#sinclair's bay | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cami040405 · 1 month ago

Note

Loved your birthday imagine!!! Would love to see the opposite for the same characters - them celebrating reader

Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Billy Loomis Celebrating Their S/O's Birthday (SEPARATE)

Summary: On your birthday, Michael shows quiet love with small, meaningful gestures. Bo surprises you with a cozy, handmade celebration and southern charm. Billy turns it into a playful, emotional day with gifts and music — each showing, in their own way, how much you mean to them. This is a version of this post here.

Warnings: Yandere behavior, possessiveness, emotional intensity, horror character dynamics and +18 adult NSFW content.

A/N: I really loved writing this version, thanks for the request and I hope you like it. I put a little NSFW in the Bo and Billy parts, hope you don't mind!

Michael Myers

Your birthday starts off… strange. The house is too quiet. No birds outside, no creaking floorboards, not even the faint hum of the old fridge. You sit up slowly, your heart already thudding in anticipation. You know he’s nearby — you always do. Michael doesn’t exactly sleep in a bed or cuddle up for morning coffee. He exists like a silent guardian, always on the edge of your vision, always watching. But this morning? It feels… different.

You step into the living room — and stop dead in your tracks.

The normally bare room has been changed. Subtly, but unmistakably.

A small arrangement of your favorite flowers — wild, imperfect, hand-picked — sits in an old, chipped mug on the coffee table. They’re a little crushed, a little uneven… but somehow perfect. A flickering candle burns beside it, casting warm shadows along the walls. The air smells faintly sweet — like vanilla and sugar.

On the table, wrapped in paper that looks like it was ripped from old books and tied with fraying twine, is a box. It’s not fancy. Not even clean. But it’s wrapped with care. There’s deliberation in the way the string was tied. You recognize it — Michael’s kind of careful.

Inside the box? A gift you didn’t expect.

It’s something small — a worn trinket, a charm, or maybe an item that’s uniquely you (a pressed leaf you once stopped to admire, a photo he took of you when you weren’t looking, or a tiny figure resembling you carved out of wood). It’s not random. It’s something you mentioned once, maybe just in passing — and somehow, he remembered.

Your chest tightens. It’s not about the gift. It’s about what it means — that beneath that mask, behind that silence and the violence the world sees, there is someone who listens. Who notices you. Who cared enough to do this.

You whisper into the empty room, voice cracking, “Michael… did you do this for me?”

There’s no answer. But then you feel it — a shift in the air. You don’t need to turn around to know he’s there. You feel his presence like a shadow at your back, a storm kept just barely at bay. When you do turn, he’s standing near the hallway, still, unmoving, like a statue carved from silence.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.

He takes a step closer, then another. Slowly. Cautiously. Like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be part of this moment.

But you step forward first. You close the gap. And when you reach him, you place your hand — soft, warm — on his chest. Right over his heart.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He stands like that for a long time. Unmoving. Just letting your hand rest there. Then, finally, he lifts his gloved hand and gently — so gently — places it over yours.

No words. Just the heavy stillness of a man who has never known affection… trying to give it.

That night, he doesn’t disappear like he usually does. When you go to bed, you feel the mattress shift behind you. He doesn’t touch you. But he lies there. Beside you. Mask and all. Silent. Present. Real.

Your birthday gift from Michael isn’t flashy. It isn’t loud. But it’s the loudest thing he’s ever said without speaking a single word:

“I see you. I remember you. You matter to me.”

The room is dim. The candlelight from earlier has burned down to a soft ember on the bedside table, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Outside, the wind brushes against the house, gentle and low — like the world itself is hushed for the night.

Michael doesn’t move much. He lies there next to you, a massive presence in the bed, still masked, still clothed, as if unsure if he’s allowed to be here. As if sharing space — this close — is something dangerous in itself. And for him, it probably is.

But for you? It’s comforting.

You lie on your side, facing him, watching his chest rise and fall under the cover of his jumpsuit. His breathing is deep, controlled — not the erratic, heavy breathing others know him for. With you, he’s quieter. Grounded. Human.

You reach out slowly and place your fingers on his arm, brushing over the fabric. It’s a light touch, a silent “I’m here, too.” You expect him to pull away, or at least flinch.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, after a few long seconds, his hand shifts. Carefully, gloved fingers move toward yours — hesitant, uncertain — and then they wrap around your hand. It’s not tight. Not possessive. Just… steady.

Your thumb brushes over the knuckles of the glove, and your voice comes out softer than a whisper.

“You remembered everything,” you murmured. “The flowers, the gift… You were watching me all this time.”

His head tilts slightly, the way it does when he’s trying to understand something deeper — as if your words are code, and he’s deciphering their meaning.

“Do you know how special that makes me feel?” you ask, voice trembling slightly. “That you remembered. That you tried.”

The silence between you is heavy, but not empty. It’s full of emotion neither of you quite knows how to express.

And then, slowly — so slowly it nearly stops your heart — he lifts his free hand to his mask. Pauses. Then pulls it up, just a little.

Not off. But just enough for you to see his mouth.

It’s a small gesture, but from him? It’s earth-shattering. A quiet invitation. A symbol of trust.

You lean forward, heart pounding, and press a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. His breath catches. Not because of surprise — but because you didn’t recoil. You didn’t fear him. You loved him, even like this.

When you pull back, his hand comes up again — ungloved now — and rests lightly against your cheek. The calluses are rough. His touch is careful. Almost reverent.

Michael doesn’t say a word.

But when he draws you in close, letting you curl against him in a way no one else has ever been allowed to… you know exactly what he’s telling you.

That you’re his.

That he’ll protect you.

That, in a world full of violence, you are the only softness he allows himself.

And tonight, for the first time in his entire existence… he lets himself rest.

With you.

The night deepens.

You’re nestled against Michael’s chest now, his arms slowly, carefully wrapped around you. The warmth of him seeps through his jumpsuit — a heat you didn’t expect, comforting and real. His hand rests lightly at the curve of your back, not demanding, not possessive. Just... there. Steady. Present.

For a long while, neither of you speaks. You listen to the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. It’s fast. Faster than you’ve ever heard it before. Not the rhythm of adrenaline or rage — but nerves. Tenderness.

You smile softly and whisper, “You can let go a little, you know.”

He doesn't respond, but you feel the smallest shift in his posture — his grip on you relaxing, just slightly, as if he’s forcing himself to believe it’s safe. With you.

You tilt your head up to look at him again. He’s watching you. Mask still lifted just enough to see his lips, his jawline. There’s tension there — not from anger, but from restraint. You can tell he’s holding something in. Not violence. Not fear.

Emotion.

You reach up and brush a strand of his hair back. “You don’t have to be silent tonight,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

There’s a pause. A long, fragile moment.

And then — he moves.

His gloved hand gently touches your jaw, angling your face upward. And he leans in.

The kiss is tentative. Barely a brush. His lips are warm, firm, uncertain — as if he’s never done this before. Or if he has, it’s never meant this. You breathe into it, letting him feel your softness, your patience, the utter trust in your body. You’re not rushing. You’re not asking for anything more than this connection.

And that’s what unlocks him.

He deepens the kiss.

Still careful, still silent, but with the weight of years — decades — of loneliness behind it. You can feel how much it costs him to be this gentle. How he fights against every instinct that tells him he doesn’t deserve this. That he shouldn’t want you. That he could ruin it if he gets too close.

