#A Hen in the Wind | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lefteagleblizzard · 14 days ago

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𝔑𝔬𝔱 𝔰𝔞𝔣𝔢, 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔥𝔦𝔰 Remmick x male reader

Summary: He came to your doorstep burning, hunted, half-dead and you let him in. Now you’re bleeding, fucked open and ruined by the monster who calls your name like a prayer and kills for you like it’s love.

Tags: set years before the main events of the film. Strangers to lovers. Vampire x human. Possessive Remmick. Hints of stalking. Protective Remmick. Minor characters death. Vampire x human sex. Monster fucking. Blood drinking, blood kink, blood play (Our boy needs to be kept hydrated). Rough sex. Dominant Remmick. Submissive male reader. Anal sex. Riding. Vampire stamina. Overstimulation.

Part 2 - Part 3

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 10000

The morning hadn’t come yet, you’d been out in the field since god knew when, still in boots damp with dew, thighs sore from the bent squat you held as you weeded patches of yellowing wheat that shouldn’t be dying, but they were nonetheless.

From the porch behind you, the barn loomed skeletal and you were reminded of the time it had creaked full of life, livestock restless in the dark, but now it held barely a pair of half-blind goats, hens too dumb to lay proper anymore and a horse so old his back dipped like a broken bow. You still fed them all and hauled their water.

Each season you turned the soil, tilled by hand, rain or no rain, with blistered palms and still the wheat came up thin, the corn patch went to rot and the beans curled yellow at the edges.

You were about to pack in for the hour, maybe sit on the porch with black coffee, when the wind stopped and soon a loud sound followed.

A dragging noise that came out of nowhere. You squinted into the tall grass that bordered the back acreage. Something was moving. Not walking, dragging.

You were already on your feet before the porch made a crack like a board snapping under pressure. Something slammed on it hard.

There was a moment where you thought maybe a coyote had gotten into the trash again but then your eyes found the trail.

A long, shallow dent carved through the dirt, like something had been pulling itself forward with little strength, all leading to a crumpled figure past the steps.

Brownish tank top clinging to a body cut with lines too harsh to be healthy, twisted over one shoulder and torn. Skin pinkish and scraped raw in places like it had been burned badly.

A groan peeled out of his throat, ugly and guttural. His hands scrambled against the wooden steps. His arms shook, muscles twitching as he tried to haul himself up before stopping. His head slumped as his gaze drifted across the tall grass, to the edges of your broken field.

You followed it and there, small at first but growing clearer, was a group on horseback. Four, maybe five riders, all slow and scanning the horizon.

They were looking for something, or someone.

A hitch in his ribs as he shifted again, another low groan forced between clenched teeth. His face turned to you, still slack with exhaustion, but his eyes were not human.

Gold, lurid and lightless. They flickered once before sliding shut, his whole body slackened as he collapsed against the porch rail.

You stepped back, one foot on the soil, sinking slightly into the trail he’d carved, one heartbeat thudding into the next as something cracked open inside your head.

The blood in your head roared, thoughts came in floods.

You should’ve called out right then, raised your voice and flagged the riders combing the fields. Or hell—the porch was soft, the wood old. One kick could snap a plank in half to plunge into the exposed part of his chest.

He wasn’t supposed to be here, just like you.

The sun had started to crawl up the slope of the field. It was touching the lower stalks now and the tall grass still sheltered most of the porch in patchy shadow, but the light was rising too fast.

A beam lanced across the steps and touched his arm first.

It immediately began to burn.

You didn’t remember deciding to move but your knees were soon on the wood and your hands pressed flat to his big biceps.

He groaned against your touch, his head lolled and fell against your shoulder. The weight made your spine bow as you pulled with everything you had.

Your lips were near the shell of his ear, voice smaller than you remembered it ever being, even when you were a child hiding behind barn doors from men.

“You can come in.”

Palms slick against the dark line of his shoulder, one hand clutched too tight around the burnt curve of his bicep while the other braced awkwardly to keep his head from rolling to the side as you began to drag him backwards through the door all the way down to the cellar.

You let him slump against the far wall, trying not to drop him too hard but unable to control the last fall. His back hit the stone with a heavy thunk and he didn’t stir.

There was a bucket placed under the leak like always, catching the rain that slipped through the warped ceiling beams and you took advantage of that to splash the water across his shoulder and over the burn, the water hissed when it hit him, steam rose fast.

You dipped a rag in what was left and wiped at the worst of where the skin had pulled back, where the blood had dried into thick crusts.

Under your hands, his chest rose in steady breaths. His pulse flickered faintly in his throat and his face remained slack. High cheekbones, brows low and tight even in sleep like he’d never relaxed a day in his life.

You leaned in close enough to see the edge of one pupil under his lashes twitch.

With shaking legs as you stood, you went back up outside the house to get some fresh air and something else for him.

The old goat, the mean one with the single bad eye, shifted in its pen and gave a low, disturbed grunt. It didn’t want to follow and you had to tug hard on the collar.

The walk back was slow as it pulled against the lead once, twice. Then reluctantly came with you.

When you opened the cellar door, the goat stepped in as you let go of the rope and closed the door immediately.

Hands braced flat to the wood, heart pounding. Still not sure what you’d done.

Three hard knocks were heard. The door didn’t rattle, no voice came through.

You moved down the hallway, the door handle felt warm when you opened it, the light struck you square in the eyes, bright after the cool of the parlor.

Those men were dressed in long oilskin coats dark with wear, silver buttons tarnished black. One had a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his brow, the edges feathered by years of weather.

Another kept one hand on the stock of a rifle strapped tight across his back.

“Morning,” the middle one said, voice even, polite the way barbed wire is.

You nodded.

“We’re tracking something dangerous,” he said. “Something we saw came through this region. Likely came down from the ridge. Might’ve crossed your back field. You see anything strange this morning?”

You crossed your arms, one hand over the other, trying not to make it look like a shield.

“Been up since four,” you said. Your voice came out calm. Steady. “Working the field. Haven’t seen a damn thing I didn’t put there myself.”

His eyes flicked down to your hand.

You hadn’t noticed it until now the dried blood on it.

His gaze didn’t change but something behind his eyes clicked.

“You alright there?” he asked, as if casual. “You get hurt?”

You let out a breath through your nose and shook your head.

“One of my animals went into labor,” you said, voice thick with irritation. “Didn’t go clean. Took half the morning. Made a hell of a mess out back. Field too.”

You let your eyes harden slightly, like a man tired of being questioned. That was the trick, you couldn’t play it soft.

“Shame,” he said, stepping back. “Hope she pulls through.”

“She won’t,” you said quickly. “Too old. Should’ve been put down last season.”

The man in the coat gave a grunt that might’ve passed for sympathy.

He turned and took one step.

Then stopped and looked back over his shoulder, head tilted and eyes narrowing slightly.

“I hope,” he said, “you didn’t let him in.”

The words fell like wet stones in your chest while you said nothing.

“There’s no saving that one,” he murmured. “That thing doesn’t just feed. He twists someone from the inside, leaves holes in the memory where people used to live. Whole families are gone because of him.”

You could have sworn you heard a creak from behind you, a soft groan of wood strained under weight.

Could it have come from the cellar stairs?

The blood in your veins ran cold and you did your best effort in offering them a tired smile, one you practiced after seeing it so often on your parents' faces.

“Well,” you said, voice pleasant. “I’d best get back to it. Still a mess to clean.”

He nodded once more and didn’t thank you this time, just turned and walked away.

You shut the door carefully, felt your palm against the wood and exhaled.

The sun was already bleeding out behind the ridge by the time you came back.

The old road back from town ran crooked between black pines and fields gone brittle with drought. You hadn’t made much from the morning’s haul, but it was enough for salt, some oil and garlic.

You’d picked it out yourself, heavy bulbs still clotted with dirt. It took you most of the late afternoon to crush it, pressing each clove into the mortar until they burst into pulp until you grounded it into powder, packed it dry into a paper pouch and shoved it deep into your pocket, ready to see if he was gone with all the time that had passed.

Maybe you expected the walls painted with what used to be the old goat and nothing else.

What you didn’t expect was to get slammed against the rough wood of the wall there. A hand clamped around your throat and claw curled into your hip as he pinned you against him.

His body was pressed close, towering over you, heat pulsing off him in waves.

He was covered in blood, soaked completely. Dried at the corners of his mouth, thick around his chin, darker still where it had run down the exposed column of his throat.

It had soaked into the fabric of his tank top, darkening it from chest to hem, clinging to every plane of muscle beneath.

His chest was bare in places, the shirt torn in places and allowing you to see a sliver of his scar already healed from the morning’s burn, new skin glowed faint and pink beneath the drying blood.

His face was sharp, high cheekbones flecked with grime and dried gore, lips parted, dark and bloodstained, the edges drawn tight with restraint and those golden and lurid eyes locked on you, but not focused exactly, because his face was pressed against your neck.

Mose dragging slowly along your skin as he inhaled deeply, the shudder of breath making your hair stand on end.

His mouth brushed your pulse and you felt his fangs resting with pressure to make it clear they could end you in a second.

He didn’t bite even though he could have. His jaw was tense, the muscles shifting under your fingers where they trembled against his chest.

The bloodlust he felt for you was immense, hence why it surprised you when his breath hit your lips and he pulled back to meet your gaze, face only inches from yours.

The fangs were out, fully exposed, long and lethal, still wet at the root and lips curled slightly in something conflicted.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” His voice was hoarse and raw, scraped low in his throat, heavy and desperate.

Your lips parted but didn’t know what to say. Nothing came, not even breath as his eyes dropped to your mouth and lingered, drawn and mesmerized.

You could feel the warmth of his breath, panting now, his chest rising faster, whole body tensed like he was fighting something.

He took one step back while his hand stayed on your throat before throwing you against the wood.

Silence flooded your ears as the breath left your body for the second time in seconds. Your vision blurred, a sick blackness curling at the corners as you hit your head.

When you woke, it was due to the whisper of curtains rustling. Soft morning gold filled the room.

You blinked, groaning, the back of your skull throbbing with a dull ache. The pain was manageable, surprisingly so, but your whole body felt stiff. Your limbs were heavy, your mouth dry and your fingers curled instinctively into the sheets around you.

You were in your bed.

Maybe it had been a dream, that one hell of a day had just been a dream all along.

Except, you saw dark and dried stains on the bed, two handprints. One to either side of where your body had laid, too large to be yours and pressed down as though someone had hovered over you and watched.

You stood weakly, stepped toward the mirror and noticed droplets of blood on your shirt and at your neck, just below the collar, dried and rust red.

Your gaze drifted to the window outside, the yard stretched long and quiet, automatically counting your old and weak companions.

One…two…three-four-fiv—

You were missing some.

Yep, definitely missing some.

He was gone completely. Maybe he’d fed, healed, moved on and silently thanked you for your hospitality, but even that lie came half-formed because something was still watching.

At first, it was your own shadow shifting wrong at dusk. You’d glance left and see movement to the right.

A shape among the trees, you’d think it was nothing.

When the sun dipped fully and the land fell into that deep amber haze, you’d look up and you’d see two dots glowing, low to the ground, far off past the fence line.

Gold, twin and sharp. Too symmetrical to be lanterns and too still to be fireflies, you’d blink and they’d be gone.

One evening, you found yourself in the barn again.

The sun was low and slow, fat rays of honey-colored light poured through the hatch, catching in the dust motes that danced weightless through the barn air. You’d climbed up out of old instinct, your boots knowing the ladder before your mind caught up. Same perch as always: back braced against the inner slats, one leg dangling over the open drop, the other curled close, elbow resting on your knee.

It was too high and never safe but it had always been yours.

