docks would be deserted; even if the storm didn’t deter people, the flooding would.

Dani—that’s it, Daniela—nods to Pepa. “Ay, Carlos says he sees him out on the breakwall sometimes before the boats come in.”

The breakwall.

Shit.

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