But you pull him closer anyway.

Your fingers slip into his curls, tugging softly. You feel his hand press a little firmer at your back, pulling your bodies flush. The kiss grows bolder — still slow, but more certain. Like he’s finally letting himself feel. Letting himself be felt.

When you finally part, you’re both breathing harder than before. His forehead rests against yours, mask shifted enough now that you can see more of him — the vulnerability in his eyes. The weight of everything he can’t say.

You whisper, “This was the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

Michael’s eyes flicker. His breathing slows. And then, with one slow, deliberate movement, he pulls you fully into his arms, tucks you against his chest, and wraps both arms around you like a shield.

Not to trap you.

To protect you.

Tonight, he sleeps beside you. No knife. No distance. Just the quiet, haunted heart of a man who has never let himself have something good — and now holds it like it’s the only thing keeping him human.

And in the soft darkness of your room, with his arms around you and your heart steady against his, you feel it too:

He loves you.

In his own silent, terrifying, broken way — he loves you.

Bo Sinclair

You’d almost convinced yourself Bo had forgotten.

The day had been weirdly normal. No mention of your birthday, no teasing remarks, not even a casual “happy birthday, sweetheart.” He’d spent most of the morning fiddling with something in the garage, waving you off with that cocky smirk of his. “Go on, I’m busy.”

You were disappointed — not that you expected balloons and a party, but… something.

Then, as the sun started to set, he called you down to the main house. “Come down here a sec, baby.”

You opened the door… and froze.

The whole room was transformed. Candles flickered on every surface, casting soft golden light over the space. Red and gold streamers (your favorite colors) were draped around the ceiling, and there was a handmade birthday banner hung crookedly over the table — painted in Bo’s messy handwriting:

“Happy Birthday, Darlin’.”

The table was set with mismatched plates and silverware, but it looked perfect. He’d cooked dinner — not something microwaved or slapped together, but a full southern-style meal, the kind he said he only made on “special damn occasions.” Fried chicken, roasted veggies, sweet cornbread, and even a pie (burnt a little on one edge, but definitely homemade).

“Bo…” you breathed, eyes wide.

He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, trying to play it cool — but you saw that little twitch in his lips, the one he gets when he’s proud but won’t say it. “Told ya I could clean up alright.”

You turned to him, and he stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Didn’t think I’d let your birthday go by without makin’ a little noise, did ya?” His voice was low, that Southern drawl melting into warmth. “You matter to me, sugar. More than you know.”

Then he kissed you slow — one of those rare, honest kisses that made the room spin.

After dinner, he brought out a small box. “Ain’t much,” he muttered, handing it over.

Inside was a handmade necklace — a bullet casing he’d smoothed and polished, fitted with a thin leather cord, your initials carved into the metal with surprising care. It was simple. Raw. Real. So Bo.

You teared up, and he saw it.

“Aww hell, don’t start cryin’,” he muttered, pulling you into his chest. “I’m already tryin’ not to turn into a damn sap over here.”

That night, he danced with you in the candlelight — slow, steady steps, even humming a bit under his breath. When you went to bed, he curled around you like a shield, whispering, “Happy birthday, baby,” against your neck.

And in that quiet moment, you realized: no one had ever made you feel more loved.

The house was quiet, the only sound the gentle crackle of candlelight and the soft creak of the floorboards as Bo led you to the bedroom — his hand warm and rough around yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles with a tenderness that contradicted his calloused palms.

“You sure you’re real?” he murmured, pulling you close as you reached the bed. His eyes, usually full of fire and sharp edges, looked soft in the flickering light — almost vulnerable. “Can’t believe someone like you ended up with a bastard like me.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, grounding him. “You're not a bastard, Bo. Not to me.”

That made something in him crack open.

He didn’t answer — just kissed you, slow and deep, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the way his lips moved over yours. It wasn’t rushed. Tonight wasn’t about lust — it was about you. Every touch, every press of his mouth to your skin, was deliberate. Worshipful.

He laid you back against the worn mattress, pulling off your clothes one piece at a time, like unwrapping a present he didn’t feel worthy to open. His mouth followed each reveal — a kiss to your collarbone, a slow drag of his tongue across your hip, the ghost of his breath down your stomach. He wasn’t in any hurry.

“You look so damn beautiful tonight,” he murmured against your thigh, voice thick with emotion. “Always do, but… tonight? You’re mine.”

Bo took his time. His hands were everywhere — gripping, teasing, comforting. His mouth left a trail of heat along your skin, and when he finally sank into you, it wasn’t just physical. It was everything. His forehead pressed to yours, breath uneven, hands gripping your hips like you were something he needed to survive.

“Happy birthday, sugar,” he whispered in your ear as he rocked into you slow and deep, “Gonna make sure you feel it.”

And you did. Again. And again.

By the time the candles burned low, you lay tangled in the sheets, his arms wrapped tightly around you. He kissed your bare shoulder softly, tracing lazy patterns on your back with his fingers.

“Hope I did alright,” he mumbled sleepily. “Ain’t used to all this… celebration stuff. But for you? I’d do it every damn year.”

You smiled, burying your face into his chest.

You didn’t need a fancy party. You had Bo — raw, real, and entirely yours. And that was the best gift of all.

Billy Loomis (GhostFace)

Billy acts cold. He doesn't mention your birthday. Barely acknowledges the date. His eyes flicker when the topic comes up, but his mouth stays shut. He’s been short with you all week, brooding, distant — and you try not to take it personally. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

But what you don’t know is this:

Billy’s been planning this for weeks.

He’s not the kind of guy who walks into a mall and picks out a card and flowers. No. He stays up until 3 a.m. pacing the floor, overthinking everything — tearing up one love letter just to write another, rifling through every shop that carries even a hint of horror memorabilia or alternative gifts you’d like. He even drives two towns over for that imported candy you once mentioned liking in passing. And every move he makes is laced with something rare in him:

Vulnerability.

This isn’t just a birthday. It’s a confession. His way of saying, “I love you. I need you. And I don’t know how to say that out loud without it sounding like a threat.”

You wake to music echoing through the apartment. Loud. Unapologetic. Your favorite songs — the ones that get you dancing barefoot in the kitchen, the ones you sing when you think no one’s listening. Songs Billy rolls his eyes at… except he added a few to the playlist. Ones with lyrics that hit deep:

“You’re the chaos I crave, the calm I never had.”

You rub your eyes and find something new on the mirror.

In red marker — his signature chaos — he’s scrawled:

“Happy f*ckin’ birthday, beautiful.” – The Ghost with a heart (don’t tell anyone).”

There's a blood-drip doodle under it, and next to it? Your favorite black hoodie, washed, folded, and still warm.

You smile. A little suspicious. He didn’t forget.

A folded note taped to the mirror reads:

“Scavenger hunt. Don’t roll your eyes. You always said no one ever made you feel special. Well, that’s over now. I’m taking over. Start in the kitchen. Love you. Shut up.”

In the kitchen, there’s a small basket on the table. Inside:

Your favorite snacks — even the weird obscure ones. A new horror-themed hoodie in your size (Ghostface, naturally). A mixtape (yes, a real one) labeled “Songs that don’t suck (that remind me of you)” in his handwriting. A tiny envelope labeled: “Play this last.”

