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wlntrsldler · 6 months

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poisoned mercury | close as strangers (post chb)

a/n: okayyyy so i didn't give them an angst ending but i had to give into the angst monster at least once for this series so here's a bonus chapter for poisoned mercury. miscommunication galore. long distance is hard! two dumbasses in love!

song: close as strangers by 5sos

series masterlist | previous | next

"i'll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?" luke whispered, trying not to wake his bandmates up. the tour bus was large enough to house them while they were on the road, but it didn't really give the privacy he hoped for. chris was just across the narrow walkway from him and luke could hear his soft snores through the thin curtain that separated them.

luke felt his heart hammering in his chest when you didn't reply to him. he could still hear your breaths through the phone and you were just talking to him a second ago, so he knew you were still awake. you both had equally busy lives which meant that your phone calls were getting shorter and shorter each day. luke knew it was because you were booked with school and tournaments for field hockey and he was always exhausted after each meeting now that the band was working on their second album. luke knew all of this, but it didn't stop him from missing you. he was lucky to get a ten-minute call with you nowadays.

"baby?" he tried again, chewing on his bottom lip. he turned to face the ceiling of his bunk, the light from his phone casting a shadow on his face as he waited for you to say something. anything. "can i call you tomorrow?"

you sighed, "i don't know, luke. i have a busy day. it's a travel game tomorrow so i don't know if i'll be up late."

"oh," he cleared his throat, trying to hide his disappointment. he felt a little stupid that there were tears pooling in his eyes. so you can't talk tomorrow, it shouldn't be a big deal, right? except that luke felt like you were pulling away from him. little by little. and he didn't know how to stop it. it wasn't like he could drop everything to show up at your doorstep and fix things with you. if it was up to him, he would do it in a heartbeat, but you'd probably get mad at him for it, for abandoning his responsibilities as the lead singer of the most popular band in the world. not to mention the boys would be livid and mr. d and his mom would be equally furious.

"sorry, maybe next week?"

"yeah, sure," he replied, thankful that you weren't on facetime tonight. he didn't want you to see his face. "alright, i'll let you get some rest. go kill it tomorrow. g'night, five star."

"goodnight," you said, ending the call as soon as the last syllable left your lips.

luke groaned quietly, tossing his phone on the foot of his bed. he knew long distance was going to be difficult. it's been months since he last saw you, months since he was at camp half blood, sleeping in your bed and waking up to the feeling of your lips peppering kisses on his face. maybe he shouldn't have gotten so attached so fast, but it wasn't like he had a choice in the matter.

he got out from his bunk, tucking his feet into his slippers and made his way to the living room area of the bus. he sat on the couch, peering out the window to watch the empty roads ahead. they were on their way to nashville to meet with a producer that mr. d recommended. the second album was almost done, but it was missing something and none of them wanted to put out a record that didn't meet their expectations.

mr. d was already in tennessee waiting for them. he'd flown in from houston a few days ago with luke's mom and the rest of the poisoned mercury team while the boys were in atlanta for a movie premiere. they decided that a road trip was needed to de-stress after the glitz and buzz of the red carpet. it was nice to have some alone time with the boys. in their tour bus, luke felt like they were back in connecticut, just four friends fucking around, writing music, and eating junk food until their stomachs hurt.

he turned on the tv, switching to some random channel that he wasn't paying attention to. he just needed some noise to drown out his thoughts, but that didn't seem to work. all he could think of was you, his five star, and how much he missed you. luke wondered if you were having second thoughts about this whole thing. maybe he'd been too optimistic about things; maybe you weren't on the same page as he was; maybe you realized that it was too difficult to be with him.

a shiver ran down his spine as he spiraled into his thoughts. admitting to himself that something was wrong between the two of you left a bitter taste in his mouth because he didn't want to believe it. he saw you as his endgame, like nobody else in the world could compare to you, and to think that you may not feel the same about him... well, it was a difficult pill to swallow.

he wondered if he came on too strong, showed his cards too early, and seemed too clingy and lovestruck before it was deemed appropriate. you'd only been together, officially at least, for four months, most of which were long distance, but luke knew he was a goner for you way before that.

he silently cursed as the chill of the december air hit his skin. he should've worn a hoodie. he grabbed the small throw blanket draped over the armchair and placed it around his shoulders. he wished he got to see you over thanksgiving break because maybe you two wouldn't be in this rocky situation right now, but your coach ordered you and clarisse to stay on campus over break to sharpen your skills since you missed summer training. luke and chris were less than pleased with the idea, but they knew it was out of their control.

luke fell asleep on the couch that night after succumbing to the tiredness in his body. the sun was beginning to rise by the time his eyelids fluttered shut. he hoped that he'd wake up to a text from you, but when he woke up to the sound of the bus screeching to a halt in nashville, he realized it was the hope that kills.

“are you guys going to the fall concert?” silena asked, poking her head out of the bathroom. she was part of the planning committee for the unc fall semester concert and she’d been stressing over the logistics of it for weeks.

“lena, if we even tried to miss it, you’d kill us,” clarisse chuckled, putting on a coat of mascara. “you’ve been talking about this since we got back.”

the three of you were getting ready in your dorm. you and clarisse were roommates this year, thank gods for athlete privileges, and silena lived in the building next door in a single since she was an ra. how she had the time to be an ra, be a member of the music festival planning committee, and be a full-time student was truly beyond your comprehension.

“lena, calm down. it’ll be good,” you squeezed her shoulders as you passed by behind her, grabbing your lipgloss from the counter. “and even if it sucks, half the people in the crowd are either drunk or high or both and will probably not remember it.”

“true,” she snorted, curling the final piece of her hair. she unplugged her hair curler and gave herself one last look in the mirror, “i’ll see you guys there? i gotta go make sure shit didn’t hit the fan.”

you and clarisse nodded as silena said her goodbyes. you dabbed on some lipgloss, glancing down at your phone every few seconds. clarisse side-eyed you, unable to hide her smile, “you waitin’ for a text?”

“shut up,” you rolled your eyes at her teasing tone. she didn't really know that your relationship was a little muddy at the moment. you weren’t the best at talking about your feelings and it felt wrong to talk about your relationship drama when clarisse and chris seemed to be going strong. “they’re supposed to land in los angeles ten minutes ago.”

“their flight probably got delayed, y/n,” she replied, “happens all the time.”

“no, i know, but just wanna make sure they’re safe, y’know?”

clarisse crossed her arms over her chest, “they’re safe or he’s safe?”

you ignored her question, opting to busy yourself with the weather app on your phone to avoid any follow-up questions, “how are you not checking your phone for a text from chris right now?”

she shrugged, “he always knocks out on long flights so i don’t expect a text until he gets to their hotel.”

“how are you and chris, by the way? i know we live together and shit, but i feel like we haven’t gotten to talk about it in detail since we’re always so tired from school and practice.”

“we’re good,” clarisse hummed, “just miss him loads, though. i haven’t seen him since we left camp– what? four, almost five, months ago?”

you were in the same boat, kind of. you and luke hadn’t seen each other in months and you were getting antsy. they’d been on the road for the past few months, meeting with producers and fulfilling their contractual obligations. they hadn’t been in a set location long enough for you to be able to fly out to see luke, even just for a weekend.

at first, there were movie dates where you’d order each other food and eat and watch the movie on facetime together. there were weekly phone calls and daily texts, but nothing compares to the real thing. being with luke in person was something that you were craving. camp half blood spoiled you with having him all for yourself and now that you were back in school and he’s out in the world, it was beginning to weigh on you.

you missed him. a lot.

you missed kissing him and feeling his lips break out into a smile when you’d mumble something stupid. you missed feeling his arms around you, hugging you from behind while you got ready for the day. you even missed waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of him scribbling random lyrics on pieces of scrap paper he found in your room when he slept over.

long distance is hard and sure, luke wouldn’t be the type to cheat or do anything to jeopardize your relationship, but it still didn’t stop a knot from forming in your stomach every time a picture of him or the band popped up on your social media with a gorgeous singer, actor, or model that they ran into on the red carpet. what if he realizes one day that he wants someone who lives the same life as him? wild and adventurous, not tied down by school or sports?

a part of you felt silly for being so insecure about things. it was too early in the relationship to have this conversation, isn’t it? you knew that your avoidance of the topic was starting to affect your relationship with luke, as much as you wished it didn’t, but what if the minute you voice your concerns, he’ll realize that being with you was more than he bargained for? after all, you weren’t the same five star with all the time in her hands, care-free, and relaxed that he met at camp. there was a chance that luke would call it quits on this if you said anything and it felt like too big of a risk to take.

your phone buzzed on the counter, indicating a text.

from: luke <3

‘landed and jetlagged. gonna sleep for a few. enjoy the concert babe!’

you hearted the message and slipped your phone into your back pocket after sending him a quick goodnight text. the three dots popped up for a second, then in a blink, they disappeared. read at 8:43 pm.

“you ready?”

you snapped out of your thoughts at the sound of clarisse’s voice. you nodded and grabbed your small purse before heading out the door. you ran into a group of your teammates who were heading to the amphitheater across campus for the concert. the walk seemed to fly by as they cracked jokes and shared stories about random things. you stayed silent for the most part, only laughing along when it seemed like the right time, but your mind was somewhere else. your mind was in los angeles.

by the time you got to the venue, you and clarisse separated from the group to enter the vip tent, courtesy of silena. a small crowd was beginning to form in front of the stage, taking up the grassy field. charlie was already at the tent, sipping on an ipa when he saw the two of you. his face broke out into a wide smile, giving you and clarisse a quick hug before leading you to the seats he saved.

“season’s looking promising for you guys, charlie,” you commented, accepting the high noon he offered. “the team’s looking good out there.”

“thanks,” he beamed, “don’t think we’re on the level of national champs just yet like you guys, but we’re trying!”

“you guys are doing great,” clarisse chimed in, “the energy in the stadium is electric this year. makes me love college.”

“are you telling me the papers and tests aren’t what makes you love college, la rue?” charlie teased.

she snorted, “oh yeah, because i just love staying up until 1 am writing a paper on greek mythology for classics 101.”

the three of you fell into a comfortable conversation about the class you were all taking. it was a prerequisite class that most athletes choose to take because the professor was flexible with deadlines when it came to athletes. it was helpful especially when a team has to play beyond their season for tournaments or championships. about ten minutes before the opening act got on stage, silena rushed into the tent.

“guys, please you need to come with me. i need your help,” she said frantically. she was nervously tugging on her ‘staff’ badge around her neck, already halfway out of the tent as she waited for the three of you to follow her. “please, it’s an emergency.”