A loop of frayed rope sat to your left, half-tangled through a rusted pulley. The hay down below was thin now, barely a pad against the ground if you slipped.

The wind was sweet, full of grass and old flowers, sun-warmed and still clinging to the scent of day.

“Y’don’t get any less strange, do ye now?” A voice casual and drawing.

Your breath caught and your eyes opened slowly.

He stood below you, hidden from the golden light due to the high plants, shirt wrinkled, collar open and slack, a white undershirt visible beneath the cotton where it clung slightly damp to the shape of him.

The first few buttons were undone and you saw the line of his chest, the faint ridges of muscle moving with his breath.

His curls were dark and wet, still dripping at the ends like he’d just walked through rain or worse, rinsed off something red in the stream.

He grinned too wide, lips stained faint with something that might’ve been berries hadn’t you known what he really was.

His eyes tonight were not glowing but no less inhuman.

And he held a banjo. It looked as old as the barn. The rim dulled, rimmed with brass so worn it had turned brown at the edges. The skin was taut, marked with the small nicks and divots of long, hard use. You could see faint finger-oil stains on the wood.

He strummed a lazy chord, dissonant and loose before stopping and tucking it behind his back, letting the strap slide over one shoulder.

He stepped into the barn and without warning he floated until his boots touched the edge of the loft’s beam not two feet from you, not even trying to hide his nature.

He tilted his head, watching you.

Up this close, the skin of his face was too smooth in some places, too rough in others.

“Darlin’,” he said at last and the way the word wrapped around his teeth made your chest clench.

“That day,” he murmured, accent thick like it’d been pressed in whiskey, “all that blood, y’holdin’ me like I were somethin’ worth savin’, an’ I never asked ye your name.”

He blinked, slow.

“Can’t have that, now.”

He gave a mock bow, hand splaying across his chest.

“Name’s Remmick.”

The way he said it made your stomach turn over. You swallowed, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy of it and the fact that he even cared.

You quietly answered your own name and he repeated it under his breath once, like he was testing it in his mouth, weighing it on his tongue. A small exhale slipped through his teeth and he looked at you again, this time with something darker curling behind the faint gold in his eyes.

“Mm. Suits ye too well.” He took a step forward, eyes never leaving yours.

You said nothing but your jaw set tight, you couldn’t afford to let him see how your breath hitched when he called you that. Not when your spine still remembered the feel of that wall, his hand on your throat, the flash of teeth and blood.

“What are you doing here?”

He chuckled, low and amused, like your question cracked something open in him he didn’t bother hiding.

“Y’make it sound like I’ve got a plan t’ finish somethin’.” He said, boots creaking faint on the old wood as he took a step closer.

Your hand curled tighter over your knee, your nails digging into soft fabric. “Don’t you?”

He grinned wider, flashing just the tip of his fang, no threat.

“If I wanted ya dead,” he said softly, voice dropping, banjo shifting across his back, “I’d’ve ripped your throat out the second I had ye under me that night. Ye remember it, don’t ya?”

Of course you remembered it, the fear had never fully left your limbs, but it didn’t change the fact that you’d dreamed with your mouth open, lips parted for fangs that never came.

You didn’t answer with words and he noticed, eyes flickering down to your throat, then back up again.

“Been lookin’,” he said, voice low and strange. “Y’know, since that night. T’find anythin’ t’tell me who you were, what you are. Found nothin’ on your bloodline.”

Your stomach turned while your hands clenched.

His gaze softened dangerously.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, “how d’you manage t’live this long bein’ so…” His tongue clicked. “Unnoticed.”

He grinned again but this time, it wasn’t mocking, rather curios.

“My parents owed the wrong people,” you said quietly, eyes on your hands. “They never registered me. Not just because they didn’t plan on me. A kid’s a liability when your house is already balanced on rot, it gives the enemy leverage.”

Once the first sentence slipped out from your mouth, there was no stopping it.

“So they taught me to hide.” How well you’d learned. You told him about the floorboards your father marked with chalk when they squeaked, the way you memorized engine sounds like lullabies, the rules about lights and shadows.

“I worked the fields when no one was looking, learned to lie properly—”

You didn’t realize how tightly your hands were curled until the knuckles turned white.

“Last year—” Your throat closed for a second. “Last year, I was up here just like this. The sun had gone down and I was thinking about sleeping up here again. Then I heard them coming.”

You didn’t need to describe the truck or the boots.

“It all happened so fast.” You looked at him and there was again that thing you hated most.

It was like a mirror.

You saw him that day broken, slumped, oozing blood onto the porch with those hunters behind and it had hit you with recognition as you saw yourself in his shoes after hours of hiding that night.

For a second he looked so much like you.

Remmick’s jaw tightened, his now gold eyes never left you.

“I waited hours after they left to finally get inside.” Your voice had gone hollow.

“I didn’t know the whole story. Not right away. I found letters hidden in the kitchen drawers, receipts with names scratched off. That’s how I found out everything.”

You paused, fingers flexing on your thighs.

“Over the months, I visited the town to find them. The town doesn't ask questions if you got a hat brim low. You bring in things and keep your voice down and they give you what you need. That’s all.”

He had a thousand things to say, a thousand wrong things that clawed up the back of his throat and he couldn’t say a single one of them without breaking something.

You were made invisible because no one ever thought you mattered enough to remember. They tried to erase him by force, you were forgotten by design.

You could vanish tomorrow and the world wouldn’t even blink.

He hated it.

He hated the men who made you suffer. Hated the town that didn’t care. Hated the way you still looked at him like you were waiting for him to leave, too.

He wanted to bite it out of you, hold you down and remind you what it meant to be seen and wanted so completely it made your bones ache. He wanted to ruin solitude for you, make it so you couldn’t work through the day without feeling what he did to you.

Those unnatural gold eyes gleaming faint as he watched you with a strange, shifting tension.

“Who were they?” Simple words, but the way he spoke through his teeth like each syllable had to be restrained with a jaw clenched too tight, left a cold taste in your mouth.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, your fingers clenched over the beams, knuckles pale. Your voice wavered in frustration, an exhaustion so old it had hollowed out a space behind your ribs and built a shrine there.

“I don’t fuckin’ know. I’ve spent the whole year since digging for answers.”

Still not meeting his eyes, you shifted, boots scraping against the old frame, finding a foothold as you stood up tall along the crossbeam and the hayloft groaned below you.

You stood balanced between memory and impulse, arms slightly out, not steadying so much as existing and testing gravity.

“I come up here,” you said, voice tight, “every time it gets too quiet in my head.”

The wind teased your shirt, catching the edge like it wanted to help make the decision.

That was when you looked down at the ground. It was black beneath you now that the sun ran away, pure darkness.

“Some days I want to fight them,” you said, barely a whisper. “Tear the truth outta someone. Other times I’m not scared anymore of dying, not when I know it won’t change anything or that there’s not a soul who’d notice.”

The silence crept back in and your voice broke at the edge.

“What if I told ye there was a way t’see ‘em again?” His voice came soft and barely above a breath, interrupting your thoughts.

Your head turned slowly, spine still straight against the sky as you looked over your shoulder at him.

His eyes shimmered low-gold in the dark, steady and locked on yours. His tongue wet his bottom lip, fangs just visible in the motion.

“There are people,” he said, “who can bend the fabric o’reality with nothin’ but the right tune of music t’pull the dead back across the veil.”

You swallowed as he stepped closer now, almost directly beneath you.

“I’ve been chasin’ them,” he said, voice low and tight. “A long time t’bring back my people. My kin. What’s left o’them.”

He lifted his hand up toward you, not reaching blindly, rather offering.

“Ye want answers?” he said, the words low, rolling like smoke from a dying fire. “Then we do it right. You search in the light, scour every road, every shite town with a name. I’ll search when it’s dark.”

His eyes locked to yours, gold, unblinking and fierce.

“An’ when we find ‘em,” his voice dropped lower, softer and more dangerous, “…we’ll make sure yer mam an’ da ain’t just bones in some field no more. Ye’ll see them again. I swear it.”

Silence wrapped around you then until you asked, brittle, unsure but brave. “You think that’s possible?”

He didn’t laugh, just gave a crooked smile, bare but real.

“I know it is.”

Hope began to rickindle in your chest at the confidence in his words and you’d been turning, one hand on the railing, eyes already halfway down to where Remmick waited with that crooked grin.

The wind howled suddenly through the slats and you weren’t steady enough. Your balance broke, foot slipping and gravity yawned open.

The barn flipped sideways, the floor gone pitch-black beneath you while the wind roared through your ears as adrenaline flooded your system.

A brutal grip wrapped around your wrist, fingers locking bone-deep just as your other foot left the ledge and you were yanked forward not gently.

The impact was jarring, your chest slammed against his, breath ripped from your lungs by the sheer force of his catch. His arms closed around you with terrifying strength, pulling you flat against him.

Your heart was a war drum, hammering so hard in your ribs you could feel each pulse crash against his chest and he didn’t flinch.

His head was in the crook of your neck, mouth open against your skin, breathing you in like the scent alone steadied him.

The grip he held on your wrist hadn’t loosened, fingers digging into your skin. His other arm was a band across your waist, clenched so tight you could feel every tense muscle shaking faintly.

“Next time ye try that,” he growled, voice scraped raw, a rasp at the back of his throat that barely sounded human. “I won’t catch ye.”

“I’ll let y’hit the ground and stay there. I’ll wait ‘til you’re broke on the ground, drag what’s left up and make the rest o’ it hurts tenfold worse than the fall ever could’ve.”

The silence after was louder than any scream. You shifted slightly, breath rattling in your chest and he let your wrist go but that one arm still clutched around your waist.

You looked up and wished you hadn’t.

Full red eyes, no softness in them. Lips parted and fangs fully lengthened, the edges catching the faintest starlight and his thumb, longer than it should’ve been, dragged slowly up your cheek.

“Ye think death’s worse than me?” he whispered, followed by a smile you don’t want to see. “Go on, try it. I’ll show ya what it means t’beg for the end.”

The words chilled your blood and you yanked away hard and this time, he let you go.

You didn’t look back while jumping from one beam to another lower, boots slamming into the next support and then down again.

The ground met your boots and you staggered. Your knees trembled, the wrist he gripped ached, skin bruised in the shape of his grasp and you cradled it to your chest, breathing fast.

When you turned back, the barn loomed dark and tall, and there, high above and exactly where you’d been, he stood balanced perfectly in your place, eyes glowing down at you, watching and unblinking.

You didn’t know if you were afraid because he’d saved you or because he hadn’t let you die.

You hadn’t seen him in days, gone completely.

Still, like some goddamn fool, you did your part out there in town, faking smiles.

You grinned when you didn’t want to and shook hands you’d rather avoid. You nodded to women at the produce stand, asked soft questions about music of all things. If they knew of anyone in town who sang too well, played too often, left too much behind in their wake. It felt absurd and humiliating.

It almost made you laugh as you recalled what you were doing just for him while the sickle in your hand swung slowly, slicing stalks of tall grass, pulling bundles into rough armfuls to harvest for the dying animals still too stubborn to follow the quick ending Remmick could offer them. You’d wake up and count one less goat, one fewer hen.

Greedy bastard.

By the time the sky dipped into copper and rust, you were back on the porch, sweat dried to salt across your brow, the sickle’s curved blade hanging limp at your side. The last streaks of light stretched long over the dirt road, still visible and bright.

Heavy tires gritting over the gravel were picked from your ears, growling engine rolling low and mean, heavy and fed on oil.

Your whole body went cold as you forced your boots not to move. Your legs itched with the urge to run, to dive into the barn behind hay like you were ten again and still small enough to hide perfectly.