Next stop: the couch, where your favorite blanket is draped over it, still warm from the dryer, and another note: “You’re home. That’s what this is. You make this place mine.”

You’re already crying. Just a little.

In the bedroom, a final box sits on your pillow. Inside:

A silver ring — engraved on the inside with one word: “Alive.”

You had once told him that you didn’t think you’d live to see 30. That you used to count the years like borrowed time. Billy never forgot.

There’s a Polaroid photo inside, too — him holding up a piece of paper that reads,

“You’re the only thing I believe in.”

And a final letter in his scrawled, imperfect handwriting:

“I don’t know how to do this. You know that. I’m not good. I’m not safe. But you… you make me want to be something better. You make me feel like I’m not just some monster with a pretty face and blood on his hands. I don’t care how messed up I am — you’re mine. Happy birthday, baby.”

That night, you find Billy in the living room, slouched on the couch, remote in hand.

“I was gonna make dinner,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes, “but I burned the pasta. Don’t ask. So… Chinese okay?”

You laugh. He’s already ordered your favorite.

When the food arrives, you sit cross-legged on the floor with him, lights low, a horror movie you’ve both seen a hundred times playing in the background — but neither of you’s watching it. He keeps looking at you. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“I meant what I wrote,” he finally says, voice low. “Every word.”

You move to sit between his legs, leaning back against his chest. He wraps his arms around you — tightly, like he’s anchoring himself.

“You make me feel like I exist,” he whispers, so soft you almost miss it.

And when the movie ends, and the lights are off, he lays you down slowly, reverently, and kisses you like he’s never going to get another chance.

You’re curled against his chest on the couch, his arms wrapped tightly around you, fingers tracing patterns over your skin beneath your shirt. Not urgent — just slow, steady, intentional. Like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

Your heart’s still fluttering from everything — the scavenger hunt, the ring, the words he wrote.

You tilt your face up to meet his.

“Billy… that was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

He doesn’t smile — not really — but his eyes soften. The kind of softness that he only ever shows you. He leans in, his lips brushing your cheek, then your jaw, then just under your ear.

“I meant it,” he murmurs, voice husky. “All of it.”

You twist around to face him fully, straddling his lap, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt. You feel the tension in him — held in his shoulders, in the way his hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You’re mine,” he whispers. “You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“You’re the only thing I’ve got that feels real.”

Then his lips crash into yours.

It’s not gentle. Not at first. It’s the kind of kiss that’s hungry — desperate — like he’s starving for you. Like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. His hands slip under your shirt, fingers trailing fire over your skin, gripping your hips, your back, pulling you impossibly close.

He lifts you without a word, carrying you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing — like letting go isn’t an option.

He lays you down like you’re breakable, like the world could shatter if he touches you wrong. But the second you reach for him, drag him down with you, he breaks. The control slips.

Billy kisses you like he’s drowning — open-mouthed, breathless, tasting every sigh that escapes your lips. His hands are everywhere. Rough palms against soft skin, teeth grazing the side of your neck until you're whimpering beneath him.

“Look at you,” he growls against your skin, voice thick and low. “So fucking perfect. You don’t even see what you do to me.”

Your clothes come off slowly, like he wants to unwrap you like a gift — his gift — piece by piece, until there’s nothing between you but breath and heat and tension. His shirt hits the floor. Then yours. Then everything else.

And when he finally presses into you, slow and deep, eyes locked on yours the whole time — it’s not just sex. It’s a claim.

“You feel that?” he whispers, barely holding back. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”

He sets a rhythm — deep, powerful — his hands gripping your thighs, your hips, pinning you down as he thrusts into you like he can’t get close enough. His name falls from your lips in a broken moan, and he loses it.

“Say it,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours. “Say you’re mine. Say it, baby—”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Billy.”

And he groans — head thrown back, control slipping — before he grabs your hand and laces your fingers with his, pushing them into the mattress beside your head.

“God, I love you.”

He doesn’t mean to say it — not yet — but it rips out of him like a confession. Raw. Bare. Terrified.

You blink up at him, breathless, wide-eyed, vulnerable in every way — and you whisper it back:

“I love you too.”

That’s it. He falls apart with you — deep inside you, mouth on yours, heart pounding like a war drum between your ribs. When it ends, you're tangled up in sheets and limbs and soft kisses, your name still on his lips in reverent whispers.

He doesn’t say much afterward. Just holds you tight, his arm across your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. But you feel it in the way he pulls the blanket over you, in the way his hand doesn’t leave yours, even in sleep.

You don’t need candles or a party or confetti.

Just him. Just this.

And maybe — just maybe — that was the best birthday you’ve ever had.

108 notes · View notes

charliedawn · 8 months ago

Note

Hi hi!

It's been a while since over requested anything but I've been keeping track of your posts and I am still in love with your writing style!!

I was wondering if I could have the slashers with a nurse wo already has 5 kids but is a single mom?

When it comes to her kids safety she turns into a complete animal like mama bear style....

Her children are smart in their own ways and are very close nit, but they always look out for their mother.

Thanks if you do this!

❤️ anon

P.s please take care of yourself! And drink lots of water and eat healthy meals!!!

Jason would be quietly protective, his natural instinct to shield others kicking in as he watched the kids play. He might not say much, but he’d be the first to step in if any danger appeared. He’d probably even enjoy the occasional moments when one of the kids quietly sits beside him, without fear, just being present.

But…Jason is afraid of children. He knows they can be cruel. So he wouldn’t approach the kids if he can help it. He would first need reassurance that they are good kids who wouldn’t be mean to him. I think your kids would be safe with him, but be careful as Jason is still a kid in his head and kids usually do not realise what they are doing until it is too late…

He might get scared.

Bo would put on his usual tough front, pretending that he’s unfazed by all the noise and mess. But over time, you’d notice him helping fix things around the house without asking, muttering under his breath that he’s “just keeping the place from falling apart.” And you might catch him joking with the older kids, giving them advice like an older brother might. He would eventually warm up to the kids. (And they would watch Cars together cause duh…cars. 🤣)

Your kids wouldn’t necessarily see him as a threat cause they know his true love is cars.

Pennywise and Penny would likely be the most chaotic around the kids, trying to keep them entertained in their unique way. They’d take turns clowning around (literally), teasing and laughing, but always making sure the kids were safe. Pennywise might grumble about all the work, but deep down, he’d appreciate the chaos that reminds him of his bond with Penny. Also, they would create illusions and Penny would even turn himself into a poney to have some fun with the kids. They would hence learn to be more friendly and to care for your family—as much as they care about you.

Freddy Krueger might pretend to be too cool to care at first, but he’d surprise you by keeping the nightmares at bay for your little ones. He’d even show them how to stand up for themselves, all while cracking jokes and making a game out of it. He’d never admit it, but being part of a family dynamic might soften him a little, especially when he sees how much he’s grown fond of the little monsters. 😆

Freddy *takes one of the kids and smiles* : "If you think you can just bat your eyes at me and pout and get me to do whatever the hell you want…you got another thing coming, kiddo."

All your kids start doing it and he pretends to get shot and fall.

"Aaaah ! Curse y’all for ganging up against me !"

Vincent Sinclair and Jason would be silently helpful, stepping in to create art for the kids or fix broken toys. They’d rarely speak, but their actions would show how much they’ve come to care for both you and your family. Both their gentle side would emerge more often when they’re with your younger children, especially if they showed interest in their work.