“woah, lena, what’s going on?” you asked, getting up to comfort her. you followed her through the crowd, grabbing clarisse’s hand to keep her close.

silena shook her head, continuing her march through the sea of people, “just come with me, i’ll explain when we get backstage.”

you and clarisse looked at each other, feeling bad for silena. she put in her blood, sweat, and tears into this concert and you knew that she would beat herself up over it if something went wrong. silena always put her all into the projects she’s passionate about, but sometimes things outside of her control happen and unfortunately, she blames herself for it.

in the whirlwind of ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘sorry’s’, the four of you managed to make your way backstage. it was chaotic. people were running around everywhere making sure everything was set for the opening act. the girl who was opening the concert was waiting by the wings, her guitar strapped across her chest as she took some deep breaths. the crowd wasn’t full yet, but you knew that if you were in that position, you’d still be sweating buckets. going out there on stage to perform for strangers was nerve-racking. you didn’t know how luke did it. you admired that about him.

“lena, are you gonna tell us what’s going on?” clarisse questioned, picking up the pace of her steps to match silena.

silena stopped in front of a door, slowly turning to face you and clarisse. suddenly, her stressed facade faded as she twisted the doorknob, “why don’t you see for yourself?”

if you weren’t so confused about what was going on, you would’ve seen charlie lift his can up to his lips to hide his smile at how proud he was of his girlfriend for her acting skills. when the door opened, your heart stopped.

luke was here.

he stood in the middle of the room beside chris with a nervous smile on his face. he was wearing a black leather jacket on top of a white tank top and black pants. his poisoned mercury chain hung from his neck, shining under the overhead lights. his hands were stuffed in his front pockets, shy and timid, as he waited for your reaction.

clarisse screamed when it hit her that chris was actually here. she ran to him and nearly tackled him to the floor. chris wrapped his arms around his girlfriend and laughed as she giggled into his neck. the two of them shared a heartfelt reunion before rushing out of the room to get some privacy. the sound of the door shutting behind you made you blink.

luke cleared his throat, right hand scratching the back of his neck, “hey, five star.”

the nickname brought you back to your senses. you ran to him, engulfing him in a tight hug with an ‘umph.’ at first, luke was tense under your touch, unsure if you’d be happy with his surprise, but quickly, he melted into you. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, sighing in content as your familiar scent surrounded him. he felt sparks coursing through his veins as you hugged him tighter and all he could think about was how good it felt to have you in his arms again. his mind was still reeling at your reaction. he didn’t expect you to run to him like this, especially not when it felt like you’d been avoiding his calls over the last few weeks.

“what are you doing here?” you asked him, pulling away to hold his face in your hands. your eyes twinkled as you raked over his face, still in disbelief that he was actually in front of you. “you’re supposed to be in la.”

luke couldn’t stop the lopsided smile on his face, “well, i lied? we were in nashville recording with your dad and he mentioned that he didn’t schedule a session for us this weekend in case me and chris wanted to take a trip to north carolina, so here we are.”

you ran your thumbs over his cheekbones, whispering, “here you are.”

“god, i missed you so much,” he said, voice breaking. “you have no idea how hard it’s been.”

you gulped, your hold on his face faltering a bit. if luke wasn’t on edge, he wouldn’t have noticed the falter in your step, but he felt the slight hesitation in your actions. your warm touch slowly peeled away from his face and he instantly regretted saying those words. here he goes being clingy again. he removed his hands from your waist, clearing his throat. he sat on the couch, motioning for you to sit beside him. he tried to keep his hands to himself when you left a space between the two of you.

“i still can’t believe you’re really here,” you said, staring at him. you wanted to lean over and hold him in your arms again, but there was a weird tension in the air that made you feel queasy. “i feel like i’m dreaming right now.”

“i hope you’re not mad that i’m here,” luke looked down at his lap, flexing his hands. he had to keep his hands busy or else he’d surely reach for yours and he didn’t want to come on too strong. he had to keep his distance. he didn’t want to scare you off any more than he already did. “there was just an opening in the schedule and i-i wanted to see you.”

“i’m not mad at all.”

“good, good,” he replied. silence. he forced himself to look up from his lap, twisting his body to face you. he bit his bottom lip, trying to build up the courage to ask his next question. “are we okay?”

“we’re okay.”

“okay because i feel like things have been different between us lately,” he pursed his lips, looking at you with sad eyes. his tongue poked out the corner of his lips, eyes darting between you and the wall behind you. “i don’t know. i feel like we haven’t talked in ages, y’know? and i know you’re busy and you have a great life here that i’m not really a part of, but uh, i wanna be, y’know? i don’t know much about school or field hockey, but it’s important to you and you’re important to me so i wanna hear about it.”

he was met with more silence. luke continued, “maybe i’m asking for too much when i ask you to let me be a part of this life, but uh, i miss you? and i just feel like i’m losing you and that’s the last thing i want. so you gotta give me something, five star. tell me what i can do to be better.”

“if you need me to back off, i’ll do it, you know? you call the shots. you tell me what you need from me, and i’ll do it, okay? i just– i can’t lose this. i don’t wanna lose you,” luke mumbled. “maybe this is all in my head too. i don’t know anymore.”

you shuddered, lip quivering, “i feel like i’m holding you back.”

“what?”

“come on, luke,” you flicked away the tear that trickled down your cheek, “you’re out there in the world doing what you love. meeting new people. living your life and i don’t want to hold you back from that. we met each other when i didn’t have all these responsibilities and who i was at camp is not who i am here and i know you love those impromptu adventures and trips and spontaneity. a-and i can’t give that to you.”

“you deserve someone who can live this life with you and i’m stuck here for two more years, luke. i can’t do that,” it was getting hard to breathe. your throat felt like it was closing up, cutting off your airflow. you’d been putting off this conversation for weeks. it didn’t feel right to talk about this over the phone, and you thought that you had a few more weeks to figure out what to say to him when you saw him for winter break, but he was here now. “you deserve more than facetime calls and text messages, and that’s all i can offer.”

“is this–” he paused, licking his lips. “is this not what you want anymore?”

“what?”

“this, us? is this just not what you want anymore?”

an involuntary laugh escaped you as you wiped under your eye, “castellan, i don’t think i could stop wanting you even if i wanted to. and you know when we first met, i really wanted to.”

luke moved closer to you, just an inch or two, trying to gauge your reaction. you didn’t move away, which he took as a good sign, “i’m confused. why do you sound like you want to end this then?”

“i don’t want you to settle for this,” you sighed, “i know what you deserve and it isn’t this.”

“bullshit.”

you furrowed your eyebrows, looking at him in disbelief, “what?”

“i’m sorry, five star, but that’s bullshit,” a small smile was tugging on his lips. he reached over to place a hand over yours. his fingers traced your knuckles, running the pads of his fingers across the familiar ridges of your skin. “i don’t understand how after all this time you still don’t realize that all i want is you. it’s ridiculous, really.”

“it’s ridiculous?”

“it’s ridiculous,” he chuckled wetly. his other hand rubbed at his eyes, clearing his foggy vision. “our situation isn’t ideal, i know that, but i’d take long distance with you over anything else with anyone else. don’t you get it, five star? you’re it for me. if this isn’t what you want anymore, i’ll accept that. but if you’re only doing this because you don’t think i want this… five star, i want it all with you. long distance. phone calls. text messages. weekend trips when we can get them. distance has nothing on how i feel about you.”

leave it to luke castellan to make you blush. you shyly looked at him, eyes twinkling with something more than either of you bargained for when you first met in that secret spot you call yours, “how do you feel about me?”

“i’m not gonna say it right now because i don’t want to have the first time be while we’re in a fight,” luke laughed. the air was starting to clear. “but i have a feeling you know.”

“i know,” you squeezed his hand three times, “i do too.”

“will you put me out of my misery and kiss me please?”

“always so fucking dramatic,” you scoffed, playfully rolling your eyes, but you leaned over and pressed your lips to his.

#frances writes #poisoned mercury #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan pjo #luke pjo #luke castellan #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan x you #luke castellan x yn #luke castellan x y/n

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padfootagain · 3 months

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Only an Almost (XIX)

Chapter 19: Ascent

Hi! Here comes a new chapter!

We only have two chapters left, including this one :(

I hope you’ll like this chapter! Please, tell me what you think!

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Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader, friends with benefits AU

Warning: No explicit smut or nsfw content, but there are sexual themes and heavy make-out sessions (it’s a friends with benefits AU, I can’t really escape it), so 18+ only!

Summary: Andrew has been in love with you for years, and yet he has never confessed his feelings. But a night out celebrating the engagement of his best friend changes everything. However, you don't seem ready to be with him just yet. You make him an offer that he can't refuse... but will certainly regret.

Word Count : 5157

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

Andrew was never more aware that he was getting older.

The hangover that was stabbing his temples with daggers was the best reminder of all.

Details from the end of the night were fuzzy, at best. He wasn’t certain how he got home, but he had somehow managed to reach his bed. He was still wearing his shirt and pants from the wedding, his hair was a mess, but that was nothing compared to the fog that clogged his brain.

He made a stop by the kitchen first to drink some water, prepared some strong coffee. He splashed some cold water on his face to clear his head. Christ… he needed a shower. Maybe two.

He could recall a cab driver, some very loud music, jumping up and down with the beat, Sam and Daphne laughing, getting drunk on purpose…

… and then there was you lying in bed, fast asleep, him kissing your forehead in a chaste kiss, tucking you in, helping you through the mansion, finding you in the park, the fear of not knowing where you were, him singing that song to you even if the dance was meant for the married couple…

He could hear your voice ringing in his ears, echoing through his head, beating in his heart. Words that rang again and again. Words that he had dreamt of hearing.

He took a couple of deep breaths, and let the unkind voice in his head take over. You were drunk. You didn’t mean it. You said it yourself you didn’t want to be in a relationship, and especially not with him. You were scared, you didn’t want to take the risk, didn’t want to make the sacrifices that a long-distance relationship would require, not for him, at least, because he wasn’t worth it, he wasn’t enough and you didn’t love him, you were just drunk, you didn’t mean it…

He turned on his phone, checked the time. It was already 1pm.

Messages from his friends, from Sam and Daphne, one from his mom, a few from his label…

… and then 10 from you.

He swallowed thickly, but touched your name first anyway.

Hi! I hope you got home safely last night.

First, thank you for taking care of me. I was drunk… obviously

A true gentleman, as usual.

I’m so sorry you had to see that. I was hammered. I wasn’t myself and I said things I shouldn’t have.

Andrew had to stop reading. He took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling for a moment, bracing for the rejection that was sure to come… again.

Still, he read on.

I know that I’ve fucked up, and that you don’t want to see me anymore. Which is perfectly understandable, and I completely respect your decision. I had no intention to contact you again. It was completely out of line for me to confess my feelings.

Andrew read that last sentence several times, before rushing to the next text.

I’m sorry about what happened. I know you don’t want to see me anymore, and again, I completely understand. I was an idiot and I’ve fucked up everything. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, and I won’t ask for it. At this point, I just hope that what I said last night didn’t make things even worse.

I know that you’ve probably moved on by now, and I’m not expecting anything from you. I don’t even expect an answer to these texts, and I will simply not contact you again if you choose not to answer. I guess that alcohol simply made me reveal things I would rather not have confessed. I trust you not to tell anyone about this, even if you don’t want to talk to me ever again.

I reckon that I should make it clear, although I expect that you don’t feel the same anymore, that I meant what I said last night. And I wish I hadn’t been so stupid, and told you how I felt while I still could.