You stood there instead, heartbeat rising to your throat, scythe tight in your palm as the truck stopped and two doors opened.

The first thing you saw were their boots. Clean and polished in a way that didn’t match the mud, then the rest followed.

Two men stepped down and they froze when they saw you, faces shifting in subtle shock. The one on the left stepped forward slow, his coat brushing behind him in stiff gusts. His face was pinched tight in recognition. He looked at you like he’d already seen your face before.

“What’re you doin’ here?” he asked, simple words and soft voice.

You licked your lips, tongue dry, chest tight. You tried to answer even and calm.

“Just workin’ my field.”

He scoffed, a bitter and ugly laugh.

“This field?” he repeated, gesturing out with a mocking sweep. “Hell, this field’s about to be ours. We’re just waitin’ for the last damn paper to go through now that the last two owners finally did somethin’ useful and died.”

The second he referred to the last two owners, he stopped and really looked at you.

A snicker came soon after, the one behind joined in, low and sharp as he played with the knife in his hands.

“You look just like ’em,” the man murmured, cocking his head.

The one behind chewed the inside of his cheek, smirking. “Your folks,” he said, “they used to check that barn like it was rigged t’blow. Every time we pulled up, they went white.”

Your grip on the scythe tightened.

The tallest man, rifle slung on his back, fingers twitching, stepped closer.

“You lookin’ to square their debt?” he said, voice was almost warm but definitely mocking.

The shame came fast of how little you had and the horror arrived with it because you knew now who these men were.

“Maybe it’s time you saw ‘em again,” the man said with a smile, hands moving behind his back. “Reunite the family. The last thing we need is an heir out of nowhere."

To your own shock you noticed how he was reaching for the rifle on his back when talking to you in a poor attempt to distract.

Fear overtook your body and the sickle snapped upward in your hand, arc perfect, aimed right for his neck.

He caught your wrist before the blade connected. His fingers snapped tight around your arm and turned it hard. You snarled, twisted, tried again, but his grip didn’t budge.

The other laughed harder as he watched his buddy redirect your own scythe and forced your arm back toward your own throat.

You struggled with all of your abilities, he was just stronger, drunker on cruelty. The blade crept closer and he slammed you into the side of the house hard.

The scythe glinted under the last shimmer of light, the sun dropped behind the ridge and darkness fell in your last seconds of life.

“You dumb little fu—” the scraping breath of the man trying to kill you ended abruptly and the pressure on your arm vanished suddenly.

His body jerked back too far, like something yanked him from behind and the blade in your hand turned, slipping through your palm and cutting you shallow there.

You gasped, stumbling sideways, blood trickling from your fingers, looking up to see Remmick standing next to him.

His face so still it might’ve been carved, so furious it looked downright terrifying, lips peeled back to bare the full length of his fangs.

The man’s jaw was completely shattered, bone split out beneath the skin like a hinge kicked off its frame and he barely had time to gurgle before Remmick sank his fangs into his throat.

The noise was wet and he was vicious as he tore the skin of the man’s throat wide. A gape opened, red and yawning, skin shredded like paper. Blood poured in sheets over Remmick’s lips, down his chest and into the ruined grass.

You staggered backward, sick already twisting your gut, hand that clutched your other one.

His shoulders rose and fell with each suck, each drawn pull from the dying man’s artery, curls soaked with droplets of blood now, shirt clung in streaks and mouth that shone crimson.

When he finally released the man, he collapsed in a heap, neck an open pit until no more air went through it.

The second charged, knife gleaming beneath the moonlight to avenge his buddy.

Remmick turned and caught the man’s wrist mid-swing. The crunch was sickening when he squeezed, bone and tendon collapsing as he reversed the knife to slide it into the man’s chest until the handle was buried deep in there.

The scream that tore out was cut short when Remmick took the neck next and bit harder on the jugular.

The man spasmed, twitched, to then go still and collapse on the ground.

Remmick turned to you, covered in blood and chest heaving, still dripping from his mouth. The light in his eyes flickered unstable like a candle flame caught in the wind that refused to die.

The once white shirt he had, already ragged before, now with the entire right side soaked through in scarlet. The fabric stuck to his body, plastered down over the curves of muscle, over the shifting planes of his torso as he breathed.

The veins in his neck pulsed, jaw twitching and lips parted slightly.

“Yer bleedin’.” The words hit like a whisper against your pulse. You looked down, dazed at your hand. The cut from the scythe throbbed as blood smeared your palm.

When you looked up again, Remmick was now in front of you. There was no restraint in his posture nor any pretense of humanity left. What stood in front of you was a monster, one who’d just torn apart two men for touching you and still, your chest only throbbed because he was finally here again.

You didn’t care about the wet copper smell clinging to his ruined shirt and splashed up his throat, still tinted red with someone else’s end.

Blinded by desire, it was your turn to move now, stepping into his space and lifting your hands and cradling his face like he hadn’t just killed for you.

His skin was burning hot under your palms, warm, blood-wet, trembling with barely leashed need and the second your touch landed, he let out a deep, possessive purr from the back of his throat, ragged and feral, bursting through bloodstained lips and twisting into a growl as he looped one strong arm around your waist.

He pulled you against him tight, your chest crushed to his, ribs against the firm weight of muscle soaked through with metallic and red liquid. His shirt clung to both of you now, ruined fabric pressing to your clothes, bonding you in blood and heat.

He caught your injured wrist and lifted your hand to his mouth, eyes never leaving yours as he licked.

Tongue hot, soft at first but insistent, dragging slow over the cut in a wide, possessive stroke. The moment he tasted your blood, his body shuddered and a groan vibrated from deep inside him, pressed right into your skin.

He licked hungrier and more aggressive, tongue flattened against your palm, then curled between your fingers to catch every trace of what you’d spilled. He groaned rougher now, needier and that sound went straight to your spine, made your legs unsteady and your cock twitch with heat.

His eyes fluttered shut, lips sucking the wound clean, mouth still hot and wet around the heel of your hand.

“Knew ye’d taste sweet,” he groaned into your skin, the words muffled by your hand but rough edged all the same. “Spent days thinkin’ on it. Dyin’ for this, darlin’.”

Your hand was still cradled between his fingers as he crashed forward, mouth catching yours in a heat, blood-tasting kiss so intense it knocked the breath out of your chest. His lips were wet and you didn’t care as you moaned into it, kissed back with everything you had, hands fisting in his ruined shirt as your teeth clashed and tongues warred.

His fangs dragged along your lower lip as he kissed you, sharp and wicked, cutting tiny slits when you leaned in too hard and that only made it worse, his groan deepened as soon as he tasted the blood you didn’t mean to give.

He invaded your mouth with his tongue, hot and greedy, diving deep to collect every drop of what he’d drawn, lapping at the cuts like a man starved, hands grabbing at your hips, possessive and grateful.

You whined when he pulled away from your lips and he chuckled into your mouth, full of teeth and want.

“Givin’ it t’me now, are ya?” he murmured, voice of all heat-soaked filth and velvet pride, “Knew I’d get a taste o’ye one way or another.”

Your own hand slipped away from him and wrapped around the scythe still clutched loosely at your side. This is to bring it up and press the cold, curved metal lightly to your own neck.

He froze, breath ragged as he watched you dragging the scythe’s edge across the side of your neck. A sharp sting that left a trail of red beading along the skin like pearls, you tilted your head to the side as you moved it again up over the hill of your shoulder, a second trail joined the first, bright red and fresh in the pale light.

His hands went tight around your waist, pupils blown now, eyes gone molten, teeth visible, saliva thick at the corners of his mouth and dripping at the corner of his bloody chin at the sight of the gift you made for him.

He surged forward.

The scythe clattered to the porch as he buried his face in your neck and began feasting. His tongue ran over the blood again and again in broad strokes, dragging every single drop you’d offered him.

You arched into him to allow better access, whined low in your throat as his tongue found the base of your neck and sucked, moaning openly against your flesh like the taste of you was killing him.

His mouth crashed against yours the second he pulled back, lips slick with your own blood, the taste of yourself lacing between your teeth as his tongue forced its way in.

He groaned into your mouth and it vibrated straight through your jaw and down into the center of your chest.

His grip tightened, arms locked around your frame and suddenly you weren’t on the floor anymore.

It felt like a lurch in your gut as the air dropped away, ground vanished beneath your feet. Eyes still shut, tongue still tangled with his, he lifted your body off the floor with a growl buried deep in his throat. You gasped into his mouth and he ate the sound, tongue dragging over yours again and again.

The wind cut around you for only seconds before your back slammed into the mattress and tangled sheets, the window behind him shattered light across the floor, curtains ripping as his boots tangled in them and landed on the floor of your bedroom.

Blood smeared across the floorboards where he stepped, where you’d landed, his hands never once letting you go. He tossed you down hard enough to bounce the bed frame against the wall with a crack and he was above you in seconds, blood staining the sheets.

He landed between your legs, one knee shoved them apart as he pushed forward, hips tight and low, the full press of his cock, heavy and huge through blood-soaked pants grinding slow against your own with purpose.

He grunted and rolled his hips once, dragging the thick length of him right along your own, the heat of it unreal, obscene through clothes already clinging with blood.

His eyes glowed gold and his fangs were gleaming and shining with your blood. He stared down at you like a thing reborn in ruin, expression contorted with hunger, lust and need.

His tongue dragged over the cut on your neck in hot, wet and long strokes alternating with slow and filthy kisses that left your skin smeared in red. He moaned low into you with every lap, every taste, pressing groans into your jawline, into your temple, his breath coming heavier the more he drank from the surface.

You felt every ridge beneath his tattered shirt with your fingers, every tremble from where he tried not to tear you apart too soon. You reached lower until your hand cupped him through his pants.

The sound he made against your throat wasn’t human, fangs scraping again and his hips jolted forward instinctively, grinding hard against your palm as you squeezed. He kissed you messier, licking the corner of your mouth where blood had trickled.

Your fingers dragged at the buttons of his shirt, the other hand still wrapped around the thick outline of his cock, feeling the heat of its pulse under your grip.

You got the fabric undone only halfway before giving up and peeling it off his sturdy build and soon you were working his pants open next, frantic and clumsy, all while he didn’t stop kissing your throat even once. Every breath from him came with a hiss, a grunt, a moan, mouth leaving trails of blood over your neck, your collarbone, dragging sharp teeth over the thin layer of skin where your pulse throbbed.

A groan passed through his fangs when he felt fingers wrap around his shaft, hips jerking into your grip as his teeth snapped bare centimeters from your throat.

You stroked once and he twitched in your grip, cock hard and drooling at the tip while you squeezed at the base, thumb circling under the ridge of his head. His hips rolled into it, breath stuttering hard and he pressed his forehead into your collarbone, growling through grit teeth as you began working him slowly, deliberately, up and down.

“Y’gonna make me lose it—fuck, I’ll fuck ye so hard yer name won’t come back t’ye for hours—” His voice crack and immediately he seized your wrist and pulled it away.

The loss of contact made your breath stutter in your chest, but before you could protest he’d taken your other wrist too and pinned them both above your head.

He held your wrists in only one hand, inspecting with pride the one still slightly bruised he’d left days ago.

They were still mottled purple, violet rings blooming under the skin and his stare sharpened, mouth curled slowly and fangs glinting.

Y’looked good like that, all marked from him. So fragile and delicate, so many ways to ruin and have fun with.

He leaned down until his nose brushed the edge of your cheek and the growl that vibrated from his chest wasn’t human as his mouth descended on your shoulder, hot breath huffing against your skin before his tongue dragged across the shallow wound you’d given yourself earlier.