Michael Myers would be a constant presence, quietly observing and occasionally stepping in when needed. He might bond with one of the quieter kids, appreciating their silence and the way they understand each other without needing to talk. He’d be fiercely protective of your family, seeing you and the children as his own responsibility. He would also organise cooking or baking sessions for the kids—managing to make them all participate and teach them a thing or two—in case you do not have the time to cook for them.

And Brahms Heelshire—though not used to such a lively household—would probably hover around you, trying to be helpful while also seeking attention. He’d keep a close eye on everything, particularly the younger kids, and would often look to you for reassurance, wanting to be part of this new family.

Once approval give though ? He’d quickly share his many toys and board games with the kids—eager to make some new friends. He would also be happy if they invited him to play with them and end up missing them when they have to leave. He’s also be happy to receive hugs from the kids and beg you repeatedly to bring them back.

#fandoms #imagine #fanfic #pennywise 1990 #pennywise 2017 #slashers #pennywise x reader #michael myers x reader #freddy krueger x reader #jason voorhees x reader #bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #brahms heelshire x reader #slashers au

214 notes · View notes

honeydippedfiction · 2 months ago

Note

Love your work so much I would send you a million dollars if I had it! I saw your requests are open so i was wondering if i could request joe x assistant! reader. He has such a frantic life and he needs a cute little assistant to keep everything in order. If you could also make her plus size it would amazing if you’re comfortable writing that💗

ahh thank you so much love! Here it is, sorry for having it sit in the drafts for so long!🖤

Steady As She Goes {JB9}

Navigation

Synopsis: In the chaos of fame, Joe Burrow finds unexpected calm in the form of his fiercely competent, quietly unshakable assistant, Y/N Sinclair—a woman who manages his schedule with military precision and his heart with quiet grace. As the noise fades and the season ends, Joe begins to realize that the life he’s chasing might just be found in the stillness she brings.

Warnings: Mild language, References to physical exhaustion/injury (standard for football context), Emotional burnout / mental fatigue, & Brief mention of past illness (non-graphic).

Themes: Slow-burn romance, Found family / emotional intimacy, Fame vs. authenticity, Caretaking (mutual, emotional), Stillness and healing, Emotional growth, Domestic softness, Strong female lead / quietly powerful woman, Quiet moments > grand gestures, & Falling in love with the ordinary.

WC: 2.3k

A/N: part 2?

Join my Taglists here or message me

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

In the eye of the storm, Joe Burrow’s life spun faster than any spiral he launched downfield. Interviews, training, meetings, appearances—it was all flashbulbs and countdowns, hotel lobbies and red carpets. He handled it well enough; that was the burden of greatness. But even quarterbacks get tired. Even golden boys need someone to hold the chaos at bay.

Enter her.

She was five-foot-nothing, curvy, competent, and utterly unbothered by fame. Her curls were always pulled into a bun that made her look like she meant business, and her clipboard was practically an extension of her arm. She didn’t flinch when agents called at 2 a.m. or when a jersey mix-up almost derailed a photoshoot. She didn’t care about the glitz or the wins—only the schedule, the dry-cleaning, and whether Joe had eaten something besides protein shakes that day.

She kept him grounded. Reminded him when to rest, when to speak, when to breathe.

Joe never admitted how badly he needed her—not at first. But he felt it. The steadiness she brought into his whirlwind world. The way she filled the silence in a room with warmth, not noise. She knew how to move around him like gravity, solid and constant, even when the whole stadium roared his name.

It started small. She’d leave granola bars in his car, write reminders in his notebook in sparkly gel pen. He started calling her “Coach Sinclair,” teasingly, like she was the only one who really kept him in line.

She never sought attention, never played up the proximity. That’s what made her different. She was his anchor. And in the rare quiet moments, when the lights dimmed and the adrenaline faded, he’d catch himself looking for her. Not for help, not for reminders. Just for her.

One night, after a grueling away game, she was waiting by the team bus, arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd. Joe saw her before anyone else—head tilted, lips pursed in that way she always did when she was fighting off worry.

He walked up to her, bruised and bone-tired, and said, “You’re always here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Of course I am. You think this circus runs itself?”

“No, I mean... you’re always here,” he said, softer now.

And he realized then, in the quiet hush of the parking lot, that if everything else fell away—if the noise, the fans, the lights vanished—he’d still want to come home to her.

Not because she managed his life.

But because she’d become the best part of it.

The world moved fast around Joe Burrow—too fast sometimes. The rhythm of his life was all quick counts and tighter windows, flights that left at dawn, meetings that ran late, and appearances scheduled back-to-back with little more than a protein bar and a half-lost phone charger to sustain him. Everyone wanted something from him: a comment, a handshake, a win. And he gave it, because that’s what greatness demanded. But even quarterbacks—especially quarterbacks—can burn out.

And that’s where she came in.

She wasn’t flashy. Not like the rest of the people in his orbit who wore designer clothes and spoke in hashtags. She was the opposite. Steady, soft-voiced, with a sharp mind and a clipboard that somehow carried more authority than a coach’s headset. She was plus-sized, confident, with a kind of magnetic ease that made people underestimate her—until she opened her mouth and rearranged an entire travel schedule in under five minutes. Joe hired her after a chaotic press tour in L.A. where his old assistant forgot to schedule a post-game flight and accidentally sent him to New York instead of Cincinnati.

She had walked into his life a week later, wearing black ankle boots and carrying an iced coffee in one hand and a folder thicker than the playbook in the other.

“You’re Joe,” she’d said simply, without awe or fanfare, as if he were just another name on her list. “And you need help.”

He blinked. “I mean… yeah. That’s fair.”

“I’ll start today. If you don’t like how I work, we’ll pretend this never happened.” She held out her hand, firm and unshaking. “Y/N Sinclair.”

He took it. “Joe Burrow.”

She smirked. “Yeah, I got that part.”

Weeks turned into months, and she became something of a legend within Joe’s team. She wasn’t just an assistant—she was a fixer, a keeper of secrets, and, when necessary, a gentle but immovable force.

“Did you eat?” she’d ask before every practice, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorway of the locker room.

“Protein shake,” he’d mumble, already tugging on his cleats.

“Not food,” she’d say, tossing him a granola bar. “There’s real lunch waiting in your car. Don’t make me remind you what happened last time you skipped a meal before drills.”

He’d grin, already halfway out the door. “You’re starting to sound like my mom.”

“Great. Maybe you’ll actually listen.”

But it wasn’t just the way she organized his calendar or remembered the names of every teammate’s spouse. It was the quiet moments—those rare slivers of stillness in the chaos—that she filled without ever trying. She’d sit in the corner of the hotel room while he read over film notes, her laptop open, fingers flying across the keys. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone steadied him.

One night, after a particularly brutal game—one of those down-to-the-wire losses that gnawed at him long after the final whistle—he found her waiting by the team bus. The November air was cold, cutting through his jacket, but she stood there like it didn’t touch her, arms folded, chin tucked into her scarf.

She spotted him before he even made it halfway across the lot.

“Hey,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “You alright?”

He nodded, but it wasn’t convincing. His shoulder ached. His head throbbed. But more than anything, he was tired in that bone-deep way that didn’t fade with rest.

She didn’t press. She just fell into step beside him.

“You have interviews in the morning,” she said after a moment. “But I pushed the first one back an hour. Figured you might need to sleep in.”