His eyes ran through your words again and again, but they remained unchanged, no matter how many times he read them. He let out a long exhale, unable to believe what he was reading was true.

You couldn’t be meaning that… you couldn’t…

I’ll see you this afternoon at our cute couple’s get-together for post-wedding day, before they enjoy their well-deserved honeymoon. Don’t worry though, I won’t initiate a conversation, and will completely understand if you don’t want to talk to me ever again. Also, I’ll stay sober this time, just in case I do something stupid.

If I never hear from you again, know that I wish you the best. You deserve all the happiness in the world.

Andrew struggled to breathe for a moment. He dropped his phone on the counter next to him, buried his face in his hands.

What the fuck was going on?

Andrew hadn’t texted you back. He didn’t want to have this conversation with you over a phone. There were too many things to be told, too many things to be discussed.

He was a ball of nerves by the time three o’clock arrived and he stepped in his friends’ house. Some help was needed to make sure that the rented mansion was in good shape, to take care of the rest of the food and drinks, and obviously, to have another party to celebrate the newlyweds.

And you were there. Standing in the kitchen, making tea, your demeanour perfectly calm, as if you hadn’t dropped a bomb that had shattered his life in a million possibilities the night before…

“Andy!”

You turned to him at the sound of his name, he noticed the way your lips parted, before you looked away in a hurry…

The next second, he was engulfed in Sam’s strong embrace.

“How are you, Mr. Married-man?” Andrew joked, returning the tight hug.

“Ecstatic. Not realising what’s going on…”

Andrew chuckled at that.

“Daphne’s gone with her mother to deal with something… don’t remember what… but somebody has to go to the venue to check that everything is fine before we leave for good. Can you do that?”

“Sure, I’ll go.”

“You want some tea first?”

“No, no… I’m fine. I’ll deal with that.”

“Y/N can go with you, you might need help. The caterer left some food there apparently, even if they were supposed to deal with that and pack it up. Also, check that no one has broken anything, we were all quite drunk last night.”

“Sure, I’ll do that.”

Andrew looked at you, but you didn’t move towards him. You remained standing there, in the kitchen, the kettle in your hand. You looked almost afraid, definitely uncomfortable.

“You’re coming, Y/N?” he asked, making sure his voice was neutral but still soft. He didn’t want you to believe that he was angry.

You jumped, surprised that he would talk to you. Still, you nodded in a hurry, putting the kettle down.

“Yeah… yeah…”

You offered him a smile, and he reciprocated the gesture. You seemed appeased by it.

You both hurried outside, greeting some other friends who were coming and going, set on different errands. It was merry despite the grey sky and the threat of some new rain.

“I’ll drive,” Andrew said as you reached his car.

“My car is right over there, I’ll follow you.”

“No need, I’ll drop you here after we’re done. Come on.”

You remained staring at him for a moment, clearly trying to gauge his actions.

“I’m not angry,” he said, reading your mind too easily. “You can come in.”

Slowly, you nodded, and opened the car door.

It was silent as Andrew started to drive. An awkward kind of silence that Andrew tried to alleviate by turning on the radio. Van Morrison filled up the empty spaces of the car, while you tried to discreetly look at him, failing miserably. He wanted to laugh at you for being so obvious about it.

It was a short drive to the venue, but he couldn’t find anything to say to you. His throat was dry, he could feel his palms getting clammy at the mere thought of speaking to you. There was too much that needed to be said…

“Andy…” you finally broke the heavy silence, while he was waiting at a red light. “About last night…”

“Can we… can we not do that now?”

When he looked at you, you were clenching your jaw and looking away in a hurry.

“I’m not angry,” he repeated, his voice soft but neutral still.

He didn’t want to let himself get emotional now. There was too much to say and too little time before reaching the venue. Besides, he didn’t want to speak about this in his car, this wasn’t either the right place nor the right time.

“But we should talk about all this after we’re done with the venue and everything… like… when we’re alone and we have time to discuss things.”

“So… you… you want to talk about it?”

“Yeah… I reckon we should.”

“We don’t have to. I understand that you hate me, that you don’t want to have anything to do with me ever again. You don’t have to be this kind to me.”

Andrew couldn’t refrain a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. Christ, you were so wrong… about everything…

“I could never hate you, Y/N. I don’t have that in me.”

“I hurt you. A lot.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“You should hate me.”

But he slowly shook his head, eyes still fixed on the road, and he hoped you wouldn’t notice the way he tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

“That’s not how love works, Y/N.”

You didn’t say anything, but he could feel your stare upon him. He didn’t know what he could add, so he let the rest of the drive pass in a silent haze, his mind swarming with thoughts and feelings and trying to figure out what he wanted, what he should do, what was reasonable…

More than anything else, he thought about how nice it was to smell your perfume in his car again.

Andrew had taken care of the caterer and the food while you were going around the bedrooms to make sure nothing was wrong. He was looking for you to give you a hand, the mansion was rather large, and the keys needed to be returned after everything had been cleaned and put in order, or fees might be added. Andrew had offered to pay for everything, but Sam and Daphne had refused, and seemed offended by the idea, so the best Andrew could do now was to make sure they wouldn’t pay anything extra. A few other friends and family members were also helping out, and everything was ready.

He found you in one of the bedrooms. You were checking the room quickly, but everything seemed to be in order, except for something that seemed to have been forgotten on top of an old wooden wardrobe. Andrew looked at you for a few seconds as you went on your tiptoes to try and grab whatever object was up there, but you were too small. An amused smile was drawn to his lips when you huffed in annoyance.

You turned around in a jolt when you heard the floor creaking under his weight. He said nothing, stopped only when he was close to you, so close he would only have to bend to kiss you… And then he reached up, and grabbed the forgotten object.

You both exploded with laughter as Andrew revealed a green bra.

“Somebody had fun here last night,” Andrew laughed.

“They definitely got lucky!”

He handed it to you, but you shook your head.

“I’m not taking this, I have no clue who it belongs to!”

“I can’t walk out of here holding a bra!”

“Why not? Is it better if it’s me?”

“Y/N… They’ll think I had sex with someone!”

“And if I walk out with this they’ll think I had sex with someone…”

He rolled his eyes.

“What do we do, then?”

“Can’t you hide it in your jacket?”

“Can’t you?”

It was your turn to roll your eyes, grabbing the piece of garment and stuffing it in the pocket of your vest.

“Alright, crisis averted for our famous diva.”

“A diva? Me?”

You both chuckled at that.

“No, not at all… I don’t know why I joked about that.”

“Because you’re mean.”

He was joking, but your face fell, and the next second you were taking a step back and clearing your throat. And the moment had passed.

“It was the last room. Everybody behaved, apparently.”

“Good… that’s grand… let’s go, then.”

But when he turned towards the door, you held onto his hand.

He lost himself in your eyes… in their shade that he saw at night still, despite the long weeks you had spent apart, and they looked begging now, soft and vulnerable.

“Can we… can we talk before you take me back to my car?”

Slowly, he nodded.

“We can go to my place.”

“Your place?”

“Or yours.”

“You’re sure?”

“We should be alone for this. Alone, and undisturbed.”

You nodded in agreement, letting go of his hand again. He hated the cold of the air that replaced your skin.

You walked out in silence, managed to discreetly get rid of the bra in a bin, stopped to chat with a few friends, but Andrew could hardly be patient anymore. He was careful not to be rude when he pulled you away from the conversation so you could walk back to his car. Still, when you looked at him before climbing in his car, you seemed to read right through him, through the mix of emotions in his hazel eyes, from the impatience to the fear.

“Let’s go to my place,” you said softly as Andrew turned on the engines.

He nodded in silence, struggling to regulate his breathing. There was so much hope and bitterness mingling in his heart now, being injected to his veins, preventing his lungs from functioning properly.

Why had you acted like you didn’t care if you loved him? Did you even love him? Really? Would you be ready to give him a chance? Had you dated anyone since that night?

The drive to your house was made in silence, both of you lost in your own thoughts. There was music playing on the radio, but Andrew couldn’t notice it. It started to rain at one point, heavy and cold droplets that made it harder to see the road.

Not a word as you both climbed out of his car and hurried to your door, fleeing the rain. It was cold as it dropped on his face, the contrast stark when you let him in your house that was so much warmer.

“Tea?” you merely asked, but didn’t wait for his answer to go prepare a kettle.

He remained frozen in your hallway. All of a sudden, that evening was playing over and over in his head. He looked at the doorknob, and thought about leaving. Just… running away. Never see you again. Then what?

He would spend the next months, or most probably years, trying to forget you, trying to move on. He would bury himself in work so he could numb the pain. Eventually, he’d find someone new, build a life for himself without you in it. He’d avoid you at gatherings with your common friends. He would sing the songs he had written about you, trying to forget that you were the muse behind every note played and every rime spoken. You would find someone else too, get married, build yourself a home and a family with another person joining you in bed every night. Not him. He would never kiss you again, never hold you again, never hear your laughter, never giggle at your snarky remarks, never make love to you ever again…

“Andy?”

He spun around, facing you.

The choice was his. He could still tell you that he never wanted to see you again. That you had hurt him too much and that he didn’t want the two of you to stay in touch.

Or he could walk into your kitchen and talk with you until he was certain about the nature of your feelings for him. And then he’d decide if you were worth putting his heart on the line again or not.

He could run away, or stay.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, voice gentle, head slightly tilted to the side.

He nodded, took a deep breath, and walked over to you.

“Yeah… just… lost in thought.”

You handed him a cup of tea. No sugar nor milk. Two teabags. He recognized the tag of his favourite brand.

“We should sit down,” you offered, voice hesitant, but he nodded, and you smiled as you took a seat in your living room, around your wooden table.

He sat across from you, silently measured the distance that separated you. You were resting your hands on the wooden surface, and he ached to reach out, hold your fingers tight.

You didn’t seem willing to start the conversation, and after a couple of minutes of both of you silently staring at your cups of tea, Andrew exhaled deeply through his nose, closed his eyes, and finally broke the heavy silence that had entered the room.

“So… last night… when you were drunk…”

“Hmm…”

“I reckon we should start from there.”

“Thank you again, for helping me.”

“There’s no need to thank me for that.”

“Sam said you were worried about me.”

He finally looked up at you, gaze getting caught in your stare, and he couldn’t look away after that. He struggled to swallow.

“Of course, I was worried. You were alone, no one knew where, and you didn’t have your phone with you.”

“But you hate me.”

“I’ve never said that.”

“After what happened, you should hate me.”

He heaved a sigh, shook his head, his shoulders bent under an invisible weight. The burden of loving you despite everything…

“I don’t hate you. I’m just… hurt.”

“It’s not exactly better.”

“No, I guess not… But it’s not aimed at you. It’s aimed at myself.”

You blinked a couple of times, a pained expression on your features.

“Yesterday… you said…”

You looked away, setting your gaze on your tea, on the steam that was rising from the porcelain, on the coloured liquid inside.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Because you didn’t mean it?”