The blood there was fresh as he drank over your skin in slow, needy laps. He traced the blood, followed it down to where it gathered in the dip of your collarbone, then further, pushing his face against your chest, licking long, wet stripes across skin even where the blood had dried all while smearing the crimson down toward your abdomen.

You bucked once beneath him and he growled in delight, tearing your shirt open without hesitation, seams splitting beneath his hands, buttons skittering across the bed like broken teeth.

“I won’t lie t’ye,” he mumbled in a husky tone, breathing hot across your abdomen. “I thought of ravishin’ ye right then that night ye saved me t’ thank ye proper.”

He tore your pants down next, fabric splitting at the seams as your thighs were bared to the cold air and the burning weight of his mouth dragging down your chest again, sucking at the skin above your navel, teeth scraping enough to mark.

A large hand moved down and grabbed your right thigh, digging into the muscles and spreading your legs wider with inhuman strength. His mouth met your inner thigh with an open-mouthed kiss, fangs scraping faintly over the softest skin there, right beside your cock and make your whole body tense.

One sharp claw was pressed to your thigh and then dragged sideways, a clean cut that was deep enough to let blood trickle.

His lips covered it and kissed your thigh like your blood was the wine he’d waited centuries to drink. Tongue lapping the new wound, curling around the trail of blood as it slid down the curve of your leg and you felt him moan into it, the sound vibrating into your skin and his other hand gripped harder, holding your leg still so he could kiss the bleeding mark again.

His other hand moved between your legs as it reached down and slid his fingers to your hole, two fingers slick with blood that pressed in shallow, then deeper.

The stretch was sharp at first, but your body welcomed it from the overwhelming need and he watched everything while licking and kissing your thigh seconds before adding another finger, circling and scissoring as his fingers fucked you deeper.

The moment his fingers slipped from your body you felt the emptiness like a wound, ache stretching where his touch had been.

Your hands fell limply to the bed, the imprint of his grip still red across your skin. He crawled forward like a predator who knew there was no longer any point in rushing.

When he rose above your wrecked body, your legs moved automatically, wrapping around his hips like your body knew what was coming and refused to be denied.

The head of his cock, slick with precome, pressed tight against your stretched hole, pulsing thick and hot against the tender rim.

He looked down, eyes golden and wide, burning like hellfire, fangs bared in something too savage to be a smile.

“Ye ready for it now, darlin’?” he murmured, voice thick with promise, “Ready t’feel every inch of what ye opened yerself up for?”

Your answer was a broken moan as he pushed in, the fat tip breached you first, spreading your entrance around him as your body clenched instinctively, trying to take him in but barely able to.

Every inch forced deeper as you felt the way he filled you, the width dragging against every nerve inside you.

You moaned louder, back arching off the bed and his hands gripped your thighs, pushing them further apart as he sank in the last inch and bottomed out.

Your hole stretched wide and raw, the girth of him keeping your rim open around the base of his cock, heat blooming inside you with each shudder of his breath.

He held still, buried to the hilt, your body pulsing around him in rhythm with your heart before he moved.

The first thrust was brutal, dragging himself out almost all the way, letting you feel every ridge and vein to then slam back in hard. The sound it made, wet and loud, echoed off the walls like sin made physical.

You cried out and he laughed breathlessly into your shoulder as he proceeded to fuck you hard and deep. Long strokes, hips grinding to make sure you felt everything. Your cock twitched between your abdomens, pressed between your skin and his blood-slick chest, every rut of his hips sending a bolt of pleasure right through your spine.

As he picked up speed, the rhythm turned rough and relentless, hands dragging your hips down to meet every thrust, skin slapping against skin, the stretch of your hole now wet, noisy and so fucking full.

His voice broke into curses, moans and snarled bits of praise in that ruined Irish drawl of his. “Ye’re takin’ me so good—hnnnnfuck—”

Your cock was leaking while he kept wrecking you from the inside, the head smeared with your own precome and your thighs trembled around his waist.

The heat in your belly snapped tight and then broke as you came hard. A cry punched out of your chest as you spilled between you both, ropes of it streaking your chest and his abs. Your whole body spasmed around him, hole clenching down so tight he roared and slammed in once more.

His cock jerked inside you, twitching, thick and so far in you swore it pushed against your lungs as he filled you, thick spurts of hot seed pumping, warmth blooming inside your abdomen as he grunted, cursed and pressed in even deeper, grinding as he emptied himself into your stretched, aching hole.

Full weight of him collapsed onto you, head settling into the crook of your neck (his favorite spot), breath ragged against your skin and fangs brushing your collarbone.

You felt the heat of his mouth as he resumed licking in lazy, indulgent laps along the bloodied skin of your shoulder, savoring the aftermath

His cock, still inside you, twitched as it hardened again and a low, devilish chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest, vibrating into your body through the weight of him on top of you.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, voice low and ruined like honey over something burning. “The things ye do to me… You’re better than blood…”

He still wanted to enjoy you more, the night was young.

The bed creaked beneath him, wood groaning under the weight of his blood-soaked body as his hands found your back, massive palms seizing you, claws pricking already-tender skin and in one fluid, inhuman motion, he hauled you up.

Your legs clamped tighter around his hips on instinct as you were airborne again, back arching, head falling briefly to his shoulder as he turned.

When he sat back against the headboard, broad back pressing into the wood, you straddled him fully in his lap.

Your knees sank beside his hips, thighs trembling with exhaustion and overstimulation, your breath heaving as your hands braced against the wall of his chest and raised your head.

His eyes were fully red now, a deep, glinting crimson that swallowed the room’s light. His fangs had lengthened, almost too far to keep his lips closed around them, protruding wicked and sharp from his parted mouth.

Breath huffed out around them, steaming faintly where the last of your heat still clung to his face. Long, past finger-length claws that raked down your back, not to wound (yet), but to keep you held.

“Saved your pretty neck from those bastards, didn’t I? Now I think I deserve a little somethin’ back. A reward, aye?” Voice like gravel soaked in whiskey, vowels slurred from heat and hunger.

He was grinning, terrifying, wide and blood-slicked, eyes gleaming like stars seen from underground.

You leaned in, forehead pressing flush to his, hot breath ghosting between your mouths. You didn’t care about the claws, the blood or that look on his face that said he’d tear the world in half to keep you in it.

“Cut my neck for you,” Your fingers twitched against his shoulder, smearing fresh blood. “…sliced my shoulder without blinking. And now you want more?”

You laughed softly, tired and breathless.

“You keep takin’ like this, Remmick, and I’ll be out cold before you even get to the good part.”

His claws moved down from your back to your sides, then to your chest as they pressed.

A single line, then another. Small, deliberate cuts carved into your skin with terrifying care. Not meant to maim but to feed with the blood that welled fast, small rivers crawling down the slope of your sternum, over your stomach, glistening under your collarbones.

“Then I’ll just have t’make sure y’stay awake,” he purred, voice soaked in heat. “Don’t want ye missin’ a single second.”

His mouth found your chest and he fed, kissing and dragging laps of his tongue across the small rivers he’d summoned.

Mouth smearing through the blood, warm and reverent, sucking gently around one of the deeper cuts before drawing back to lick the trail it left behind. His lips were already stained from your dried blood from earlier, now rehydrated by the fresh.

Your head tipped back and your hands gripped his shoulders tighter, but your strength was fading, pulse slowing and limbs weakening.

Remmick felt it.

You saw it in the way his eyes flicked up mid-lick,his tongue lingered on your skin like it was trying to remember you before you slipped too far.

He lifted you only an inch, enough to line himself up beneath you again.

His cock was hard, thick and furious beneath you, pulsing between your legs as he angled himself and pushed in. You gasped, your body opening slowly, trembling with effort.

He bottomed out deep and you forced your eyes open even through the haze.

Red eyes burning up at you, mouth soaked in crimson with fangs stained and hair a wild halo of blood-damp curls.

You kissed him fully, open-mouthed and tongue against his fangs, groaning into him when you began to move up and down.

Each bounce sent a jolt through your core, your knees buckling, but you kept going gripping his shoulders. His cock dragged deep, each thrust catching at the edge of your limit and forcing past it.

You slammed yourself down again and came hard, cock pulsing, spilling across his stomach, painting both your chests in streaks of heat as your body clenched down around him and he followed.

With a growl ripped from somewhere older than language, he buried himself to the hilt and came again, flooding you, thick spurts of heat pulsing inside your spent body.

You shuddered and fizzled in saturation, your nerves couldn’t take more, veins too empty. The air began to hum and your vision fluttered like moth wings.

He held you close, arms easing you back onto the ruined sheets. You felt the warmth of him as he leaned over your chest, his lips pressing lovingly and possessively to the bloody skin there.

The first thing you noticed was the heat from your own skin, bare against blood-wet sheets that dried and cracked with the faint stiffness of clot. Your body ached in places you couldn’t name. Your thighs burned, stomach tight and chest still throbbing where his mouth had marked you with red and bruises.

Golden noon slanted sharp across the bed and for a moment you thought your eyes would burn.

The realization that he wasn’t there hit you hard, blunt and hollow in the chest.

No breath on your neck, just your own body sprawled across the wreckage of last night’s ruin.

You looked down and found marks everywhere. Long, shallow cuts trailing across your ribs. Mouth-shaped bruises on your shoulder, your chest. Your thighs were a mess of dark splotches and ragged scabs, inner skin streaked with blood that had dried in the shape of his mouth.

You grinned, wincing.

‘Thank you, darlin’.’ The mockery of his voice in your own head was both obscene and affectionate. You threw on a shirt and some briefs on, each movement made you hiss through your teeth, muscles stiff and slow from everything he’d done to you.

You padded downstairs barefoot and there he was, sprawled on the floor of the parlor, back against a chair, legs crooked and banjo propped across his lap.

He was plucking strings idly, no real rhythm, just lazy unconscious flicks. The shirt he wore was still the same from last night, soaked and stained where the blood had dried in thick patches.

It clung to him unevenly, buttons half-undone and seams pulled out, the collar dark and rust-colored where blood had soaked through. One side of the shirt hung open completely, exposing his broad chest, sharp with muscle, the skin pale beneath streaks of dried crimson.

Droplets of blood, dried to rust, speckled his pectorals, some smudged into the edges of old scars, some dried in thin runnels down the line of his ribs. He hadn’t bothered to clean up, like he wanted to keep wearing the night.

“The fuck are you doin’ down here?” you snapped, instantly going for the nearest curtain. “You tryin’ to die for real this time?”

He didn’t flinch or even stop strumming, he just looked at you with a crooked grin, eyes still drowsy from the night before.

“Ah, listen t’ye soundin’ all fretful an’ sweet. Ye know I could eat y’whole just fer that tone alone, don’t ye?”

“Remmick,” you hissed, jerking a curtain closed with one sharp tug. “There are four open windows. I am not scraping what’s left of you off the goddamn floor just ‘cause you wanted to vibe with your creepy-ass instrument in direct sunlight.”

You were about to slam the last window closed when you heard him hum.

“Wait,” he said.

You turned and the grin widened.

“Take a peek outside, aye? Left y’a wee somethin’. Gift from me t’you, darlin’. Still smokin’, if y’re lucky.”

Your brows pulled together, wariness prickled your spine. Still, you stepped to the window, one hand lifting to shield your eyes from the last of the glare as you peeked between the slats.

There were two blackened bodies completely carbonized, twisted into unnatural shapes like they’d tried to escape the burn.

Those two men who came for your field and were about to take your life if you hadn’t already chosen your monster.

You turned back to him.

“All o’ it done for ye,” he whispered.

You barked a laugh and staggered once, shaking your head, still stunned by the casual and absolute violence while you took a seat on the floor right in front of him.

“You’re insane.”