He glanced sideways at her. “You always think ahead like that?”

“Someone’s gotta,” she said with a small smile. “Left to your own devices, you’d probably show up in the wrong city.”

He chuckled, the first real laugh he’d had all day. “You’re not wrong.”

They reached the bus, but neither of them climbed on right away. The players were still trickling in, the staff milling around with clipboards and exhausted faces. For a moment, they just stood in the dim parking lot, the world unusually quiet.

“You’re always here,” Joe said finally.

She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, it’s kind of the job, isn’t it?”

“No, I mean…” He shifted his weight, running a hand through his damp hair. “You’re always here. When it’s good. When it’s not. I don’t know if I’ve said thank you. For all of it.”

Her expression softened. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for once she didn’t fill the silence with sarcasm or to-do lists.

“I don’t need thanks, Joe,” she said. “I just need you to take care of yourself. And win a couple games while you’re at it.”

He smiled, but something in his chest tugged hard, like a thread pulling free. Because somewhere between game plans and car rides, between shared coffees and late-night planning sessions, he’d started looking for her even when she wasn’t around. Not out of necessity—but something more.

Later that night, when the bus rolled through quiet streets and she sat beside him with her head resting lightly against the window, Joe turned to her.

“Y/N?” he said, voice low.

She blinked herself awake. “Hmm?”

“When this season’s over… would you ever think about staying on?” He paused. “Not just as my assistant. I mean—traveling less. Maybe staying closer. You could do something here. I don’t know. Something that isn’t just… taking care of me.”

She smiled, eyes soft and a little amused. “Joe Burrow, are you trying to offer me a promotion or a life?”

He looked at her, and the answer was clear in his silence.

“I’ll think about it,” she said gently, her voice like a quiet promise.

And she did.

Because maybe, just maybe, some people are worth coming home to.

The season ended with more bruises than wins, and a weight settled over the team that only time could lift. The locker room emptied slowly after their final game—shoulder pads unstrapped with less urgency, voices lower than usual, no music thumping from the speakers. Everyone felt it. The stretch of months ahead with no plays to run, no film to study. For most, it was a break. For Joe, it was something else entirely.

It was stillness. And he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

The morning after their final game, She showed up at his condo holding two coffees and a paper bag of fresh bagels.

“I figured you wouldn’t leave your bed unless someone physically made you,” she said, nudging the door open with her foot.

Joe squinted at her from the couch, hair wild, blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon. “You're not wrong.”

“Do I ever miss?” she asked, setting the bag down on the coffee table.

He sat up, groaning. “Are you even allowed to be here? Technically the season’s over.”

“Technically, I’m off the clock,” she replied, peeling the lid off her coffee. “But you looked like you needed a human being and some carbs.”

He took the bag gratefully. “You're way too good at this.”

“At bagels?”

“At knowing when I’m losing my grip.”

She didn’t say anything right away. She just sipped her coffee, watching him with the kind of quiet patience most people only pretend to have. Then she said, “You don’t have to be anything right now. You know that, right? No quarterback. No leader. Just… Joe.”

He looked at her, really looked, and for the first time in months, let his shoulders drop.

The off-season moved slower. Joe started sleeping in—not on purpose, just because no alarms jolted him awake. He read books he hadn’t touched in years, caught up with old friends over phone calls that lasted hours, and even started cooking again. Badly, but earnestly. She came over a few times, under the pretense of teaching him the difference between paprika and chili powder. He almost burned the chicken, but she was patient. Laughed more than she corrected. He liked that.

Sometimes, they didn’t talk about football at all. And those were the best days.

On a particularly cold January afternoon, She dragged him to a local bookstore downtown. He didn’t protest, mostly because she’d threatened to revoke his Netflix password if he didn’t get out of the house.

“You need stimulation that isn’t screen-based,” she declared, tugging her scarf tighter as they walked through the slushy streets. “Your brain is going to melt.”

“Honestly, that doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Don’t tempt me. I know where you keep your PlayStation.”

Inside, the store was warm and smelled like coffee and old paper. Joe followed her down the aisles, watching the way her fingers trailed along the spines of the books.

“You always do this?” he asked.

“What? Read?” she teased. “Yes, Joe. It’s a thing people do.”

“No, I mean… take time. Be this still.”

She paused at a shelf, her expression unreadable. “I didn’t used to. Not until I got sick a few years ago. Nothing serious, but it slowed me down. Gave me perspective. Taught me how to find joy in quiet things.”

He studied her face, suddenly wanting to know everything she didn’t say out loud.

“You ever think about doing something else?” he asked. “Something that’s… yours?”

She turned, surprised. “You trying to get rid of me?”

“Not a chance. But I meant what I said—when the season ended. You’re not just good at handling me. You’re good at handling life. People. You could do anything.”

Her eyes softened, but she looked away.

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “Sometimes it’s easier taking care of someone else. Gives me a reason to show up.”

Joe stepped closer, voice quieter now. “You don’t need a reason. You’re already enough, Y/N.”

She met his gaze, and for a long moment, neither of them said anything. Just stood in the narrow aisle between the memoirs and the travel guides, wrapped in the kind of silence that wasn’t empty—but full.

Eventually, she cleared her throat. “So, what are we reading?”

“You pick,” he said. “I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” she joked. “I read a lot of weird stuff.”

He grinned. “Perfect.”

In the weeks that followed, things didn’t change all at once. But the energy between them did—subtle shifts, tiny moments. He noticed the way she lingered a little longer before leaving his place. She started texting him even when there wasn’t something he needed to do. And when they did talk, it was about real things. Dreams. Fears. Past mistakes. Quiet hopes for the future.

One night, as February snow fell soft against the windows, they sat on Joe’s couch, her feet tucked under her, both of them halfway through a documentary they weren’t really watching. The room was dim, lit mostly by the TV’s glow. She had her glasses on, hair a mess, and she looked so completely at ease that it made Joe’s chest ache a little.

“You ever wonder,” he said, breaking the quiet, “if maybe the best parts of life aren’t the big things?”

She turned to him, eyebrows raised. “That sounds deep. Did you read that in one of your football magazines?”

He smiled, shaking his head. “No. I just… I used to think the wins were everything. The plays, the trophies. But lately, I think about stuff like this more. Just sitting here. With you.”

She looked at him for a long second, the air between them warm and still.

“Well,” she said softly, “if this is the best part... we better not rush it.”

And he didn’t.

Because there was time. A whole off-season of quiet.

And Joe was finally learning how to live in it.

JB9 Taglist: @lilfreakjez, @dasia21, @superanastasia1981, @gg-trini, @wickedfun9, @irishmanwhore

74 notes · View notes

captain-joongz · 1 year ago

Text

Abraxas; Masterlist

TEMPORARY HIATUS - THE STORY IS BEING RE-WRITTEN

Pairing: mafia boss!Min Yoongi x police office!reader

Genre: humour, angst, investigation themes, dark themes, enemies to lovers, slowburn, eventual smut, some fluff

Summary: My downfall ended up being a story in three acts. The introduction, the seduction, the damnation.

Or; Young and fresh out of police academy, I set out to take down one of the biggest gangs in Seoul. I didn't expect the whirlwind my life would become after meeting the one and only Min Yoongi. Caught between two worlds, it was hard to say whether I was pulled down or returned where I always belonged.