“Because I know you didn’t want to hear me say that. Because you want me out of your life, and I understand why. Because I don’t want to hurt you again.”

Andrew clenched his jaw, struggled to keep his heartbeat regular.

“Did you mean it?”

You brushed a strand of your hair behind your ear, still avoiding his stare.

“Y/N, look at me. Please, look at me.”

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, but then you complied, looked up at him.

“After everything that has happened, I just need the truth. I just need answers. Can you do that for me?”

“Okay…”

“Just answer me.”

You nodded, waiting for him to speak.

“Did you mean it?”

You blinked tears away, but slowly nodded still.

“When you said…”

His voice broke, he had to clear it to gather words on his tongue once more.

“When you said that you loved me… did you mean it?”

But you nodded again.

“I did mean it. I shouldn’t have said it, though…”

You fell silent when Andrew buried his face in his hands. He was struggling to breathe, struggling not to cry…

“I’m sorry, Andy… I’m so sorry…”

“Why the fuck did you reject me then?” he interrupted you, looking at you once more, his hands falling loudly on the table. “Why did you keep on pushing me away? On making me feel fucking miserable? If you loved me, why would you hurt me like that?”

“I didn’t mean to… I just….”

Your lips trembled, but you went on anyway, voice calm and a little cold.

“My life was a mess… still kind of is, to be fair. I had a new job, and then… then you kissed me that night at the bar and… old feelings came back. Feelings I had been very good at burying and forgetting. And I just… I didn’t want us to remain just friends, but… I was fucking terrified, Andy. I still am, to be honest. And so, I convinced myself that I could… have you while protecting my heart, which was the worst idea ever thought since the beginning of mankind, clearly…”

You heaved a tired sigh, rubbed your forehead as you tightly closed your eyes.

Andrew was remaining perfectly still, utterly quiet. Waiting for you to continue.

“I just thought… I thought that if we didn’t act like a couple, if we didn’t date, I would be able to control how I feel for you. I thought that it could be casual. And you accepted, and I thought… I thought that it meant that you were just attracted to me, and it helped me ignore my own feelings to believe that you just wanted sex.”

“I didn’t want you just for sex. I never did,” he interrupted you, and you stared at him with pain twisting your features.

“I’m sorry, Andy…”

“You said that it didn’t mean anything to you. You said that you didn’t have feelings for me, that… that you felt nothing when we were intimate. You said it was just about fucking…”

“I didn’t say any of that...”

“That’s how you behaved, though.”

“I didn’t say it was just about fucking…”

“You didn’t deny it.”

“It wasn’t about fucking. I always had feelings for you.”

He clenched his jaw, heaved a sigh.

“Why did you pretend it didn’t mean a thing then?”

“Because I was scared. And I didn’t feel ready to have a relationship with you.”

“Because I have to go on tours?”

“Yeah… not just that but… mostly, yes. Because you won’t be here. Dating you means signing up for a long-distance relationship, and I don’t know how to deal with that kind of situation.”

Slowly, he nodded.

“I understand that,” he mumbled.

“You’ll never be around… you’re always off to somewhere else. Our lives are so different…”

“But this is my home. It’s always gonna be my home. I’ll always come back.”

“How do you handle not seeing your partner for months?”

He let out a bitter chuckle.

“Badly,” he truthfully answered, and the two of you shared a sad smile.

“I was afraid to open up to you, to be vulnerable, to let myself feel this way… for you to disappear and break up with me because you’d have found someone better on the other side of the globe…”

“Y/N… I understand why my career can seem like a giant obstacle, because it is one. It’s… so fucking hard to not be with the person you love for months, and I’m so goddamn busy when touring that I can’t promise you that I’ll be able to give you the quality time that you deserve. It’s a nightmare to get our schedules to match, to plan everything out, and that’s without counting all the things that are added along the way that weren’t planned at the beginning of touring… And then there’s the press, and the writing, and the recording, and… and I understand, okay? I understand that you would reject me because of that. But Y/N… if you’re just afraid that I might fall for someone else because we’re apart for a few weeks… that is literally the least probable scenario that could ever happen.”

“Why would it be?”

“Because I’m in love with you,” he answered simply, earnestly, like it was the most obvious truth on earth. “Because I’ve been in love with you for years. And no one has ever replaced you, even when I thought you felt nothing for me, even when we both were dating other people. Trust me, you’re the only woman I want on this planet. The only one I really want.”

He watched as you took his words in, your lower lip trembling, blinking tears away.

“You should have told me,” he went on. “Instead of inventing this fucking arrangement, you should have just told me.”

“I know. But I wasn’t ready to try and be with you…”

“I would have waited. I would have waited for you.”

“I’m sorry…”

“It was fucked up, Y/N… you… it just… it was so painful to me,” Andrew admitted, trying not to let his voice shake too much. “I felt… I felt like you were just using me. I’ve never felt so terrible about myself… cause I… I was just enough for you to fuck me, and nothing more…”

“No, that wasn’t that at all...”

“That’s how it made me feel. Not all the time, of course. There were so many times when I felt… loved. When I felt like you felt more for me than simple physical attraction; most of the time it was the case. And that… it kind of messed with my brain, made me feel like you wanted more; but every time we were getting closer to an actual relationship, you rejected me. And you kept on doing it, over and over, and sometimes it was so fucking painful. Almost mean. And more than unloved, it made me feel… unlovable. Undesirable. And I know that you deserve better than what I can give you with my career, but…”

“Don’t say that. God, Andy don’t say that…”

You heaved a sigh, and Andrew was taken aback when you suddenly stood up, walked around the table and held him close. He didn’t think as he wrapped his arms around you too, though.

“I love you,” you whispered as you held him close, and felt his entire body relax at your words, tears rising back to his eyes. “God, Andrew… I love you so much. I was just scared. It was just bad timing. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I acted like the worst piece of shit, but you are everything but unlovable, okay? How could you think that?”

“Say it again,” he whispered into your neck, noticing the way goosebumps erupted across your skin under his breath. “Say it again.”

“I love you. I love you, Andy…”

Before you could say anything else, he was standing up as well, catching your lips with his in the process.

He heard the shock in your breath, but then your hands were in his hair, and you were pulling him closer, until you were leaning back against the table. His hands on your face to make sure you would stay close. And Christ… the relief of kissing you again, of feeling your lips move perfectly against his at long last, of tasting you once more…

You held him so tightly when you pulled away, arms wrapping around his neck while you rested your forehead against his shoulder.

“Are you dating anyone?” he asked, voice hoarser than usual.

“No…”

“Have you? Since we’ve stopped seeing each other?”

But you shook your head.

“No, nothing. You?”

“No one.”

“Really?”

“You broke my heart… it does take more than a few weeks to get over that,” he chuckled, but you didn’t laugh, merely holding him closer, so close he could barely breathe.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was so scared. I tried fooling myself into thinking I didn’t love you, but I do. I love you…”

“I’ll wait for you,” Andrew whispered into your hair. “If you’re not ready but you’d be willing to give me a chance, I would still wait for you…”

“I don’t deserve you.”

He chuckled.

“I don’t know about that. But I know that I love you, despite everything that happened. And besides… it wasn’t all bad. Most of it was good.”

“When I didn’t act like an arse, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

“I loved it so much, you know? Whenever I let myself get closer to you… whenever I let myself love you… Christ, I was so happy then…”

“I was too. Whenever you let me in, I was happy with you. We could still be happy together, if you give us a chance.”

“I was breaking my own heart every time, you know? Every time, Andy… It was so fucking hard… but I was so scared…”

He pulled away, took your hands in his. He stared at you with begging eyes.

“If you want to try this, long-distance is going to be hard. It’ll be rough. Real rough.”

“I know.”

“I can’t… I can’t go through this again, Y/N.”

“Me neither. It was awful for me too.”

“So… if we try this… we give it a real try: I take you on a proper date, and we don’t hold back.”

“Are you sure you still want me?”

“Yeah… yeah, I still want you. Do you want me?”

You answered by kissing him, slow and passionate, making him melt against you, wrap his arms around your frame.

“I’m all in for the date,” you whispered against his lips. “But… can we still go to my bedroom now?”

“Before the first date? What about giving me a proper wine-and-dine treatment before taking me to bed, huh?” he playfully answered, grinning into your lips, his heart beating a thousand miles a minute.

“I’ll give you wining and dining and everything in between for our first date, but I really want you, right now…”

You fell silent when he let his lips fall to your neck and his hands rise to your breasts.

Little words were exchanged while you left a trail of clothes on the path to your bedroom, staggering now and then as your lips remained sealed to his most of the way.

Except when you were lying on your bed, head against your pillows, looking up at Andrew with adoring eyes as he hovered over you, staring at you like you had hung up the stars and moon in the sky. While he was trembling at the feeling of your naked skin against his, you raised your hands to hold his face, your thumbs gently brushing his cheeks, and his heart stumbled against his ribcage under your tender touch.

“I love you,” you whispered in the softest voice he had ever heard, adoration oozing from your sweet tone. “I love you, Andy.”

He rested his forehead against yours, lowering his body onto yours to feel as much of your skin against his as he could.

“I love you, Y/N,” he murmured with the same devotion and worship in his deep voice. “I love you so fucking much…”

And when he kissed you again, there was no doubt in either of your minds that this was what love was supposed to feel like.

#hozier #andrew hozier byrne #the hoziest #hozier x reader #hozier x you #hozier x y/n #hozier x fem!reader #hozier fanfiction #hozier series #hozier imagine #fanfic #writing #fanfiction #series

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animasolaoriginal · 9 days

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I n f a t u a t e d ♦️ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE◾TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE◾TEN ELEVEN TWELVE

He asked her to submit and she (more or less) agreed, completely unaware of what really awaits her. Now he just has to help her say goodbye to her old life, in the only way he knows...

ruthless nightclub owner ❌ innocent young woman with a crush

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Age gap. Size difference. Dubcon elements. Dom/sub dynamic. Praise kink. Free use/power play. Vaginal sex. Humiliation/Objectification if you squint. (For more tags, check it on AO3!) // WORDS: 6.5k

A/N: Welcome to SEASON TWO! Here's what happened...

P R E V I O U S L Y

Once there was a girl, 19 years young, cute and innocent, but mature enough to have one wish: to hook up with a man she'd seen only from afar. His confident and dominant aura had mesmerized her as she'd first laid eyes on him through the crowd on the dance floor of his club, how he'd lounged at the bar, eyes scanning the people dancing and drinking, and one day, their gazes had met.

But he had just watched, and it was her who approached him first. So you could say, whatever happened next might have been her fault. Her own naive little dream come true, though in her innocence she had not been prepared for what he had planned for her. What he saw in her. She'd wanted a hook-up, maybe something to dream about when the loneliness of her life came crashing down on her again, a fond memory, but it wasn't just a hook-up for him. It was more, so much more.

Because she was perfect.

The perfect submissive. Someone he could lead through life, take by the hand, take over the back of the couch, take to heights she had never even dreamed about. And oh how he showed her...