He didn’t argue, just tilted his head, lips parted in that lazy, crooked curve like sin had decided to incarnate itself just for your benefit.

“Y’knew what I was when ye let me in.”

A melody was born as he began to play.

His eyes flicked up and stilled when he saw the edge of one of his bruises on your shoulder.

His pupils twitched, then elongated, irises burning inward as if lit from within. His lips glistened, mouth parting wider now, the edges of his fangs poking visible. Spit gathered in one corner as it trailed down his chin.

The banjo slid from his lap, the strings gave one last gasp of sound as they kissed the floorboards and he began crawling towards you.

His hands spread wide, palms dragging with cruel patience over the wood, knuckles brushing dried blood still left from last night’s aftermath.

He was over you completely now, arms braced on either side, knees pinning your thighs apart, hips hanging above yours, head tilted, that beautiful face twisted into something too close to devilish.

You reached up, one hand pressed to his jaw and you felt the inhuman twitch of muscle just beneath the surface as you kissed him.

His mouth opened against yours, fangs brushing your tongue, spit mixing with yours as he kissed you back and when he lowered you fully to the floor, his body covering yours, weight full and hands sinking to your waist, you didn’t resist.

In his head, he made a simple vow.

He would destroy anyone to protect you.

Anyone.

Except from himself.

497 notes · View notes

corroded-hellfire · 2 months ago

Note

Brittany spreading a nasty rumor about Reader and it destroys her. Eddie gets wind of it and goes into super protective mode. I need this man so angry that he punches a wall or something.

I loved this request the moment I laid eyes on it 💜

Warnings: bitches, mild violence, bullying

Words: 4k

[As You Wish masterlist]

In your head, in your head

Zombie, zombie, zombie, hey, hey

What's in your head, in your head

Zombie, zombie, zombie, hey, hey, hey, oh

Your head bobs up and down to the tune, one sneakered foot resting against the side of your car. The driver’s door is cracked open as you lean back, arms crossed casually across your chest as you await three o’clock.

The Hawkins Elementary School parking lot is decently packed, most of the cars are familiar, thanks to your daily pickups of Ryan and Luke. Some faces here and there are new, but you’re able to recognize different family members or other adults trusted to pick their kids up from school.

A silver Toyota pulls into the parking spot between you and a decrepit maroon minivan. The door opens, and a woman with a blonde pixie cut steps out. She’s not familiar to you, but the woman standing outside the minivan is. Apparently, she’s also familiar with Pixie Cut.

Pixie Cut looks at you over her shoulder, a little too long to be a casual glance, but you think nothing of it. Then, the woman closes her car door and sidles up next to Minivan.

“That her?”

Her attempt at whispering failed miserably. Gossips in the school parking lot are nothing new, though. You know far too much about the marriages of some of these adults. Sometimes it’s hard to look Ryan or Luke’s friends in the eye when you know one of their parents is about to divorce the other.

“Yeah, that’s her.”

Though this whisper was much quieter, you’re locked in now, so you strain to hear it.

“God, does she drive like that?”

“I hope not, but who knows? That’s why I didn’t park right next to her. You’re brave.”

The words cause your spine to stiffen and your eyes to widen. They are obviously talking about you. But what the hell are they talking about? How do you drive? Are you a bad driver? You’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket. Your top teeth gnash into your bottom lip as you eavesdrop on the rest of their conversation.

“Please,” Pixie says with a scoff. “If anything happened to this thing, I would just have Donny go get me a new one.”

No, don’t move on to Donny, you think. What the hell are you saying about me?

“Think there’s any in the car?” Pixie asks.

“Wouldn’t be surprising. Don’t most of those junkies always have that shit on them?”

You almost choke on your own spit. Most of those what? Your eyebrows furrow together as you fight to keep your composure. If they know you’re onto them, there’s a good chance these clucking hens will stop talking.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I mean, at least keep it to your own time, you know?”

“I guess some druggies just can’t help themselves. And can’t help themselves from stealing someone’s husband.”

They titter together as you see a familiar SUV pull into the parking lot. You clench your fists together, nails digging into your palms in an attempt to keep the tears away. It is not successful.

Luckily, or not, depending on whether you really wanted to hear more or not, the women move away, walking closer to the school. The tears spill over, falling down your face in a steady stream. Through your blurry vision, you look for the friendly face that drove the SUV.

“Steve?” Your voice is hoarse; barely above a whisper. But somehow he hears it.

His head swivels in your direction, throwing you that charming smile of his before he sees the tear tracks down your cheeks. Immediately, he stalks over to you, face pinching up in concern.

“Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?” He looks you over, trying to see if you’re injured in some way.

Words fail you, so you shake your head. Steve is evidently at a loss. He runs his fingers through his hair, and somehow, his anxiety gets you to speak.

“D-Do you know those two women over there?” You nod your head in the direction they went.

Steve cranes his neck to see around the sea of vehicles in the parking lot.

“Who?”

You sniffle and wipe your nose on your hoodie sleeve before you reply.

“The one w-with the short blonde hair. A-And the one with the brown bob.”

“Uh…” Steve squints, trying to get a better look. “I don’t know the brunette. The blonde is the mom of one of Natalie’s friends. Sharon, I think. Why?”

Desperate to get rid of the tears, you tuck your hands inside the sleeves of your sweatshirt and wipe off your face.

“They were just here,” you say, gesturing to the minivan two spots away. “Talking about me. S-Saying horrible shit.”

“To you?” Steve raises his eyebrows.

“No.” You shake your head. “They were trying to whisper, but I heard them. Or maybe they wanted me to hear, I don’t know. But they called me a junkie and a druggie.”

“What?” Steve’s posture tenses, and he crosses his arms across his chest.

You’re only able to nod as the tears start again.

“They were, like, wondering if I drove high. If there were drugs in the car. And they s-said I stole someone’s husband.” Obviously, the “someone” is Brittany, but the last thing you need is to say her name out loud.

“What the fuck?” Steve spits. He shakes his head, his arms dropping to his sides. He looks fidgety, unsure what to do with all the anxious and angry energy that’s built up inside of him. “Hold on, I’m going to go talk to them.”

“No!” You reach out and grab Steve’s right arm before he can take two steps in the direction of the school. “No, Steve. I don’t want to start anything with them.”

“Hey…” Steve sighs softly and squeezes you to his side in an approximation of a hug. “I’m not going to bring up what you heard. I’m just going to see if they’ll share their shitty gossip with me, so I can get the whole story of whatever fucked up lie they’re spreading. Okay?”

“B-But, how do you know they’ll tell you? They know you’re best friends with Eddie.”

Steve grins, slipping his hands into his back pockets.

“I can be very persuasive when I try,” he says. “I’ve been known to charm everyone from crying babies to old crones.”

You can’t help the small laugh that bubbles out of you. Though you’re still not crazy about it, you nod anyway.

He heads off in their direction, and you hug your arms around yourself, trying to keep as calm as possible. It feels like he’s over there for a lifetime. You expect the school bell to ring any second, feeling like that much time must have gone past by now.

Eventually, he heads back in your direction. You let out a sigh of relief—until you see his face. His handsome features are tight, fury set into every line. The way his jaw is clenched has the fear racing back in.

“What did they say?” you badger as soon as he gets close enough. “Did they tell you anything?”

The fact that he won’t look you in the eye makes your stomach drop.

“S-Steve?”

His head twitches to the side, resembling a muscle spasm, but clearly a sign of the anger he’s holding back. As much as you admire his restraint, you need him to drop it. Fortunately, one look at your distraught face has Steve spilling.

“There’s a fucking rumor going around,” he says, teeth clenched as if this physically pains him to speak of. “That you…” He pauses and clears his throat. “That you do d-drugs. Mostly coke, I gathered.” He stops, but you know there’s more. One hand comes up to rub at his jaw while the other rests firmly on his hip. “And that you have them just lying around, letting the boys be exposed to it all or even fucking doing it in front of them.”

Your hands come up to cover your mouth. Out of everything they could’ve said, accusing you of putting the boys in danger is the worst possible thing.

“I…” You’re stunned speechless. A few deep breaths do little to calm you. “I would never.”

“Hey, I know that.” Steve reaches forward and pulls you in for a hug.

Part of you thinks there will be a rumor about you having an affair with Steve now, but the other part of you needs a hug so badly that you don’t care.

“M’pretty sure you’ve said you’ve only done pot, what? Twice?” He lets out a terse huff of laughter.

“Three times,” you mumble against his chest.

“Oh, you stoner.”

Despite the turmoil eating you from the inside out, you manage a small smile.

“I, uh,” Steve starts as the two of you part, “I think I know where the rumor came from. Or rather, who it came from.”

There’s only one option. Who else on this planet has the motive to smear you this horribly? Only the she-devil herself could be behind this.

“Brittany.” The name is a growl that vibrates your chest.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. He shakes his head before adding, “But I sure as shit set those women back there straight. And if any of us catch wind of this again, I’ll sic Nancy on them.”

“Shotgun and all,” you say, one corner of your mouth quirking up.

“Exactly.”

The school bell rings, both of you turning your heads towards the old brick building. Steve rests a hand on your shoulder and tilts his head to the side.

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah.” You quickly wipe your face to erase any sign of tears.

“You’re gonna tell Eddie, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good,” he says. “Don’t worry, Kid. I know that’s easier said than done, but it’ll be okay.”

Normally, you’d protest at the nickname, but you just nod; you feel like a bobble head at this point.

Steve heads back to his car, and only moments later, your two favorite boys run up to you.

“Freedom!” Luke cheers.

“Hi, I—are you okay?” The concerned frown on Ryan’s face is almost enough to get you bawling again.

“Yeah,” you reply in a breathy tone. “All good.”

Before either of them can say anything else, you grab each of them and pull them in for a tight embrace. You hug them against your body, and though they’re surprised at first, it doesn’t take long for them to hug you back.

The moment the doorknob jangles, you push yourself up from the couch. You hate to bombard your boyfriend as soon as he gets home, but you’ve been nothing but a bundle of nerves ever since you got back. It’s hard, because you know this is going to ruin his day. But he would feel even worse if you didn’t tell him and he found out some other way.

“Hey, baby.” Eddie tosses his keys onto the counter before turning to look at you.

“Hi.”

The warble and low volume of your voice would be enough to tell him something was wrong, but the devastation on your face more than takes care of it.

“Whoa, whoa, what’s going on?” He’s immediately in front of you, cupping your face gently in his hands.

“The boys are fine,” you rush to assure him. The panic in his eyes churns your stomach. “They’re playing in Luke’s room.”

“Okay, good.” Eddie nods, but the urgency is still front and center. “What about you? Are you okay? What is it?”

“I didn’t get hurt,” you breathe out harshly, shaking your head the best you can in his grip.

“Then what is it? What you’re not saying is starting to scare me more.”

“I just…” You take a deep breath and close your eyes. “Can we sit down? And please calm down, you’re making me w-worse.”

“Right, got it.” Eddie’s worry is boiling over, but he tries to compose himself as the two of you take a seat on the couch.

You’re tilted towards one another, his knees bumping against yours as he eagerly waits for you to speak.

“There’s a, uh, rumor going around a-about me,” you finally manage.

Dark brows furrow together in confusion. “I don’t understand. A rumor? Where? What is it?”

“As far as I know,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel, “it’s going around some parents at the boys’ school. I-I heard moms talking about me today.”

Eddie’s hands slip into yours, giving them a small squeeze of encouragement. He’s about to ask you what they said, but he knows you’re getting to that and he doesn’t want to put any unneeded pressure on you.