Current word count: cca 100k

Warnings: dark themes, talks of illegal activities, murder, sexism in the workplace, brief reader x OC, eventual smut, innacurate description of police work, some slight stalking (reader tailing Yoongi), each individual chapter will have its own warnings

A/N: welcome to my new and very first series! I will attempt to update this every month, so it's done quicker. Hope you enjoy your reading, don't be shy and feel free to interact!

Taglist is open! Let me know if you wanna be added ^^

playlist / songs that fit the vibe : daylight by david kuschner, love again by dua lipa, let the world burn by chris grey, nothing matters by the last dinner party, killshot (slowed + reverb) by magdalena bay, a little death by the neighbourhood, adore adore by yoav, little girl gone by chinchilla, play with fire by sam tinnesz, the night by choi baek ho, astonist's lullaby by hozier, take me to church by hozier, smoke sprite by so!yoon!, all the good girls go to hell by billie eilish, my strange addiction by billie eilish, nobody's soldier by hozier, wet nightmare by bibi

Act 1;

Ch. 1 | Interlude I. | Ch. 2.1 | Ch. 2.2 | Ch. 3.1 | Ch. 3.2 | Ch. 3.3 | Interlude II. | Ch. 4.1 | Ch. 4.2 | Ch. 4.3 |Interlude III.

"That which is spoken by God-the-Sun is life; that which is spoken by the Devil is death; Abraxas speaketh that hallowed and accursed word, which is life and death at the same time. Abraxas begetteth truth and lying, good and evil, light and darkness in the same word and in the same act. Wherefore is Abraxas terrible."

- 3rd sermon, Seven Sermons to the Dead, Carl Jung

The First Companion | An Old Friend | Boy Warrior |

Act 2;

TBA

"The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The bird flies to God. That God's name is Abraxas."

- Demian: The Story of Emil Sinclair's Youth, Hermann Hesse

The Prodigal Son | Enemy of an Enemy is a Friend | The Golden Maknae |

Act 3;

TBA

"It is splendid as the lion in the instant he striketh down his victim. It is beautiful as a day of spring. It is the great Pan himself and also the small one. It is Priapos.

It is the monster of the under-world, a thousand-armed polyp, coiled knot of winged serpents, frenzy.

It is abundance that seeketh union with emptiness. It is holy begetting. It is love and love’s murder. It is the saint and his betrayer. It is the brightest light of day and the darkest night of madness.

To look upon it, is blindness. To know it, is sickness. To worship it, is death. To fear it, is wisdom. To resist it not, is redemption.

It is the delight of the earth and the cruelty of the heavens. Before it there is no question and no reply.

That is the terrible Abraxas."

- 3rd sermon, Seven Sermons to the Dead, Carl Jung

Epilogue

Taglist (open):

@wobblewobble822 @viankiss @jjkwifestyle @mortal-body-timelesssoul @fullmetalavatar54

@ot72025 @jalexad @eleni-cherie @m00njinnie @mysteriousgeminizone

@faesageworld

#bts fic #bts x reader #bts fluff #bts angst #bts smut #yoongi fic #yoongi x reader #yoongi smut #yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #min yoongi fic #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi smut #min yoongi fluff #min yoongi angst #bts mafia au #yoongi mafia au #abraxas series

262 notes · View notes

mugloversonly · 1 month ago

Text

Rescue

Okay this one is for @stmonstercalendar Mermay Bingo prompts "Sci-fi", "shapeshifter", "kelpie". As well as the weekly prompt "vodnik". | rating: G | wc: 3443 | cw: NA summary: Captain Steve of the Starfleet vessel Loch Nora, responds to a distress signal from Commander Joyce of the Hawkins. There is a lot of Star Trek references in this so there are notes at the end! AO3

The ensign at the helm slowed them down to a quarter impulse as they entered the planet’s orbit. The beautiful water sat still like Earth’s ocean before a storm. Eerie, if Steve had to name it.

The planet itself was entirely water. As far as Steve could tell from the view screen, there wasn't a single foot of dry land. Only his best swimmers could be a part of the transport team.

If it wasn't for Admiral Hopper sending him on this rescue mission, Steve would be excited to discover this planet. But, no scientific exploration could be done until he found Commander Byers and brought her aboard.

Steve shuttered when he recalled the distress signal she sent out.

SOS. This is Commander Joyce Byers of the Federation. We are being held hostage on planet L365. Please hurry, I don't know how long they'll —

Then the transmission stopped. There hadn't been another sign from Joyce; technically Federation policy dictated the ship closest to the distress call answered, then called for backup if needed. But, Joyce was the whole reason Steve wasn't serving time in prison for a stupid mistake in the academy. His crew’s full of ragtag Starfleet officers whose careers Joyce had a hand in, they weren't going to abandon her.

The direct plea from Hopper sealed the deal. They all agreed to let Steve take the court martial if there was one, he's the captain of the Loch Nora, the rest of the crew was simply following his orders. But he doubted he’d be reprimanded; not with what he saw.

The Hawkins, was in pieces.

“Scan for life forms.” He demanded of Lieutenant Sinclair. She pushed a few buttons on her console; Steve wondered if he should bench her even though Erica could swim laps around him. Her brother is one of the missing and he’s worried she won't keep a clear head.

“Captain… come take a look at this “ She called. A glance at her mini screen shocked Steve to his core; relief and confusion war in him.

“Is that right?” There are over 3000 life forms, 150 of them match the bio-metrics of the entire Hawkins crew. “They’re all alive?”

“Affirmative, I attempted to lock on to them but there’s too much interference.” Lieutenant Henderson said, the frustration evident in his tone. Steve had no doubt the Vulcan re-calibrated the transporter about five different times before he admitted it didn't work.

“Commander Lox?” Steve turned to his first officer Jane. “Do you have any experience with this type of thing?”

“I encountered a planet like this a hundred years or so ago. It might have been this one actually. My host Kali, had to negotiate with the leader for some supplies. She found the people there to be kind but they're wary of strangers. I’d suggest we send down a small party but keep transporters locked on their location.” The trill said.

“Right, Sinclair, Henderson, Lox, you're with me. Wheeler you have the bridge.” He turned to the Lieutenant Commander.

“But sir, my sister's down there.” Mike argued.

“And would Nancy be happy to see you, or would she be pissed?” Steve raised an eyebrow even as he entered the turbo shaft.

“Sinclair’s going.” Mike insisted. Steve glanced to his side at the woman in question.

“Are you going to tell Erica no?” Mike slumped into the Captain's chair conceding the point.

“Your sister is a capable woman. My brother is an idiot.” Erica offered as she stepped into the lift.

“Transporter bay.” The lift lowered to the bottom level as Steve laid out the plan.

“When we get to the surface, I’ll swim down as far as I can while you tread water. Once they can't lock onto my signal, we’ll know how close to the surface we need to get the crew.” Waiting at the transporter bay was Dr. Buckley with a few respirators that she handed out quickly.

“Let me switch your translators to non-verbal mode.” She gestured to her ear and pulled out a tricorder. She ran the device over the right ear of the humans and Vulcan, and the left ear of the trill.

“Thanks, Robbie.” Steve smiled and hugged his best friend. “We’ll see you in a bit.” With that, he stepped onto the transporter pad.

A quick push of a button, and they were beamed onto the planet, submerging underwater.