She woke up in his bedroom after he'd taken her away, coerced by a little drink, a little help, erasing that particularly memory of how she got there forever. It didn't matter. She was with him now. And she was meant to stay, even if she didn't know that yet. He was a goner as soon as she asked him to take her virginity. What an opportunity. Taking all her firsts. Served on a silver platter, just for him.

In her innocence, she expected him to be gentle and stick to his words, make her a real woman, because that was what happened when your virginity was taken, right? Oh how naive she'd been. Of course he took it, but before that he made her choke on his cock, taught her how to suck him off properly, made her more familiar with the very thing that would assault all her holes eventually.

And he didn't stop there. Butt plugs, dildos, vibrating eggs, he tested it all on her, and strangely enough, she let him. Was it submission, fear or curiosity? Who knows. There were moments where she did protest, showed a little bit of defiance, questioned him, but it only ended in him forcing his cock up her ass. A punishment she soon learned could also be a reward. It was all confusing to her, but she always came back to the same conclusion: she made this happen, she came to him, she asked him to pound the virgin right out of her, so to speak (not that she would ever use those exact words).

And he did, pounded, rammed, hammered, pistoned, slammed, stabbed, deep and hard and fast, until her head would shut down and a blissful emptiness took over. And it was that feeling that made her stay, not that she even tried to get away. Why would she? He was handsome, rich, experienced, the perfect match, right?

And despite all the vile things he did to her, she was yearning for the moments afterwards, the gentle touches, the strong grip of his arms, the pain-easing embraces. And the praises. The good girls and well dones, the proud smiles on his lips, the approving nods. She came to a point where she'd let him do anything just to be called a good girl. It was as disturbing as it was easy. It would excuse everything.

The fucking her in her sleep, the bullying of bruises he'd pummeled into her before, over and over again, in every position imaginable, at least for her, because he clearly had more ideas in mind, wherever and whenever he wanted, he would take her. He'd let her cockwarm him while he would work in his office, and she'd sit on her knees between his legs for hours, suckling on his cock, delving into the head-empty-state with pleasure. She'd be confused when he'd reward her with a deep anal pounding afterwards, but she'd take it nonetheless.

It was her purpose. She was his to use. A body with holes to fill. A toy to play with. A doll to move about as he saw fit. And she grew into her role, more with every passing hour. And those 48 hours, that single weekend, was packed with new experiences, new sensations, as he explored her durability, what she was capable of, how much she could endure. And she surprised him. She'd be sore, of course, but she wouldn't whine, not too much anyway, and he could just continue.

A perfect match.

And it led him to make a decision he would not regret: to keep her. To make her his completely. And so, on a dreary Monday morning, he took her back, to her old life, causing her to think he would really get rid of her after all, but then everything would change. He told her of his plan to keep her, told her that he'd terminated her apartment lease, resigned her from her badly-paying job. And he even asked her, despite doing all this behind her back, asked her to submit.

And in the end, she couldn't make that decision, she needed him to make it for her. She asked him to give her an order, and of course he did, and she did as he told her: she submitted, gave her life into his hands. Became his.

But that's not where the story ends. There is more on the horizon for the two strangers that met each other on a whim, whose lives entwined by chance. Who found each other compatible on multiple levels. When bodies and souls merge, stronger feelings arise. And a little infatuation can turn into something else. Maybe it's love, or maybe it's a deep, dark obsession...

TEN 🟥 ELEVEN 🟥 TWELVE

He is honestly very surprised how well she took it. No apartment. No job. Dependent on him and him alone. Her old life taken from her just like that. And she wants it. There's no denying the look in her eyes as she knelt in front of him, asking him to give her an order. So submissive, so innocent in her own needs. Almost a little too easy, but still perfect.

He leads her into her bedroom, frowning at the décor. A small bed covered in colorful quilts and blankets and pillows in every shape imaginable. There's even a stuffed animal on it. A tattered looking wolf. He raises his eyebrow at the sight, a smirk dancing on his lips. As if this was meant to be. The image of a little girl cuddling the wolf to her chest, seeking comfort in the presence of a predator, makes his stomach tense up. He knows he'll be that wolf for her, giving her comfort as well as the unpredictability of a monster led by its natural urges to dominate.

She moves timidly through her (former) own space, shoulders sagged a little as her eyes move over various surfaces. He leans against the door frame, watching her, before his gaze wanders over the fairy lights on the wall and the bright curtains and the random assortment of trinkets on a dresser ranging from snow globes to plastic figurines to other dust collecting clutter. There are pictures above her bed, polaroids, mostly of landscape or architecture, not many people.

Walking towards a small bookcase in the corner, she runs her fingers over the spines of old looking books, but in the end moves away again and opens the door to her closet. A tiny space, filled with colorful clothes. There she bends down and picks up a backpack before she starts stuffing it with randomly picked things. He's not sure if he'll let her wear her old clothing, but he's asked her to pack stuff she may need, and maybe those old rags give her comfort, remind her of something. He allows it, for now.

She flinches when he steps behind her, his hand moving through the sparsely filled space, running over the soft fabrics hanging from the rail. He picks up a pastel pink colored dress, with little white flowers adorning the skirt portion, a thin belt cinching it up in the waist, a high rounded neckline keeping it very modest.

“Wear this,” he tells her quietly, and she looks up at him, biting her lip, but ultimately nods.

She hesitates then, unsure if he wants her to strip right away, so he takes that decision from her by putting his hands on her shoulders, slowly guiding her towards the bed. He puts the dress over the back of a chair next to the small desk, his eyes curtly grazing over the cluttered space filled with notepads and pencils and a box filled with tiny beads. He couldn't even name all the hobbies she's assembled on the tiny surface. But it tells him she is in dire need of having the clutter in her life (that's also in her head) re-organized, stripped down to the bare minimum, taken completely.

“Bend over the foot of the bed,” he says nonchalantly. Her breathing gets a little harder as she approaches her small bed, slowly leaning over the wooden frame, the boards creaking when she puts her weight on them. She folds her body over until her chest is pressed into the soft covers, elbows digging into the colorful quilt, hands clutching at the fabric, head turned to watch him out of the corner of her eye, ass raised, legs shaking slightly.

He steps behind her, gently pushing up her skirt, hands gliding over her curves, making her skin pebble beneath his touch. His fingers hook into the waistband of her panties, slowly drag them down until they pool around her ankles where he leaves them, keeping her from spreading her legs too much. He presses a few kisses up the backs of her thighs, hands sliding up and down her legs before he straightens up fully again, one hand on her lower back, the other unbuckling his belt.

His cock is already hard when it springs free from its confines, and he grabs it, gives it a few hard pumps, watching the girl in front of him as she shivers, forcing herself to remain calm while she waits for him to use her. A quick swipe through her folds tells him she's ready, or at least getting ready. Coating himself with her wetness, smirking at the way her back twitches when he drags his cock along her slit, he doesn't wait any longer.

Pushing into her with small rolls of his hips, he digs his fingers into the fabric of her bunched-up skirt, holding her in place when she starts squirming against him. Inch by inch he sinks deeper, forcing through the resistance, ignoring her tiny wails, while his heart is beating harder in his chest, his stomach already tense, the sight of her in her childish bed making him feel like an even bigger monster.

A growl escapes him, and he pulls her hips against him as he sinks the rest of his cock into her tight warmth with a harsh snap of his pelvis. She whimpers, burying her face in the blankets, thighs twitching. His hands move up her curved back, fingers curling around her shoulders, gripping her, anchoring her as he starts drawing back slowly only to push in with a force that makes her squeal. He's going deep, slow and steady, repeating the same motion over and over again, precise thrusts of his hips against her cushioned rear.

She cries out every time he slams into her cervix, body arching, hands white-knuckling the sheets, her legs kicking helplessly. Her walls clench around him, either fighting the intruder or sucking him in deeper. The same struggle is in the girl before him as she bucks her hips back, straining her shoulders under his tight grip, squirming or moving along with him. He can't tell. He doesn't care either way. He only picks up the pace.

Her legs slam rhythmically into the wooden boards of the bed, strangled noises escaping her, every plunge accompanied by the soundscape of skin slapping against skin and that traitorous squelching of her wet cunt getting to terms with his intrusion. Her whines turn into moans while he keeps pounding into her harder and faster, in and out, back and forth, until his own breathing gets rougher.

He takes one hand from her shoulders and slips it beneath her, fingers brushing over her fluttering stomach until they find her throbbing clit. She squeaks when he touches it, arching her back, body contorting as more uncontrollable spasms crash through her. She comes with a wail, pussy clamping around him hard enough for him to fight the onslaught of sensations, the need to come as well, but he keeps rubbing her nub while holding his steady rhythm of hammering into her, letting her ride that high for as long as possible.

His grunts fill the small space, her mewls are muffled, hands clutching at the blankets, head thrashing. Leaving her clit to press his hand to her belly, he moves his other hand around her neck and grips her throat, making her cry out as he lifts her up and against him, holding her tightly as he continues to ram into her, his stomach tight, his balls ready to burst. Limp fingers try to grip at his wrist as he squeezes her, her noises turning into soundless, breathless gasps as she struggles in his hold.

He wraps his other arm around her middle, lifting her up a little more, his cock pistoning in and out rapidly. The slapping sounds add to the squeaking of the bed, a cacophony of noises that drive him mad with need. Growling into her ear, he moves his hand back down between her legs, rubbing hard at that sensitive bundle of nerves, making her writhe and twitch, pathetic little gasps falling from her parted lips.

“Come for me,” he grunts, head spinning, heart racing, the tension building up into an ache he can't get enough of. “Come on my cock!”

She's shuddering, head thrashing into his shoulder, eyes rolling back, mouth wide open as she succumbs to the sensations. He feels her cunt clamping down on him as her orgasmic contractions crash through her tiny frame once more. He eases the grip on her throat, wraps his arm around her chest instead. Her soft little whimpers, that constant string of high-pitched little “Ah!”s, cloud up his mind, drive him right over the edge.

He groans and grunts and growls before he gives her that final hard thrust, burying himself as deep as possible inside her tight warmth, while the tension explodes within him, balls pumping, stomach tensing, as he empties himself inside her, painting her walls with his hot seed. She's limp in his embrace, hard breaths mixed with small whines, arms and legs boneless. He savors her warmth, that wetness coating his skin, the little shudders making his cock twitch as her tight cunt keeps milking him for all he's worth.

Slowly he lets go of her, drapes her back over the foot of the bed, carefully pulls out of her before he watches his spend dripping from her clenching hole. Then he bends down and pulls up her panties, trapping his cum, feeling it gathering in the fabric, warm and wet as he cups her mound. After putting himself away again, not even caring about their combined juices seeping into his underwear, he flips her skirt back down, makes her stand, then turns her and leans her against the wall, his hands cupping her face as he takes her in.

“You look so beautiful when you're all fucked out and boneless, you know that?” he whispers with a dark smirk, leaning closer to brush his nose against hers. She looks at him out of hooded eyes, cheeks flushed, lips still parted and trembling, a little bit of drool gathering in the corner. “Head empty, hm?”