“Apparently,” you start, “it’s being s-said that I do drugs. Or, c-coke at least. And that I just—” Here, you’re forced to stop, a small sob sneaking out. The way your face crumbles breaks Eddie’s heart. He used to live with drug addicted parents; he knows the tragic reality of it. And he knows you know this too, so he silently wonders if that’s part of why you’re hesitant to tell him everything. “They’re saying I just leave the drugs lying around in the open.” You fling one hand out to the side, gesturing to the greater living room. The very thought of there being lines of coke set out on the coffee table is enough to make you nauseous. “That I…” This is the hardest part to say; the most vile aspect of it all for you. “That I do the drugs in front of the boys.”

The words light a fuse, a ticking time bomb growing inside of your boyfriend, the explosion imminent.

“They…” Eddie swallows thickly, poorly attempting to keep his composure. “The rumor is that you do drugs…in front of the boys?” He licks over his lips and drops his eyes down to his lap. Rage radiates from his every pore as he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Yes,” you all but whisper, unsure if you’re really meant to answer or not.

Slowly, Eddie rises to his feet and runs a ringed hand over his mouth. The tension in his body would be frightening if you didn’t know it was in your honor. His hands fall to his hips as he begins pacing back and forth in front of the couch.

“S-Steve showed up,” you add softly. “He went to talk to the moms. To find out what they were saying. And he told them off, he said. But he—”

You bite your lip, cutting yourself off. The last piece of the puzzle is the hardest one to deliver to Eddie.

He pauses his pacing and raises his eyebrows at you.

“Hmm?”

It’s difficult to gather your nerve, but you take a deep breath and get it out there.

“Um, Steve also had an idea of w-who’s behind it…”

There’s no need to speak the name—you both know.

Eddie tucks his lips in and squares his jaw. The fuse is running out, the bomb is about to go off.

“Jesus Christ!” Eddie swipes at the coffee table, sending a tissue box and two television remotes flying across the room.

You clench your hands together in your lap, eyes filling with tears.

Eddie runs his fingers through his hair, ignoring a tangle his pinky snags on. He stalks closer to the front door. You’re wondering if he’s going to leave when you see him draw his arm back, like a coil getting ready to spring forward. His fist is clenched, his knuckles white.

You take a gasp in, hoping to get something out before he makes contact, but he’s too worked up. Eddie's fist slams into the wall right next to the door, smack dab between the doorframe and a picture frame with a photo of the boys as toddlers. The wall dents beneath his fury, showing a dime-sized hole as he pulls his hand away.

“THAT FUCKING C—”

Two sets of footsteps come down the hallway, shutting Eddie up.

“Daddy?” Ryan asks timidly.

Eddie keeps his back to his sons, not wanting them to see him so revved up. He hangs his head and presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. He hopes he’s blocking them from seeing the damage he caused as well.

“Boys,” he says, as gently as he can manage, “go to your rooms. Everything’s fine.”

Neither boy believes him. Ryan looks towards you, Luke following his lead, and you give them a small smile. You nod your head at them, silently telling them to listen to their father. The two of them give each other a look before shuffling back towards their rooms.

“I’m gonna fucking kill her,” Eddie seethes. The lower volume is somehow worse than the screaming.

“Come here.” You stand up and gently tug on his arm that he used to punch. His hand reluctantly unfurls and you can see the scratches and scrapes his outburst caused, all caked with drywall, plaster, and green paint. You sigh and nod your head towards the hallway.

Eddie sits on the edge of the bathtub as you pull out the first aid kit. Luckily, it’s just been restocked so you’re able to get some bandages. Most of the last box had been used up by Luke from the time he tried to jump down the steps at Wayne’s trailer instead of walk. And the time he tried to do a dive roll. And the time he didn’t believe the sign that said the geese would bite.

You take a seat on the lid of the toilet and grab the washcloth to clean off your boyfriend’s hand. Neither of you speak, the whirring of the air conditioner the only sound cutting the silence. One large bandage is able to cover the worst of his lacerations, but you add a little medical tape to make sure it stays in place. You know Eddie—he’d try to peel that thing off without you noticing.

“Are you okay?” Eddie finally speaks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod your head and wipe at your nose with the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

“I will be.” You sigh and rest your elbows on your knees. “At first I was shocked. Then outraged. Now it feels more like hurt. And a little scary.”

“Scary? What, scared of me?” Eddie’s brow furrows.

“No, no.” You reach out and slip your hand into his uninjured one. “Scared that the boys will hear somehow. Scared that someone will actually call child services, believing it. Scared I’ll be stuck with a reputation of someone who would do something so heinous. I mean, thank God this didn’t happen during the custody battle.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says with a sigh. “Surprised she didn’t think of this one then.” He leans forward and rests his forehead against yours. “The boys know what the truth is. And anyone who knows you knows it as well. It’s gonna be okay.”

You give him a watery smile.

“I thought I left this gossip bullshit behind in high school,” you say.

“I guess some mean girls never stop being mean girls.”

“I love you,” you tell him.

“I love you too, princess.” Eddie gently cups your jaw. “So much. I hate that this is happening.”

“Yeah, I gathered that when you put your fist through the wall.”

“Well,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I figured it was better than putting it through someone’s face. Which is what I want to do.”

“Am I petty for wanting to get her back in some way?”

“Oh God, no,” Eddie says. “I’d love to see you get a little petty. We can scheme together.”

You chuckle softly and press your lips against his.

“Her sons love me more than they love her,” you say. “I think that’s a good start.”

The next day, Eddie insists on leaving work early so he can pick the boys up from school. He makes sure to stop off at home first though, grabbing his leather jacket and black combat boots. Adult women want to act like mean girls in high school? Eddie’s all too happy to bring out his old high school persona as well. The Freak is making a comeback.

Eddie made a point of asking Steve if he knew who these women were that had been talking about you. He was able to generally describe them, but he could give Eddie definitive answers on the cars.

His eyes scan for a silver Toyota or a beaten down minivan as he enters the parking lot. Immediately, he spies the vehicles parked next to each other with women that fit the descriptions Steve gave him. And lucky for him, there’s a parking spot right across from the minivan.

Eddie careens his pickup into the empty space. He checks in the rearview mirror and still sees the ladies standing there. It’s been a while since people thought the Big Bad Eddie Munson was intimidating; now it’s time to see if he can get that vibe back.

The keys jingle as he yanks them out of the ignition and throws the truck door open. He makes a big show of slamming the door closed behind him. Black chunky boots carry him to the back of the truck, facing the opposite direction of where the kids will be coming from—but facing the gossipers head on. He leans against the tailgate, slipping his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.

The cold set of his jaw would be enough to make anyone look twice. And these ladies were definitely looking. Eddie meets their eyes when they dare look over, but he never speaks a word. Just watches.

A few minutes go by and Eddie yanks a carton of cigarettes out of his pocket. He hasn’t been a smoker for a while now, but he thought it would help the look. The filter rests between his plush lips as he lifts his lighter to the other end. He refuses to inhale, not wanting to start the addiction up again, but he knows you’ll be questioning him on the smell tonight either way.

Once Eddie sticks the pack and the lighter back in his pocket, he shrugs the leather jacket off. Beneath he’s wearing an old Megadeth t-shirt he’d cut the sleeves off of years ago. He hangs the jacket over the tailgate and resumes his position leaning against the truck. Now, both of his tattooed arms are on display as he crosses them over his chest.

The ladies look unnerved now. They’re clearly talking about him with the way they keep sneaking nervous glances. Good. Let them be nervous.

The only movements Eddie makes are to lift the cigarette to and from his lips. He blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, keeping his gaze straight ahead. He had taken the bandage off of his hand, letting the world get a glimpse of his bruised and cut up knuckles. Let the ladies make of that what they will. The more uncomfortable these women look, the happier Eddie becomes.

Part of Eddie feels like a panther, stalking its prey. Just waiting and watching. In this case, the prey doesn’t need to know that he’s not going to pounce; the threat of it is enough. As long as they know Eddie could do something, he’s winning.

The bell rings and the women look relieved. Eddie stays still for a few more moments before tossing the cigarette down on the ground and snuffing it out with the toe of his boot. No need for the boys to catch him in the act—they’ll probably ask about the smell too.

“Daddy?”

Luke runs around to the back of the truck, grinning when he sees his father.

“You’re here today!”

Ryan follows behind his little brother and gives their dad the same smile.

“Hey, Rugrats,” he says. “How was school?”

“Good,” Luke says with a shrug.

“At lunch, Jerry poured chocolate milk on Bryan’s head,” Ryan tells him.

“How come?” Eddie asks as he grabs his jacket.

“Cause Bryan called Jerry a poop head.”

“Well, sounds like Bryan got what he deserved.” Eddie makes sure to speak up even though he knows the ladies can hear him. The boys head to the side of the truck, but Eddie gives one long last look at the parking spot across the way.

“He’ll learn that running your mouth is one way to get what’s coming to you. Some people just don’t know when to keep their goddamn mouths shut.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #older!eddie #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fan fiction #Eddie Munson fan fic #Eddie Munson fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #dad!eddie #AYW #AYWS #request

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yenhan · 2 months ago

Text

"Yeah, no. STEM kinda sucks"

Thoughts on TF141 & International student neighbor

Part One - Next - Masterlist

a/n: f!reader

Synopsis: daddy issues & 141 to the rescue.

You and your father did not argue. That was the problem. The silence festered until it cracked, and when it did, it was always you left picking through the wreckage, burned, and bruised, wondering if he even noticed the blast. He was not the kind of man who yelled. He did not raise his voice. He raised expectations, dropped the ones you could not meet, and filed the rest into neat rows of disappointment.

“You’re studying what?”

You froze mid-bite of a week-old croissant you had been too cheap to throw out. The winter wind was seeping through the single-glazed window as your father’s words echoed in your ears like gunshots. Loud. Too much to manage.

“Teaching English as a Foreign Language,” you clutched your phone like it might bite you.

He laughed.

You thought you had won the Oscar for the best comedic performance, as if it was just another of the dumb knock-knock jokes you used to say as a kid. “You mean to tell me you moved to England, spent months pretending to care about mathematics, and you are studying to become an underpaid language teacher? You do realize AI’s going to eat that job alive, right? May as well get a head start and make your life more pathetic.”

“Mmh,” you mumbled, your voice curled in on itself for protection. It was always like that with him. You never slammed doors or snapped back. The thing you did most was shout silently and punch in the air once you had locked yourself in your bedroom. You absorbed everything like a sponge until you were soaked through with all the sharp jabs he never considered cruel.

“You are already fluent. Why waste a degree on it? I thought you were doing something real. STEM. Science. You said you were interested in biomedical engineering!”

“I was interested—”

“That’s not a real degree,” he snapped. “What are you going to do, teach English to toddlers? I did not raise you to be a failure.”

You hung up before you started crying.

He was bound to find out you had changed faculty at some point. You hoped the day would ever come. The thousands of kilometers separating you from your dad did nothing to lessen the pain.

—

That was how you ended up at their door again. You, red-eyed, wearing a hoodie three sizes too big (it might have been Simon’s).

The door swung open. Ghost. How lucky, being greeted by a monument to stoicism. He just looked at you, then down at your hands. “…They cold?” he asked.

“What?”

“Your hands.”

You blinked. “…Yeah.”

He stepped aside. “I will put the kettle on.”

—

You did not cry until you were in the living room, sitting on the floor between the sofa and John’s armchair, knees to your chest like the child you had spent years pretending you weren’t.

Johnny found you first. “Jesus, hen…”

“Don’t. Please don’t make jokes. I cannot laugh right now.”

He sat down across from you and peeled a clementine, feeding you a slice once he was done. “Was it yer family?”

Your face crumpled in the most humiliating way imaginable. “Dad thinks I’m wasting my life.”

“Because yer not doin’ what he wanted?”