“Everyone okay?” Steve asked. It was weird to talk to his team without actually speaking, but he figured he’d get used to it.

The three others nodded in affirmation. Steve began his dive, but no sooner had he sank did a green old man appear. He tilted his head in confusion until he heard Erica scream.

“It's a vodnik!” Steve had no idea what that was, but given her tone of voice and the way the thing charged at him, he didn't think it was friendly.

With a kick of his legs, Steve tried to escape it, but the vodnik was fast; faster than any creature Steve had ever seen.

Suddenly, a great white shark appeared and bit into the vodnik’s leg dragging it to the depths. A second shark swam directly for them but paused in front of the group and moved almost as if it was treading water.

“Are you a native to this planet?” Steve asked. The shark gave the approximation of a nod. Upon closer inspection, Steve realized this wasn’t a normal Earth shark, it had a few extra fins and the gills were in the wrong spot. Almost as if someone explained what a shark was, and this creature became it.

“What are you?” There was a sense of dread filling his stomach, and he didn’t have time for tact.

“Come with me.” It said. “I won’t hurt you.” The shark gave a wiggle and it transformed into a half-horse, half-fish creature, long curly seaweed-like hair made up it's mane. Attached to it’s flank was an enclosed carriage.

“Answer me first. What are you?” Steve said again.

“I’m a Kelpie at the moment.” The creature nodded at its form. “We don’t have much time, if you want to save your comrades, come with me.”

There didn’t seem to be much choice. If that other creature was a shapeshifter like this one, there's be no way to tell them apart if they separated. With a sigh, Steve swam to the carriage and got in, Jane, Erica, and Dustin followed close behind.

Inside the carriage, the four discussed the situation.

“What's the likelihood these are the same species as the founders?” Jane asked, right to the point.

“If they are it doesn't seem like they're in league with them. If they were they wouldn't be helping us.” Dustin said. The discussion continued around him until the carriage came to a stop.

The carriage dissolved around them and they were once again submerged in water. The creature was still in the Kelpie form.

“Is this your true form?” Erica asked, keeping voice quiet and calm.

“I don’t know that I have a true form. Your comrades said this was a form you’d be comfortable with.” The creature said.

“Are you the one holding our comrades hostage?” Jane asked. The creature huffed in irritation.

“Not exactly. Come, I will show you.” The Kelpie galloped forward into an underwater cave. The group followed and breathed a sigh of relief when they realized it was a habitable cave for them.

They climbed out of the water onto the bank and removed their respirators. Steve kept his eyes on the shapeshifter as he turned into a human man. Long curly black hair framed his face, with dark chocolate doe eyes staring at him in return.

“I’m not with the Dominion, if that’s what you’re wondering.” The creature said.

“Then who are you?”

“Your comrades have been calling me Eddie. You may call me that as well.” He sighed and gestured to the sand. Taking a seat himself, Eddie told them all that had happened.

“The Dominion are terrible. A group of us defected a while ago, about a thousand of your years. Those of us who didn’t agree with the war on single forms settled here; but, over time, some of us have changed our minds.” Eddie gazed out over the little lake.

“So the vodnik, he’s a shapeshifter who hates solids?” Steve asked.

“Yes. Your comrades call him Jason. He’s the one who crashed their ship.”

Eddie went on to explain that Jason and a dozen others made up a group of shifters who want to rejoin the Dominion but can't access the warp technology they used to get here in the first place. Eddie was the only one who remembered where the old ships were, and he was the only one who knew how to work the tech in the first place. Even if they got their hands on the ships, they wouldn’t know how to use it.

“So, why did he destroy the Hawkins?” Jane questioned. “Wouldn’t it have made more sense to attempt to steal the tech?”

Eddie squinted at the woman for a moment, a particular look on his face.

“Have we met before?” He asked.

“I once was a woman named Kali. Maybe you met her?”

Eddie snapped his fingers in recognition.

“Yes! We gave her some Duranium.” Eddie turned back to the problem at hand. “Anyway, from what I gathered from the first group, Jason tried to board the ship but the captain Joyce, refused to let him have control. Once everyone was evacuated she set the ship to self destruct. Thankfully, the majority of us here don’t hate single forms. We managed to make Jason’s group retreat and save the crew. They’re in a nearby cave like this one. But, we couldn’t get them home without leading Jason to the warp tech.”

Steve absorbed the information as quickly as he could. There had to be a way to save the crew.

“Your Commander Joyce is a fearsome woman. She refuses to leave until she helps us stop this civil war.”

With a huff of a laugh Steve hung his head. Of course she’d say that.

“Can you take us to her?” Steve asked. With a nod, Eddie beckoned them to follow him through a series of tunnels and through a network of caves. Eventually, they stepped into a huge underground room filled with light.

“Erica?!” Lucas called as he ran to his sister and pulled her into a tight hug. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you, duh?” She replied even as she pretended to wiggle out of his hug.

“Steve!” A voice called. Will Byers pulled away from the crowd and hugged him around the waist. “Mom knew you’d come.”

Joyce herself was in deep discussion with Nancy and two people Steve didn’t recognize. They must be other shifters.

“The one with the red hair is being called Max and the other is called Chrissy.” Eddie pointed. “The older man in the corner is Wayne. He’s…what you would call my uncle.”

“You guys have family dynamics like that?” Dustin asked, fascinated with their new friend.

“In a way.” Eddie began. Steve left them to it and made his way to Joyce.

“Everyone okay?” He asked. Joyce met his eyes with a tired smile.

“Kind of. The shapeshifters who saved us have been friendly and hospitable. The caves are coded in kelbonite. I’m assuming that’s why you’re here and didn’t just beam us aboard the Loch Nora.”

“That would do it, yeah.” Steve laughed. “But, I hear you’re trying to prevent a civil war.”

“They have warp technology, it doesn’t violate the Prime Directive.” Joyce placatingly raised her hands. “Besides, it’s in the best interest of Starfleet. This group of defectors didn’t know about the Dominion War until we got here; but, most of them don’t seem to agree with the founders and didn’t really care too much about the outcome. The ones that do agree with the founders want to avenge them.”

“So we have to stop them here.” Steve concluded. Steve looked at the small group of officers here, and the shifters in the room.

“So, what’s the plan?”

It’s Eddie who answered.

“Evacuate our allies. Any warp tech we have, take with us or destroy. Once we’re a safe distance away, we’ll blow up the planet.” The calm indifference in Eddie’s voice would scare Steve if he was on the enemy side.

“Blow it up?” Erica asked in confusion.

“If he was smart, Jason would realize he can shift into a warp capable ship. But, he’s an idiot so it hasn’t occurred to him; but the second it does…” Eddie didn’t finish, but the meaning was clear.

“We already set a bunch of bombs throughout the planet. Shoot one, and it will cascade to the next.” Nancy chimed in.

“How many of you are on the planet?” Steve asked.

“In total? 20ish. We’re usually a conglomerate.” Wayne spoke up. “But, those of us who don’t mind your type are few now. Jason convinced almost everyone to join him. The four of us you see here, plus Eddie’s three friends.”

The three friends, entered from a separate cave as if summoned. They introduced themselves as Gareth, Jeff, and Bear. Gareth was the other shark they saw on the surface.

“The seven of you are willing to leave your home?” Steve asked, a little shocked.

“The thing about us Stevie, is we’re a collective. Our home isn’t a place or a planet. It’s the link we share with each other. One that’s connected us even when we were a part of the whole.” Eddie smiled.