She nods into his hands, her lips twitching into a shy smile. He closes the distance and captures them for a soft kiss, holding her against him until he feels her small hands fisting at the back of his jacket. He picks her up easily, still glued to her mouth, tongue lazily sliding against hers, as he carries her to the side of the bed and sits down, arranging her on his lap with his arms wrapping around her tightly.

Leaning into him, she moves her mouth against his, slowly gaining in confidence, her fingers sliding up his back, gripping at his shoulders, teasing at his nape. Her warm crotch presses into his leg, and he is tempted to give her another load, but then refrains, inhaling deeply, turning his head slightly. Her lips slip along his jaw and down his neck before she rests her cheek on his shoulder, breathing hard.

“Thank you,” she whispers barely audible, and he rubs her side in response, pressing his lips to the top of her head.

They sit like that for another moment, and he has to admit, it's growing on him to just have her in his arms, holding her, feeling her small body move against him when she breathes deeply, her warmth is a comfort he didn't know he needed. But the beast inside him isn't entirely convinced yet. She may be pliant now, but he's seen the defiance in her eyes. He shouldn't go easy on her too soon.

Exhaling loudly, he grabs her shoulders, startling her out of her stupor when he puts her on her feet, her legs still trembling as she stares at him with wide eyes. He tilts his head towards the desk chair, waiting for her to follow the motion. Her head turns slowly, a tiny nod jerking her chin as she sees the sundress he wants her to wear.

“Strip,” he tells her, leaning back on the bed on one arm, the other hand resting heavy on his thigh as he watches her intently.

She licks her lips, swallows, her chest rising when she inhales deeply, then she moves her hands back and fidgets with the zipper of her skirt. Her eyes wander over his face, too timid to hold his gaze properly, her cheeks splotched in many different shades of red. Putting her hands on her waist, she shimmies the skirt down her hips, bends lower, back stiff and quite uncoordinated, trying to keep looking at him before she tilts her head and steps out of it a little clumsily, swaying dangerously.

His hand shoots out to steady her, and she flinches, looking at him before biting her lip. He can't help the amused twitch of his lips. She blushes even more, quickly straightening up again while he retrieves his hand. Taking a shuddering breath, she crosses her arms and grabs the lower hem of her shirt, slowly pulling it up and over her head before letting it fall to the skirt lying next to her feet.

Now she's standing in front of him in her soiled panties and her worn down sneakers, slim arms and legs, tiny tits, a narrow waist with the hint of a curve to her hips, not typically a tremendously sexy sight for him, but she's trying, he knows it, trying to impress him. He keeps watching her, not issuing any noise of either judgment or confirmation. She's hesitant when she turns to the dress on the chair, her chest moving, her small breasts shivering, nipples hardening the longer they're exposed to the stale air of the room.

As soon as her hand closes around the rose colored fabric, he stands up, startling her when he steps behind her, towering over her. Taking the dress from her, he nudges her to turn around, and when she looks up at him, chewing on her already swollen lips, he tilts his head. “Arms up,” he says quietly, and she does as she is told. He slips the dress over her head and flattens it along her body, then pulls her hair free before his hands rest on her shoulders.

Cute. Is one word that comes to mind. Beautiful another. He raises a hand and tucks a strand of silky hair behind her ear, watching the blush spreading down her neck to her exposed arms. The sleeves fray out a little over her deltoid, accentuating her slim shoulders. He runs his hand down along her arm, hooking it around her elbow, pulling her closer to him.

Her big eyes look up at him, and he watches her, fighting the urges crawling back to the surface (and the blood back into his cock). Exhaling loudly, his breath making loose hairs around her face fly, he clenches his jaw and lets go of her, steps back. “Alright, finish packing. I'll wait out there,” he says and turns around, leaving the tiny space that is her childish little bedroom. Before he leaves, his eyes fall onto the wolf plushie.

Shaking his head with a dark smirk, he keeps walking and settles on the couch in her living room slash kitchen, listening to her rummaging through her drawers and dressers while scrolling through his emails on his phone.

Her shuffling footsteps make him look up. She's holding the straps of the backpack that seems to burst at the seams with how full she's packed it. Her eyes are lowered, a nervous twitch to her lips before she starts chewing on the bottom one. “I'm done,” she whispers.

He stands up and walks towards her, grabbing the backpack from her small hand before flinging it over his shoulder. “And this is all?”

“It's all that fit,” she admits, still biting her lip. He moves his free hand to her face, rubbing his thumb over her lip and pulling it from between her teeth with a firm press. She looks up at him, her eyes a little watery.

“Don't worry, sweetheart. My people will grab the rest. I won't dispose of anything,” he tells her quietly. “Well, except for that couch, which is just awful.” The comment makes her lips quirk up, and he smiles at her in return.

“Thank you,” she whispers, genuine gratitude swimming in her big eyes. He caresses her cheek, holding her face, before leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

It's almost too easy how this all worked out. She is so submissive, eager to please, eager to follow him wherever he drags her. He just ripped her from her old life, abducted, used, forced into her new reality, and she still thanks him for it. What a beautiful little creature. Simply perfect.

He shifts the strap of the backpack on his shoulder and grabs her face with both hands, bending over her as he tilts her chin up. For a moment he just looks at her, takes her in, every inch of her soft face, noticing the twinkle in her eyes, the blush on her cheeks, the warmth under his palms, the slight tremble to her lips.

Inhaling deeply, he closes his eyes and leans his forehead against hers. “I wish I could pay this place the proper respect by bending you over every surface there is, oh trust me, I'd imagined it while I was waiting, throwing you on that awful couch, splaying you out on the counter, I'd even take you on that horrendous rug down there, but I'm afraid we don't have time...” he closes with a sigh.

She shivers, her breath hitching, and when he looks at her, leaning back a little, her face is fully flushed and her lips parted. He smirks at her.

“Did you think about it too?” he whispers, his breath fanning over her face. “Never had a boy over, right?” She nods into his hands, averting her eyes. “So all these surfaces have never been used like that?” He sighs again. “So tempting,” he whispers, licking his lips.

He lowers his hands and lets them rest on her shoulders as he straightens up and looks around the small space, his mind reeling with images of them doing it wherever his eyes land. Sure, there's not a lot of options, the place is tiny and so are the surfaces, but he would have made it work. He'd even fuck her in that minuscule shower. There's a certain thrill to shoving his big body into tiny spaces, his cock certainly can relate – and it twitches dangerously as he remembers the tight grip of her beautifully small cunt.

Taking a deep breath, he shakes his head trying to rid himself of those tempting fantasies. They'll have time to fuck elsewhere later. Maybe he shouldn't prolong the moment of letting her say goodbye to her own little space too much. He looks back down at her, catching her watching him intently. It's rare to see her so curious, so eager in her own little wishes, and the way she looks at him, he can tell she's having the same thoughts he had.

A smirk plays around the corner of his lips, and he notices a deeper blush forcing itself onto her cheeks. “We should go,” he says then, tilting his head. “Are you ready?”

Her eyes move down, all eagerness and curiosity gone, as she nods timidly. His hand is back on her chin, pushing it up gently. “Last chance to tell me to fuck off,” he teases with a grin, challenging her. She looks up with a bit of shock in her big eyes.

“I... I would never do that,” she murmurs softly, blinking before looking away again. “I... I want this,” she then adds, and he watches her inhale deeply, squaring her shoulders. “I... I want to be... with you...” Her voice is that soft hum in the stale air around them, and it softens his heart – but thickens his cock.

He caresses her bottom lip, gently slipping his thumb into her mouth when she looks up at him. “My good girl,” he whispers fondly as he watches her close her lips around his digit, giving the slightest of sucks. Her eyes seem to glaze over, pupils dilating, and he just knows her mind is emptying as she focuses on him.

She needs this, needs him, and it's the best fucking feeling, he couldn't have asked for anything more (not that he would have actually asked because he doesn't ask for anything, but you get the picture). Her obedience, submission, her trust, it all gathers in his stomach, a pleasant heat that he can't get enough of.

God, he wants to fuck that cute little face so bad! He pulls his hand back with a groan, fighting the urges that make his fingers twitch before he curls them around her slim shoulder. His grip is tighter than intended, and she flinches slightly, a small gasp falling over her parted lips. “The power you have over me,” he says under his breath, clenching his jaw.

His eyes meet hers, and she seems confused, and she should be. Never before had a woman been able to get this deep under his skin. All his life, he had been the dominant one, using women for what they are: holes to fill, bodies to satisfy his urges with. Nothing more. He's kept the occasional submissive, or rather, slave, plaything, toy, but he had been growing bored with them so fast, it had been a little concerning.

But this girl, despite only knowing and having her for a weekend and a few hours, this tiny innocent girl seems to hit all the spots that make him absolutely crazy about her. He's never been this sure about anything in his life, and he's taken numerous risks before. He wouldn't be who he is now if there weren't risks involved, both in life and in business, and even though it seems to be a major risk to bind her to himself after only this short amount of time, he feels more than confident about it.

Because she is perfect. And she wants this.

Having her around 24/7 will be a new adventure, and he's looking forward to it. Oh he's already imagining it. Her little frame, preferably naked, possibly kneeling somewhere, waiting for him, ready to be used, and he only has to approach her to get her to service him... whenever he wants. The thought makes his cock strain against the confines of his pants.

To rid himself of the temptations, he steps back, grabs her hand and turns around, pulling her after him. He feels her stumbling slightly, surprised by the sudden movement, but she follows nonetheless. When they reach the door, he catches her looking back towards her old bedroom, it's only a few seconds, before she looks back at him, and he squeezes her hand and gives her a small smile that makes her blush instantly.

He meets one of his men in the hallway outside her apartment, and while she stares at the other man in slight shock, he only exchanges a nod with him and watches how the broad guy enters the tiny space. As they descend the many stairs, more of his people enter the apartment building, ready to rid it of any evidence of the girl he's dragging after him.

She seems a little hesitant, and he can't blame her, having strange men rummage through the stuff she used to call her own is not easy. But she shouldn't worry, he's planned this out better than he's planning most of his business deals. She'll be in for a surprise.

They reach his car, and there are two moving trucks parked on the small street. Her grip on his hand is tight as her eyes follow the line of workers vanishing into the building. He pulls her to the trunk, opens it with his free hand and puts her backpack into it. A strange sight, a battered old backpack, stuffed to the brim, in the spotless little space in the back of his car. But it isn't the most unusual sight it has seen.

For a moment he remembers stuffing other things, girls like her, into it, blindfolded, gagged, tied up to fit, scared out of their little minds, and he's glad it had been a different story with her. She came to him. She wanted this. And it's only fair to give her the best treatment he can think of, the best in his mind anyway. No matter the grip she has on him, this is still all about his pleasure, and luckily she knows it by now.

When he closes the lid of the trunk with a thud, she flinches, then meets his eyes. He cups her face with one hand, caressing her lips with his thumb, his eyes roaming over her soft features. She melts under his touch, a shy smile grazing her mouth, eyes warm and pliant, pupils dilating despite the bright light around them. He gives her a wink and watches the blush creep up her cheeks.