“Because I am not doing what he would be proud of. And the worst part is… I kinda get it. He spent everything to get me here. I told him I would do something that would make it worth it. Something practical. Something—” You sniffled.

“Respectable?”

You nodded. “And now I am… studying how to teach vowel sounds to ten-year-olds who will not remember my name in five years. I am not curing cancer. I am not building satellites. I got a half-empty fridge and a 77% average grade in phonology.”

A second later, a warm mug was pressed into your hand.

“Then he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about,” Gaz sat beside Johnny, cross-legged like this was a team debriefing and your heartbreak was the mission report.

You stared down at the tea. Earl Grey. Extra milk. You did not like milk tea, but who cared at this point. “He is my dad.”

Ghost appeared out of nowhere. “Yer job isn’t to be his trophy.”

“I’m not anyone’s trophy.”

“Exactly.”

“You know,” Price’s voice came from behind the couch, “I had a mate in the military who learned Urdu so he could help train local interpreters. Saved more lives than the medics did.”

You looked up. The captain was holding a folded dish towel and a glass of that tragic ale he always kept nearby. “You want to teach people how to communicate? How to understand each other? Do you think that is not useful? Christ, love. That is the most important job there is.”

“But it is not enough,” you whispered. “Not to him. He wanted me to be successful. Someone he could brag about at family functions.”

Soap clicked his tongue. “I’d brag about ye.”

You rolled your eyes. “You brag about that mohawk.”

“Aye, because it’s incredible. Point is, yer smart. Ye’ve made it halfway 'cross the bloody world and survived eight months wi’ us next door. That’s gotta count fer somethin’, eh?” He grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Kyle intervened then. “Let me put it this way. You speak like, what? Three languages?”

“Four,” you corrected him.

He hummed. “That’s hot.”

“Sergeant,” Ghost growled.

“What? It is! My man can barely count to twenty without help,” he said, jabbing a thumb at Johnny, who launched a spice jar at his head in return.

“Picked a path that’s yours,” Ghost rumbled. “That takes more guts than anyone gives it credit for.”

“And you’ll be wonderful at it,” John added.

—

Later, you found a sticky note left on the threshold of your apartment. In black sharpie, Johnny had written:

“REAL DEGREES INCLUDE:

ANT 🐜 (Advanced Napping Techniques)

How to Look Like a Dad - Double Degree in mutton chops

Passive-aggressive Sighs

GSS (Ghost’s Stalking Skills)

TEFL = solid. Ah’d’ve majored in it meself if Ah hadnae been busy diffusin’ bombs in ma twenties.

Love,

Yer emotionally available Scottish neighbor 🧼”

You stuck it on your laptop.

Shitty day, this is purely self-indulgent. Sorry for whoever is in stem.

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girl-lostconnection · 4 months ago

Text

Hear me out, on another hybrid AU:

The Big, the Bad and the Wolf

guard dog!Soap x cow!Simon x Wolf!Reader.

Stay with me, Soap who is supposed to protect Simon.

Soap whose whole job and existence revolves around keeping big beast of a man safe and sound in his bloody flower fields from the likes of you.

Johnny who retires early with Simon and swears to himself he will make the most of it.

That he will give Simon the life he always deserved.

The peace and the joy and the quiet.

Simon who’s taking to the leisurely life surprisingly well, enjoying quite a lot the ability to sleep in the grass for like 12 hours a day, flowers swaying over him, his tagged ear twitching when the gust of wind or a fly disturb his peace.

And you as a wolf absolutely enamoured with Simon but so wary of Soap, because he’s big and loud and he doesn’t take any shit from you. Not letting you come even close to his big charge.

Simon who’s not worried about you lurking on the outskirts in the slightest.

You are not big enough to pull him under, but you are hungry enough to get desperate.

He knows you don’t want to eat him.

You just want to eat something.

Anything that will sate the ache in your belly.

You, who bristles at the sight of Soap jogging Simon’s way — hound’s sensitive nose picking up the intruder, because that’s who you are.

A stranger in their warm bubble of a life.

You don’t belong there, but god knows something soft aches just below your thorax when you watch them have dinners through the windows of their kitchen.

You are careful — a predator in their prime, steps deceptively soft, shoulders rolling when you stretch out, globes of your joints popping softly.

You are beautiful — tail swaying with every step, eyes bright and sharp, fur hugging you up.

You are dangerous — sharp rows of teeth and deep-chested growls, fingers with claws flexing, muscles moving under your skin.

And you are alone.

Soap notes it after a few weeks of them watching you. He was tense about possible pack or other wolves coming with you to try and see if they can simply take what they want.

But no one comes.

It’s just you.

Johnny doesn’t want to feel bad for you because it’s none of his business, he doesn’t have to care, not when you are still very much of a threat even all on your own.

Simon watches you from the corner of his eye, when you circle him, but never come too close — sitting on the edge of his field. As close to the tree line as possible.

That’s smart.

Johnny is fast and Johnny can be really fucking mean if he thinks someone disturbs Ghost’s rest.

But you don’t do anything. You just watch him, your face tinted with something he can’t quite make out — you are too far away.

Simon sighs and flips on his stomach, his head getting propped on his palm, his eyes squinting when sun hits them.

He wonders what drew you out of the woods to their cabin.

He wonders how long have you been alone.

He wonders how hungry you must be to leave whatever safety your territory gave you to come out and watch him from distance.

He wonders why you never attack.

You should have at this point, you even look hungry — swaying a little from how lightheaded you probably are, eyes glued to him, tongue swiping over your lips.

Simon sits up on the grass and you step back, ready to retreat. Skittish thing.

Where is your pack, big bad wolf? What are you doing out here all on your own?

Soap sits in the shadows, not far away from Simon, ear twitching as his eyes narrow. But you just step back into the tree line before you finally turn your back to them.

Still hungry. Still dangerous.

They shouldn’t care, but Simon knows hunger and people being wary of appearances all too well and Soap is the ever bleeding heart.

Soap can respect that you came to show yourself and didn’t try to scavenge what you could. Didn’t slip in their pantry, didn’t steal one of the hens he takes care of. You didn’t take what wasn’t yours. That tells him a few things.

Ghost pretends he doesn’t notice when next time Johnny leaves out a plate with food.

Soap in return pretends he didn’t see Simon wash said plate afterwards, brown eyes burrowing on the food that’s got left on the plate.

You ate just a little bit of what they left.

Like you weren’t sure how much was allowed to take. Like you didn’t want to take too much.

Johnny sighs and doesn’t growl next time you come back to watch them in the field.

You are tenser this time, eyes sharp and wary on them — flickering from one to another. When Simon moves to flip on his belly you don’t wait for him to sit up — you leave.

Simon hums to himself and shakes his head when Soap gets up to follow you. No use.

You know these woods better than they do and you clearly aren’t in the mood to talk right now.

Even less than you usually are.

(Wolves are proud creatures. Polite but proud. Perhaps their pity was worse than your hunger. Only time will show)

That night Johnny leaves out another plate and you don’t touch it this time.

You disappear for two whole weeks before you finally come back — lip split, gashes on you already scabbing up, bruises blooming like dark violent watercolours.

Soap can’t help but growl, but immediately falls silent when you sneer in return, upper lip raising to bare sharp canines. Not a pushover, aren’t you?

You are hurt and wound up.

You don’t realise Johnny wasn’t growling at you, but for you.

Simon doesn’t move, watching how you limp to your usual fallen log where you sit and watch him.

At this point it’s a little ritual of yours. You come out more often than not, you sit on the other side of the field and you watch them.

So Simon stays put and tension slowly bleeds out of you. Like you needed this moment of peace and quiet. The routine that grounds you back, holds you together when you need it the most.

This flower field with the two of them living inside their warm bubble of a life.

Life you never had. Life you aren’t sure you will ever get.

Deep seated jealousy sticky and so sweet on your teeth it hurts.

Simon huffs air out softly and lies back on the grass, stretching out to his full height and well, showing off a little bit.

Afternoon sun is soft and warm on his skin, flowers’ scent cloying his head — his eyes half lidded and thoughtful when he watches you.

What happened to you, big bad wolf? Who hurt you? Why are you still alone?

But you don’t answer, tail awkwardly wrapped around your hip, arms curled around you, crossed over the chest with palms tucked in your armpits.

You are visibly tired.

Whatever the hell happened it took a lot of energy. Healing up even a little probably took even more out of you.

So it’s no surprise that you are slower to react when Simon sits up, it’s not surprise you are sluggish and exhausted. That you stay on the edge of their field when usually at this point you leave.

But the wayyour temple tilts on the trunk of the tree you lean on is a surprise. The way your lashes flutter down, even the way your breath evens out.

It’s the first time you fall asleep in their presence.

You sleep for a few hours, waking up when sun starts to set down — slowly uncurling from your position. Probably sore as hell, it couldn’t have been comfortable to sleep sitting on a log.

But you just shake it off like it’s nothing, small wince passing through your face when you move a little too quick. Yeah, definitely sore. Bruises now aching and tugging with every movement.

You watch them for a second too long, your mouth falling open as if you want to say something. But nothing comes out of it and you just stalk back into the woods.

Big bad wolf, all alone on your menacing forest kingdom. Nature’s aid, isn’t that how they call you? The species that weeds out overpopulation of those who aren’t supposed to survive.

Simon wonders how bad things are in the woods if you are this hungry. By the looks of it, so does Johnny.

Where is your pack, big bad wolf? Why are you all alone?

The next day Soap gets out on a mission to find out what has been happening in the damn forest. He makes it far enough for the tree crowns to start covering the sky, branches so thick it’s dark in here even in the middle of the day.

He makes decision to turn back only in the evening. When he realises you have been tailing him for a good hour now.

Eyes sharp and steps soft, your frame merging with the shadows in the corner of his eye.

Nature’s aid, biggest menace in these woods, bad wolf.

“Don’t leave him alone. It’s not safe.”, the words reach him so suddenly it doesn’t immediately register for him that you said something.

That’s the first time you spoke to him.

To be completely honest, up until now he wasn’t even sure if you even can.

“Talkin’ about Simon?”, Soap inhales air, scents merging into something he can’t quite make out. But he definitely knows the main note, one he smelled way too often during his service. The one that to this day makes the fine hairs on his neck rise. “He ‘s a big lad. He can take care of himself”

You huff out air — half amusement and half annoyance, still not stepping out in the light. So Johnny steps closer to you instead. The note in your scent hits him harder, cloying at the back of his throat.

Blood.

“Ye’r hurt”, he murmurs, eyes tracking you carefully. He knows that hurt predator is an easily agitated one and he’d prefer not to find out the strength of your bite today. “What happened tae ye?”

You huff air out again and retreat deeper, your eyes shining through the darkness, your shoulders rolling when you get lower and start walking.

So here’s that. Conversation over, he assumes.

Soap follows you, for some bloody reason. You know these woods better than they do. He doubts you are leading him to certain doom. If you wanted to kill him, you could have done it before.

No one would have found his body this deep in the forest.

But you silently lead him out to the their flower field. Exact spot where you usually sit watching him and Simon. So, definitely not doom. Just a different trail.

“Dae ye need hulp?”, he probes again, stepping out in the field.

Giving you space.

Woods are your territory, he knows better than to overstay however long you tolerate him there.

But whatever happened to you must have taken a significant toll on you. Because instead of snapping your jaws at him to urge him move his arse away and out, you pause contemplating.

Johnny takes the chance, gauging that your silence means you probably need it. You don’t want to ask for anything but you are in no position to refuse it.

“Ah will lea’ supplies oan the porch”, he just says and turns around not waiting for an answer.

You are not the most talkative person, aren’t you?

Jesus, he’s just surrounded by silent and resilient types.