“We need to move quickly.” Jeff mentioned. He and Max led a group of Hawkins crew down one passage, Bear and Gareth went down a second, and Wayne and Chrissy took the rest through a third.

“We have ships prepared to get us all out. I taught everyone how to fly them, at least a little.” Eddie began as he led Joyce, Will, Lucas, Nancy, and the rescue team down a different shaft.

“Why did you set out a distress signal if you guys already had a plan?” Steve asked as they shuffled down the path.

“We needed the backup. Plus, there would be no way to prove we were alive and also not shapeshifters if we appeared suddenly in an old Dominion ship.” That was a great point, Steve had to admit.

Eddie fell back in step with the two and stared calculatingly at Steve.

“What?”

“You’re pretty cute. For a single form anyway.” Eddie flirted and winked.

“Is that a compliment?” Steve asked as Joyce sped up to give them some space.

“You don’t think I’m cute?” Eddie pouted. “Do any of these speak to you?” In a blink he transformed into a female version of his human form. Then just as quickly, he morphed into an Andorian, Klingon, Tholian, and Ferangi version. Even his Ferangi self had huge doe eyes and big curly hair, which looked a bit silly with the ears.

There was something interesting about his shifting nature, Steve had to admit. He wondered just how far that extended. Could he shift parts of himself into other species or was it all or nothing? The only understanding of their abilities Starfleet had any record of was from a Bajorian scientist’s research notes; and he wasn’t very thorough with the details.

“I think you’re cute in all those forms you took. Except Ferangi, but I’ve known too many shady Ferangi.” Steve shrugged.

“Really? You’re not into the ears?” Eddie touched his lobes and gasped in shock. “Why does it feel like I’m touching my…” He waved his hand at Steve’s crotch.

“That’s a great question. You’ll have to ask one when we get back to Federation Space.”

Eddie pursed his lips in thought, shifted back to his “human” self, and turned back to the conversation at hand.

“Listen, after I blow up my planet I’ll need a new one. We all will. I’ve heard the Federation takes in strays. Will they make room for us too?”

“Of course!” Steve exclaimed.

“Even though our people tried to kill you all?” It was said like a joke, but the insecurity was clear.

“You’re not the first people to defect from their genocidal species and join the Federation. I doubt you’ll be the last.” Steve sighed and decided to take a risk. “Until then, you can stay on my ship with me. You all can, I don’t mind.”

“You have enough rooms for the seven of us?”

“Well, one of you might have to bunk with me.” Steve said with a flirty smile. He had enough rooms, it wouldn’t be a problem. Besides from what Eddie said, they’d likely all share the same space to link. But, it was the principle.

“Well if you insist.” Eddie replied and bumped shoulders with him. “I wouldn’t mind sharing your room, big boy.”

They arrived in a big cave that held a huge purple ship next to another underwater lake. Steve gulped; it was obviously an older version of the Jem’Hadar ships. Steve wasn’t in Starfleet during the war, but they learned all about it in the academy.

“Commander Byers was correct, if you showed up in Federation Space in these without an escort, you’d be stopped.” Steve mumbled.

“Right in one, pretty boy.” Eddie giggled as he jogged toward the ship. With a flourish, Eddie waved the group into the ship as he got into position. He flipped a few switches and then sent a signal to the other ships.

“Everyone’s ready. But you are going to have to convince your ship not to shoot at us.” Eddie handed Steve the headset, that doubled as a view screen. From the academy he knew he’d likely get a migraine if he wore it for a while, but a few minutes should be fine.

“Let’s do it.”

The ship exited the cave system through the lake and out to the surface, where it met up with the other three. A huge squid appeared but Eddie quickly fired a few shots into it’s stomach. It sank into the depths as they pushed through the water until the Loch Nora was in view.

“We’re hailing them.” Eddie pointed at Steve once the channel was open.

“This is Lieutenant Commander Wheeler. Who are you and what business do you have on this planet?” Mike’s face filled Steve’s vision.

“This is Captain Steve Harrington. These vessels hold the Hawkins crew and allies. We come in peace.” He said. Rightfully, Mike didn’t trust Steve at face value.

“Tell me something only Steve would know. Something a founder wouldn’t torture out of you.” Mike glared. Steve sighed and pursed his lips.

“When I was dating your sister I accidentally clogged the toilet while playing ultimate barbies with Holly. I was so embarrassed about it that I pretended I was having stomach problems.” There was a muffled snort to the side and Steve squinted his eyes at Eddie.

“How is clogging a girlfriend’s toilet with a huge dump less embarrassing than playing dolls with her sister?” Eddie giggled.

“I asked him the same question.” Nancy joined in before she snagged the headset from Steve. “Michael Wheeler, it’s me your sister Nancy. If you don’t send a message to Starfleet informing them of the Dominion Ships returning home with us, I’ll tell Jane all about your little notebook.” At that, Mike paled and nodded quickly.

“Okay, you’re who you say you are. I’ll relay the message.” He quickly ended the message as Steve turned curiously to Nancy.

“What’s in that notebook?” Steve asked curiously, but she didn’t answer, only shrugged with a secretive smile.

The ships left the atmosphere and headed toward Federation Space. All but Eddie’s ship; which turned to face the planet.

“I’m going to miss it. It was my home for so long.” He sighed.

“There could be another way, right?” Steve offered, he just met the man, but he’d do anything to make him happy.

A soft sniffle is the only sound Eddie let himself make before he pushed a button on the console. A single photon torpedo shot into the planet’s water, but whatever it hit, activated the explosions all along the surface.

As the planet broke into pieces, Eddie flipped it the bird.

“Good riddance to those fuckers.” He set the ship’s course and leaned back against a ship wall. “So, tell me about my new home?” Eddie requested.

Steve smiled. He liked the sound of that.

“The Loch Nora is what I affectionately call ‘home to the Starfleet strays’” he began.

----------------------------------------------------

NOTES:

Trills can have a symbiote that retains the memories of past hosts. The trill will change it's last name to the name of the symbiote.

The translators Robin adjusts refers to the universal translator that is a common star trek tech. there's a few different versions of it in the universe so I went with the in ear kind and which side varies by species. All universal translators can be used through a telepathic link but they do not default to that.

Steve's backstory is based off of Nick Locarno Joyce is inspired by Captain Janeway L365= L class planets are nearly as hospitable as earth is for humans. founders= are a species of shapeshifters who are the main antagonist in the series Deep Space 9. Dominion= is what the founders cal their empire. Duranium= is material used in a whole lot of stuff in the Federation kelbonite= a metal that is notorious for blocking transporter tech of all kinds. Prime Directive= a Federation protocol to not get involved with the affairs of planets without warp tech. This includes preventing wars or anything even if asked. The shapeshifters are shown to be able to shift into warp capable vessels in DS9. The Bajorian scientist refers to a character in DS9 who did experiments on a shapeshifter. The Ferangi are known to masturbate with their earlobes. link= when a group of shapeshifters are one group. it's a pool mostly. Jem'Hadar= the soldiers bred and controlled by the Dominion

This is just something I couldn't fit in: Jason only defected from the Dominon because he wanted to be with Chrissy. Once he realized she didn't want him back he was just biding his time to dip and rejoin the founders.

permanent tag list:

@katyawriteswhump

28 notes · View notes