After he put her into the passenger seat and buckled her in (which she doesn't seem to get used to, as she watched him with wide eyes and trembling lips while he leaned over her), he slips behind the wheel, puts on his own seat belt and starts the engine with a roar that echoes through the quiet street.

She settles into the seat, small hands clasped together on her lap, that pastel pink dress he chose a stark contrast to the dark interior of his car. Once he pulls into the rows of traffic, his hand finds her thigh, and she stiffens before she relaxes as his long fingers curl around her soft leg, slipping between them, feeling her warmth. Imagining the stain his cum had left on the fabric of her panties.

He keeps having these images flicker through his mind, and the longer he drives through the crowded city, the harder he gets from just thinking about whatever he could do to his new plaything, the willing girl next to him. The possibilities are endless. As they stop in front of a red light, he slips his hand deeper between her thighs, fingers pushing firmly against her sex, and she squirms, but ultimately opens her legs a little, allowing him to tease the damp fabric of her underwear.

Pressing down hard, he quickly finds her clit, and she gasps, her legs twitch and threaten to clamp down around his hand, but he feels the effort she's putting into keeping them open. He looks at her, that little thing on his passenger seat, so small, flushed and aroused, red splotches dancing on her cheeks while her eyes are hooded as she worries her lip between her teeth. He keeps circling that sensitive bud that throbs under his touch, until he has to take his hand away to shift gears as the traffic light changes to green.

Her sigh mirrors his. He chuckles softly, while she looks away, her face even redder now. They keep driving in silence until he pulls into a parking garage below one of the stores he wanted to take her to. It's very quiet when he cuts the engine and turns to her. She is still chewing on her lip, and he reaches out to stop her as he notices how swollen they already are.

She looks at him, and her mouth opens slightly, an instinct as his thumb moves closer, but he pulls it away before she can suck on it again. So predictable, his little kitten. He smirks at her, admiring the small pout that crosses her features. Forcing himself to look away, he gets out of the car and walks around the hood to her side, opens the door and leans over her to unbuckle her seat belt. She hasn't even tried to do it herself, she's learning already.

When his face is in line with hers, he grabs her chin and presses his lips to hers for a quick kiss, holding her gaze. “You'll be a good girl for me, right?” he whispers, hovering close to her, waiting for her to react. She nods. “You'll do whatever I tell you?”

“Yes, sir,” she breathes against his lips, and he gives her another kiss in response. Leaning back with a smile, he then extends his hand. She grabs it instantly and lets him pull her out of the car. She's so tiny against him, it melts his heart, which in turn sends a strange heat lower down his body.

Squeezing her hand, he pulls her away with another sigh of frustration. As much as he wants to press her against his car and fuck her raw in this very parking garage, he knows he shouldn't and he won't. This fucking restraint. Instead he drags her towards the elevator and punches the button a little too hard while simultaneously trying not to break the girl's hand with how tight he's holding it.

She doesn't protest, though, just follows him, her old sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. He fights another image of railing her in the elevator, right under the surveillance camera, their reflections all around them, her face contorted in pleasure as he bounces her up and down on his thick cock while the small cubicle pushes its way up the building. A stifled groan slips from his throat as he closes his eyes to force the thought away, and it's the little squeeze of her hand that grounds him again. Inhaling deeply, he opens his eyes and looks down at her.

Seeing her soft expression, full of equal parts curiosity and anxiety, he just shoots her a strained smile and pulls her against his side, savoring her warmth, the little flutter of her breath as she leans into him. They stand in comfortable silence until the doors slide open with a ding, and he grabs her hand again and pulls her along gently, keeping her next to him until they reach an unassuming door.

He never walks into shops through the front door if he can help it, it's become a good habit, a necessary need sometimes. Rapping his knuckles gently against the slick surface, he waits, and only a few moments later, the door opens, and they are greeted by a smiling older woman with big hair and too much perfume. He nods at her and she bows her head as she welcomes them into the backroom of her store.

The girl pushes against him instinctively, timid and confused, searching his body heat, the safety of his hold, and he grants it to her, putting one arm around her slim shoulders as he guides her through the narrow hallways until they enter a carpeted room lined with mirrors and a shelf full of tailor equipment.

“What an adorable little thing,” the woman drawls in obviously fake enthusiasm as she closes the door behind them, shutting out the muffled chatter from the front of the shop where other clients rummage through the various clothing racks. “So how did you like the clothes I sent you? Was everything alright with them?”

He looks down at the girl who meets his gaze, a little frown between her brows. “They were perfect, but I'd like you to measure her properly. You got the list I made?”

“Of course, sir,” the seamstress replies in her borderline annoying sing-sang voice. If it wouldn't be for her discretion and their long history together, he couldn't stand spending another minute with her. “I'm glad you brought her, it's always easier to find the right things if I can get my hands on the object wearing them.”

Object. While he chuckles at the word, he sees the girl in his arm frowning deeply. But that's what she is, that's what they all were. Objects, toys, dolls he could dress and undress and do whatever he wanted to. He leads her to the little platform in the middle of the room, and she hesitates as she steps on it, her eyes widening slightly.

“Take off your dress, baby,” he tells her, cocking his head to the side. While she stares at him, his insides tense. The first real test. Will she obey without fussing? It's important to him to know that she will do what he tells her, especially in front of strangers. His hands slip along her arms, palms pressing into her skin, a demanding grip, as he stares down at her, eyes narrowed, and she takes a shuddering breath and nods, slowly reaching for the hem of the dress. He relaxes and lets go of her. “Good girl.”

He watches her as she slowly pulls the dress over her head, hands shaking, body stiff, breathing heavily, but she's focusing on him, trying to ignore the woman waiting behind them. He takes the dress from her and hands it back to the seamstress without looking at her, his eyes focused only on the naked torso in front of him. She's trying to cover herself, her arms squishing her small breasts together as her hands rest in front of her soiled panties, her thighs clamped together tightly, and there's panic in her eyes.

He's almost forgotten about his cum in her underwear, and a sigh escapes him. It doesn't matter to him, and certainly not to the woman waiting to do her job, but he feels the girl's discomfort, wants to tell her that he dragged girls in here in far worse conditions, but ultimately he just steps closer and grabs her hands, holds her wrists, looks at her intently. “It's okay, keep them on,” he says quietly. “No need to be ashamed.”

She swallows visibly and nods, biting her lip. He tilts his head, gaze fixed on her mouth, and she stops the nervous motion, moves her tongue between her lips before pressing them into a thin line. He lets go of her and nods in return, ignoring the curious gaze from the other woman as she steps around them, a flexible measuring tape in her hands. She must think he's lost it now, with how soft and gentle he treats the girl in front of him.

He's never been like this, so considerate, comforting, patient. He usually brought his toys here to be left with the tailor, not caring about their discomfort. They usually barely noticed where they were anyway, he'd make sure of it, so bringing her here, as pure as she is, so willing and eager, mind open enough to follow his commands without having been coerced (by drugs at least), it's a first for all parties involved.

Stepping away, he holds her gaze until he leans against the wall, crossing his arms in front of his chest, watching her as she comes to terms with her surroundings, or the woman starting to take her measurements. She's thorough and rough, grabs the girl's arms and lifts them as if she were indeed just a doll – that is until she flinches away and winces when the woman forces her legs apart, and he sees the restraint in the seamstress' motions, she's about to slap the poor girl for disobedience, but instead she turns to him.

“Tell her to stay still.”

He shoots the woman a dark glance, and she bows her head, but holds his gaze, determined to continue her job, no matter whose money is paying her to do so.

With a sigh, he looks at the girl behind her who freezes when she meets his eyes. He doesn't have to say anything, she issues a tiny nod and lowers her head, standing stock-still on the podium, letting the woman grab her limbs to measure them. Her face, however, is bright red, and she even clenches her hands into fists, fighting the urge to flinch time and time again, especially when the tailor slips the measuring tape around her thighs, dangerously close to where he can see the little wet stain in her panties.

He watches her, thinking back to the list he made. He isn't just ordering underwear for her, also dresses, cute and more elegant ones, but most importantly things the store doesn't sell in their front window display. Closing his eyes for a moment, he can already imagine her in the lacy sets, her small body covered in the intricate straps of the garter belts holding those soft stockings that will hug her legs, and that he can't wait to peel off her.

And then there are the harnesses, the cuffs, the belts, all kinds of restraints he wants to put on her to rid her of her last ounce of self-control. He wants her to lose it all, lose herself for him, give herself up to him and him alone. She'll love it, he's sure, eventually.

A sudden slapping sound breaks him from his daydreams of tying her to the bed, and his eyes fly open. The girl lets out a whimper, slouching her shoulders, while the woman stands in front of her with the measuring tape wrapped around her small bust, the rigid tape pressing hard into her nipples. There's a barely there red spot on the girl's cheek. He pushes off the wall and walks closer.

“Everything okay?” he asks, his voice low and with a dangerous edge to it. The seamstress stiffens.

“She kept moving about,” she explains, quickly finishing the measurement of the girl's chest to step away from him. “How am I supposed to get her exact measurements if she fights this so much?”

“She's not yours to slap,” he says darkly, his eyes moving along the naked body in front of him. The girl's chest rises and falls quicker, her head bowed, but her hands relax slightly.

“Yes, sir,” the woman replies quietly as she returns to wrap the tape around the girl's slim waist from behind her, her motions much more careful now. “I apologize...”

He hums in response, extending a hand to touch the blemished cheek. She meets his gaze, eyes big and full of concern, but they soften when he caresses her softly. “Keep still,” he reminds her quietly, and she nods into his hand. Pressing his thumb to her lips, she parts them, but he only smirks at her and gives her a wink as he pulls his hand away again, his cock stirring at the sight of her little pout.

Returning to lean against the wall, he keeps watching the scene, slowly slipping back into his fantasies, smiling to himself as he thinks about the girl clad in white lace, or black, or that soft pink that will fit her as well, and how he will then remove that fancy lingerie he's paying way too much for. He could strip her gently, let her wear a certain set again, or he could rip it off, cut it off, tear it away until she's bare in front of him. That'll depend on his mood.

TEN 🟥 ELEVEN 🟥 TWELVE

End notes: Welcome back to SEASON TWO of INFATUATED!

I wrote the following ten chapters down in about a week (like I did the first ten, actually), it'll get quite intense, but there will be more backstory as well, as hinted in this chapter already. Things will thicken, the plot included. I hope you are ready!

Thank you for coming back to read this depraved piece of fiction.

Next chapter on Sunday!

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the-kr8tor · 7 months

Text

Stem the Tide

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 5.7k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mentions, TW blood, CW injury, TW death, CW vomit mention.

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CHAPTER 8 >>> CHAPTER 9

There's water in your lungs.

Hobie's injuries scream at him to stop swimming, but he doesn't, not until he swims you to safety. He has you placed on a piece of the revenge, a shattered part of it, all splintered wood and sharp edges that dig into his skin.