First Simon, now you.

“I don’t need your pity.”, your words reach him, tone more tired than sharp like you say it just as a precaution.

Johnny can’t help but flash you a grin over his shoulder, iron of spiked collar a snug fit around his throat.

“Guid. Fur ye aren’t gonnae git any.”, his retort leaves you speechless, his grin only widening when you blink at him in astonishment.

Got you there, didn’t he?

“Bear traps.”, the notion is quiet, he’d probably miss it if he wasn’t this close to you.

But the request itself makes him cock his head to the side. Why would you need any?

But Johnny stays silent and you interpret his puzzled look your way.

“You asked if I need help. Bear traps. That would be a big help.”, you explain and he almost starts shaking his head at you.

No, he gets what you need the question is why do you need them.

But you are tired, he can smell your blood and he’d bet his left arm you are hungry as a (no pun intended) bloody dog.

So he just nods and turns away, starting to walk home — flowers grazing his thighs, light of their cabin flickering at him through the window, wind chimes dingling in the air.

They found out a long time ago that you aren’t going to attack them from the back.

He doubts you will change your mind in the current state of yours.

“Goodnight, wolf.”, Soap murmurs for some reason and swears he actually hears a breathy chuckle.

Sound sends shivers down his spine.

“Goodnight, John”, you muse back so soft he actually stops, head snapping right back, hoping to see your face in the moment.

But when he turns around — you are already gone. Only shadows twisting at the edge of the tree line.

Simon pulls him in a cuddle as soon as Johnny steps through the door, his big frame wrapping around Soap like a heavy blanket, lips demanding a wet hungry kiss.

Soap just pulls him closer, tail wagging so hard he almost smacks their coats off the hanger, grin widening.

Night is young and warm — sweet scent of flower field and Simon’s hide wrapping around Johnny.

The breath of air is soft on his skin, sheen of sweat covering it when he rolls his hips, strands of outgrown hair sticking to his forehead as he fucks his husband in their bed.

Big palms splayed over Simon’s back — forcing him to arch harder, pushing his face down in the pillows, wet greedy heat of him pulling Johnny deeper.

Needy fucking thing, Soap was gone for barely a day and here is what he comes home to.

“Shuid keep ye stuffed a' th' time, doll. Fuckin' meltin me down thare, aren’t ye? An' 'ere ah thought ye were goin’ tae tak' the wolf instead o' me.”, Johnny growls, driving his cock just deeper into Simon, smirk — a wicked sharp thing — widening when Ghost clenches around him.

Oh, someone is fucking excited at the mere thought of that.

If it was anyone else Soap would have been already reeling with jealousy, mild possessive streak of his baring teeth to sink them into Simon’s flushed nape, tongue gliding to collect the sweat and blood.

Renewing the bite that has already scarred.

They are each other’s forever and always and Johnny is not giving him away.

But Johnny doesn’t mind taking you in.

Johnny doesn’t mind getting both of you — he has two hands after all and bed big enough to fit all three of them. You’d slot in nicely, he can already picture it.

You — with your wild eyes and sharp teeth and this fluffy fucking tail driving him positively mad.

Fucking tease, he would have pressed you in the grass, closing his jaws down on your throat, marking you for all to see if he could.

His herd and his mate. His wolf and his pack.

Maybe he is a greedy man, but he made peace with that a long time ago when he got his eyes on the heavy beast of his lieutenant.

“Ye’d lik' that wouldn’t ye? Getting that wolf in oor kip, feeding thaim proper 'n' pumpin' thaim silly. Or letting thaim fuck you silly. Doesn’t that sound lovely, mo chridhe?”, Johnny breathes out in Simon's ear, his chest pressing down on Ghost's back, hips moving.

Takes a lot to mount a man like Simon Riley but Johnny has been doing a job of it so good, it is (to his absolute elation) Riley-MacTavish now.

“Talkin’ too much”, Simon breathes out, stubborn and beautiful and god, Johnny isn’t sure how it’s possible to fall in love with someone again and again, but he does.

Every day, every breathing moment of his life.

As long as he is alive — he will love this man.

Forever and always.

“Can’t hear ye, doll.”, Soap growls softly and circles the rim of Simon’s hole stretched thin around his cock, eyes darkening when Ghost clenches down on him like a vice. “Ye gotta speak up.”, but with the way Johnny moves inside of him it feels impossible to talk coherently.

Not when Simon’s eyes roll back, jaw going slack because this is good, hot molten honey of Soap’s words spreading throughout his body, burning tender nerve endings.

This is perfect, his husband a big mean guard dog always on alert, always hungry for more and more and more.

Sharp teeth and sharp taunts, bulk of him moulding Simon into pliant shivering mess, sweat and slick dripping down his thighs and he’s hot.

God, he’s so fucking hot.

Drunk on pleasure and heat of summer’s night, soaked in Johnny’s affection, littered with Johnny’s bites.

Simon turns his head on the side just to take a proper breath, cool air kissing his skin — his face red and sweaty, when his eyes zero in on your eyes in the window.

Fucking hell.

He should be fucking ashamed of how hard he clenches down on Soap when you cock your head — eyes heavy, glinting in the faint shimmer of their porch light.

You are bloody enjoying it, aren’t you?

You just stay there, watching him with the same quiet intensity that you show out on the edge of his field. Always so far, always out of reach.

Teasing him.

Soap’s hand finds its way between Simon’s legs and he is coming apart at the seams, drool dripping down his chin, eyes fixed on yours in the window because that’s fucking perverted.

He’s letting practically a stranger watch him getting fucked by his husband. He should be reeling, should be pulling out the hunting rifle and having a few words with you about privacy and boundaries.

But the way you watch him…he can’t stop looking right back at you.

He can’t stop himself from thinking whether or not you’d prefer to bend him over like Soap or be good and let Simon get a proper taste of ya.

He’d like both.

He wonders what would it take for him to pull you under.

Not much probably.

Just a little patience and a sliver of luck.

Just enough to catch you off guard.

Soap comes next day to you being pulled under Simon’s bulk, his thin tail with the brush on its end flicking from side to side, your legs twitching on both sides of Simon’s hips.

You are no small prey but Simon is massive and he pins you down hard enough to render you helpless.

His body slotted between your thighs, taking up more space than you would usually give him (if you would have given any at all).

He hums, ignoring Johnny’s amused huff and presses a kiss to your cheek, smiling when your body melts into his.

Someone’s fucking starved for affection, poor thing. Don’t worry, they can take real good care of you.

Simon tuts at your attempt to wiggle yourself from underneath him which is fruitless endeavour at best — even Johnny knows better that to try and pull him up when he lies down.

So you shouldn’t try either.

Especially when you should know better than anyone that he’s not moving anywhere until he sees some fucking honesty from you.

Can’t act all coy and prideful when he saw your pupils blowing wide yesterday, your eyes dark eclipses, shining through the fucking window.

Can’t pretend you don’t know where this all is coming from when he already have seen the hunger with which you watched them.

No need to be cold and hungry, when you are more than welcome to stay with them.

When they can keep you warm and stuffed and fed.

You growl at him again and earn yourself nothing but click of his tongue and a pull in a wet sloppy kiss that ends as soon as it started.

Almost costing you a needy whine.

Simon doesn’t care much for your growls and kicking, his nose nudging your jaw so he can properly nuzzle into your neck, breathing out in content.

Much better.

You smell like woods and wolf — wet soil and pinewood, fur and salty sweat. Simon hums to himself and presses his hips down on yours, rolling them in to grind into you.

The sound you make sends a shiver through both of you.

“Won’t hurt you, pet, I promise”, Simon rumbles out and you’d snap back at him but he grinds into you again, pressing more of his weight and the friction is so delicious you lose your mind a little bit.

“Jus’ like that, m? Feels good, doesn’t it?”, he murmurs, lips trailing down your neck, bulk of his body heavy and heavenly on you.

It’s more than good. It’s maddening.

His teeth nip your ear and you downright whimper, thighs clamping down around him, heels digging in his lower back.

Sensitive little thing. How cute.

Simon licks the sweat off your temple and presses a tight kiss to it as he keeps grinding down on you.

Heavy in the most delicious way, his dark eyes softer than you expected when your lips fall open.

Scratch beast’s belly and the gate will open right up.

Simon takes his sweet time with you, not in any hurry at all, drinking in every gasp and whimper of yours, murmuring in your ear praises.

“Doin’ so good for me, luv. Wanna see more. Can I, luv?”, his palms slide under your dark shirt and you whine, tugging him closer.

“Just a lick, sweet’eart, gonna get just a little taste”, Simon promises, when he pulls your sweater up. His tongue sliding over your nipple, lips closing around it as he sucks it in.

His mouth hot sinful thing, his hands rubbing the inner sides of your thighs until you relax and allow your legs to fall right open for him.

Here we go.

“So pretty for me”, he rumbles, pleased glimmer in his eyes when you buckle your hips up to grind on him.

Needy little thing.

Sweet as honey and dark as a night.

He should have snatched you off your bloody spot on the edge of the field ages ago. “Gonna let me have a taste, will you, luv?”

His grin downright wicked when you nod, biting your lips to muffle the gasps and all these little sounds he coaxes out of your throat.

Ghost doesn’t waste much time, pulling the rest of your clothes off and tossing them aside — grass soft and tickling on your skin, his palms rough and heated as he settles between your legs.

Tongue slowly sliding up to the sensitive top of you, lips wrapping around it, teeth grazing when the bastard smiles at your pupils blowing wider.

Your eyes — dark hungry abyss.

Your eyes — an endless fucking well and Simon wants to jump right in.

His grin only widens when another set of hands pulls you a little higher, palms settling just under your chest, stubble scratching your jaw.

“Huvin all the fun wi'oot me, aye?”, the man breathes out and you shiver, his fingers kneading the soft parts of you, his thumbs playing with your nipples almost lazily.

He’s beyond relaxed in his advances, charming lilt of his voice making your head spin.

“Someone’s sensitive”, Soap chuckles when your eyes glaze over, his teeth grazing your throat, tasting the blush spreading across you like wildfire.

Deliciously pretty. He might just have to eat you up.

“Don’t get shy wi' us noo, pup”, he is heat and he is want, his hands groping and massaging, his hands piecing your back together after Simon takes you apart.

Soap feels like salvation, his hunger familiar to you, his needs feeling so similar to yours it’s almost like looking in a distorted mirror.

But he chuckles, thumbing your nipples and you whimper, skin tingling with heat, wet mess between your legs.

Simon’s head is bobbing when he steals glances up at you two — eyes heavy and dark you feel your vision crumpling around the edges.

Afternoon sun soft on your skin, smell of flowers cloying your head, scent of Soap’s sweat making your mouth water and you need-need-need, please, just this once, please you can’t—

There is a raw desperate sound rumbling through your throat and Johnny smiles.

Johnny breathes our “bonnie”, Johnny holds you in place and plays your body like you are the instrument he has been tinkering with for ages and now he finally knows how to make you sing.

Smug asshole.

He clicks his tongue and his palm smacks the softer part of your chest, sting spreading to hard nipple, white-hot pleasure rewiring you to hell and back.

Simon holds you wide open and drags his tongue up, fingers groping the fat of your inner thighs, pleasure echoing through your body just so he can pour in more.

You are full and overflowing, you are needy and hungry.

You want everything and at once and it never felt this good or this right.

“Be good, pet”, Ghost sucks a hickey in your inner thigh and grins when Soap’s hand wraps around your throat and you slick sensitive part of you throbs. “Nice and pliant for us, aren’t you?”

Pretty fucking wolf, too bad you don’t have any pack, no one is coming to get you.

Too bad they won’t be letting you go anyway.

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