The storm has subsided, the sea monsters went back into the water, the thought should ease him but he'd rather have the beasts within eyesight if possible. The sky is still dark and blue, the sun is just about waking up to the carnage floating on the depths.

His other half is paddling away from the trenches where the creatures could lie in wait. Eyes gradually searching for his crew but his main priority is you. You who haven't opened your eyes, you who haven't breathed nor moved. He worries, grief calling for him once again.

The fear of losing you is the only thing keeping him moving.

His arms ache as he tries to restart your heart. Pounding and pushing into your chest, doing his best not to crack any of your ribs. Chapped lips breathing life into you, inflating your lungs, chest heaving up but you don't expel the water. He ignores the freezing water; it's almost as cold as your skin, still it burns him with every touch he gives you.

You haven't breathed on your own for a long while.

He curses himself, wishes that he got to you faster but with all the jaws coming towards him he had to dodge in the water and with all the strong currents he let you drown. Fuck, why wasn't I fast enough? He thinks, guilt chewing him.

“C’mon, Scuttlebutt. Fuckin' breathe.”

Hobie sees land ahead so he paddles faster.

He sucks in air, then blows into your icy mouth. Pumping and pushing, his muscles are threatening to give out.

“Not you,” tears brimming in his eyes, the sun peeks in the horizon, illuminating your lifeless face. “Please, not you too.”

A large wave almost sweeps the two of you off the raft, he protects you with his own battered body. The wave helped, the makeshift raft beaching on the sandy shores of the unknown island.

He pounds his palms continuously on your chest. Thump, thump, thump. The sound echoes in his ears like death knells.

Nothing.

Your lips are turning an unnatural shade. He doesn't focus on it, instead Hobie leans in, breathing into you once again, moving his head down, he listens intently for a sign of your heart beating.

He can't even hear a faint beating.

“Fuck!” He continues the cycle, palms compressing on your chest, mouth giving you air straight from within him. “Open your goddamn eyes!”

Hobie yells your name, full of anguish and denial. He won't give up because if it was you in his shoes, you wouldn't have.

His sobs wracked his body, yet he does it again and again and again. He can't even look at your face anymore because if he fails, he doesn't want to remember your lifeless face, instead he'd want to remember you smiling, smiling at his crew, smiling at whatever joke Pav said, smiling at him.

He'll do anything to see it again. The crew can't lose you.

He can't lose you,

“No!” In his desperation, he hammers his fist harshly on your chest.

Nothing.

He does it again. Thrashing and drumming.

Nothing.

Hobie closes his eyes, leaning down to breathe life into you one last time. He's tired, too tired to continue. Lips lingering on yours, he holds onto you tight, refusing to let go.

You wake up to lips pressing on yours and salty water rising quickly from your lungs.

Gasping and coughing, you feel calloused fingers push your body to the side as you vomit out all the water. Eyes stinging, hands digging into the sand.

You hear relieved laughter behind you, hand gripping to your shoulder, the other rubbing gently on your back.

Spitting the last salty water out of your body, you fall back on the wooden raft, eyes adjusting to the sunlight. Hobie greets you with a tired smile, fatigued yet he still finds it in himself to grin from ear to ear.

The sun blankets behind him, bathing him in its light, piercings shining, and like fate's practical joke, there's a halo behind his head.

“Please don't tell me we both died and now we both ended up in the same place.” You joke with a hoarse voice. Tongue still tasting salt. “I can barely handle you while alive and now I have to be with you even in death?”

He laughs, the sound louder than the waves on the shore. “That's the first thing you say after almost dying? Miles is right, you use humour as a crutch.” with a shaking hand, he cups your cheek, laying his forehead against your own, resisting the urge to lay his head above your chest to listen to your heartbeat, just to make sure he isn't hallucinating.

You exhale against his face, breath fanning his eyelashes, it's enough proof that death has decided to give him reprieve.

“We're not dead?” You close your eyes, savoring his presence. Hands clasped around his wrist, feeling for his pulse.

He's not dead.

“No,” he leans away, relief under his sigh. “We're alive.”

You chuckle, ghosting your thumb across the gashes on his cheek. “You did good.”

Hobie shakes his head with a smile, rolling on his back, he falls on the sand softly, arms spread out. The once white sand turns into a shade of pink under him, reminding you of his injuries.

“I did good.” Eyes closed, hand reaching towards your side, he grasps your blouse in his palm like you'd fade away if he lets go of you for even a second. The cloth is warm on his skin, realizing that you're injured.

Your cough and groan was enough to ignite his adrenaline once again.

With a hand, you stop him from moving frantically. You inhale a sharp breath, “We need a fire going.” Sitting up on your own, shivering from the cold. He observes with his hands hovering over you.

“Alright, just stay here, I'll light it.”

“No, let me help.” Your wheezing says otherwise.

Hobie grasps your chin, lifting it to face him. Your skin is on fire, he smiles at life coming back to your body. “You drowned,” he doesn't want to say the other word or it might come true. “I think that trumps over a couple of stab wounds.”

“A couple?!” You blink in surprise. “Hobie—”

“Just a few slashes. Stay here, don't cause trouble, trouble. Captain's orders.”

“You're so fucking annoying.” You flop down on the raft, gripping your weeping wound, teeth chattering.

“You could say ‘thank you’ for once.” he teases in an attempt to bring back normalcy. Staring at your sand crusted hair, seafoam draped around you, he's glad he didn't give up in saving you just for him to get a glimpse of this view.

You stare at him through wet lashes, a small pout on your warming lips. “I'm losing blood, captain.”

The simple sentence gets him to clamp up, face suddenly serious.

“Bring me a coconut!” You yell, pout replaced with a small smile. You hide your wincing with a bite of your lip, drawing blood. Looking at him upside down, he has his hands on his hips, shaking his head.

“You're insufferable.” He quotes you before immediately jogging over towards the tropical forest behind you.

“And I, you.” You whisper into nothingness, touching your lips with the pads of your fingers.

—

The fire cackles next to you, the flames dance in your vision just like the fire that devoured the revenge. Smoke fills your lungs again, you cover your nose with your arm, eyes closed, trying to forget what happened. What you did.

Hobie holds a circular pendant tied to a stick, the metal glows red hot, the engraving of a wave twirls as he moves it closer to you.

You clutch the back of your head, it still stings when you press down, at least you're not freezing and wet anymore thanks to the fire next to you.

“How do I do this?” He asks, eyes flicking to your pained face.

“Just place the metal on top of my wound for a few seconds then take it off immediately. I don't want a piece of metal in me.” Your voice is muffled by your arm.

“Show me.”

Lifting up your blouse, you hiss, fabric sticking to the angry wound, revealing where the bullet pierced you. “He nicked me so there's no bullet to take out.”

“Less work for us then. Ready?”

“Yes, just use the plain side. I don't want it to leave a mark.”

“Bad news, scuttlebutt. It'll leave a mark.”

“Not what I meant. The wave, I don't want it to leave a shape.”

“I know.” Without warning, he places the bare side of the pendant on your wound. Skin sizzling, you bite into your arm, yells tamped down. Other hand gripping into his elbow. It's an unimaginable pain, you can't believe Hobie survived through two of these.

He flings it away, careful not to add to your pain. “You alright?”

You heave, a tear escaping from your eye. “I guess I deserved that.” Looking at him through half lidded eyes, he gives you a weak smile.

“You would've flinched.”

“You're right, I would've flinched. At least I'm honest about it.” You let the air kiss your searing skin. Letting your head fall on the tree trunk behind you, He watches you like you're already dead. “It was a joke, Hobie—”

“What happened to you? Below deck?” He shakes his head, glaring at your neck. You instinctively hide it under your hand, it's still tender to the touch.

“Had a run in with a very bad man. I got him though…” you nudge him with your foot. “I'm—” you can't find the right words. “I'm sorry about the ship, I had to defend myself, I didn't know the fire would—”

“The ship was already gone the moment Mathias found us.” Those grey eyes look at you intensely, remnants of the storm still leave traces behind them. “Don't apologize, you got him, that's all that matters.”

“I burned him alive, Hobie.” You blurt it out, confessing your sins. “I shot a man. I–I don't…It matters that I did that.”

He sits closer, leaving the searing metal next to him on the fire. Holding your knee, he tentatively touches your hand before he reaches for it fully. Skin meeting skin, hand holding yours, the same grey eyes soften for you.

“Let it matter then. But don't let it in, don't let them try to kill you a second time. Bury their bodies if you have to but don't mourn them.”

“Can we do that? Bury them? Not metaphorically, even without the bodies.”

“Yes, if you want to. I'll help you dig.”

You nod, gliding your thumb along the ridges of his hand. After a beat, you swallow a lump in your dry throat. “I can still hear his screams.” avoiding his eyes, you look down at the grains of sand, your tears leave patches of darker soil in its wake.

Hobie squeezes your hand. “I'll quiet it down for you.”

“How?” you look at him, eyes questioning, eyes weeping.

“I'll talk over it, make you listen to something else other than the screaming.”

You give him a tight lipped smile, forced, tears threatening to fall. You can't ignore their faces anymore. “Finn, Ned and—”

“We'll bury them too, and we'll mourn them. They deserve that much.”

“They deserve more, Hobie. Much more.” he pulls you in, seeking comfort from each other. Arms enveloping you. You let him take you in, his scent replacing the smoke clinging to your lungs.

“They do,” Mindful of each other's injuries, you lay your head on his uninjured shoulder, face buried on the crook of his neck. He does the same, nose kissing your skin. “they deserve better.”

He finds that his arms are molded to fit you.

“The others? Do you know they're alright?”

“I saw them escape, that's all I know.” You lean away, looking at him with worry. “We'll find them, but knowing Gwen they'll find us first, yeah?” he cups your jaw. “We'll get out of here, I promise.”

“I'll hold you to that.” You nod, leaving his warmth, back landing on the wood, letting yourself fall back to your old ways.

Hobie still has his hands shaped to fit you. “We have to survive first.” He taps your shoe. “Do mine next.” He lifts up his shirt, showing you all the angry gashes like a prized trophy. “Then our scars will truly match.”

—

Shoes discarded on the sand, you wade through the seafoam with Hobie. The sun glares, puffy clouds shielding you from the heat. A breeze passes by, seagulls squawk above.

“We could eat those.” He pipes up, kicking something under the sand.

“The sand?”

“The birds, thought you were supposed to be the smart one.” Leaning down, he grabs something red buried in the sand. “Help me with this.”

You stretch your shoulders, careful of your own injuries. Copying his stance, you both pull. “How do we even catch one?”

“Pistol, a spear or a trap.” He does all the work of pulling while you're still aching. His injuries still hurt but he'd rather do all the work than let you strain yourself. “Trust me, after eating fish for three days straight, you'd beg for something else to eat.”

“You think we'll be stuck here for three days?” you tug in sync, pulling it with all your strength.

“Maybe more—” he scoffs, finally hauling the fabric out. “It's our sail. Bloody hilarious.” the crimson lay half buried in the sand, tattered.

Ned would hate seeing it like this.

You trace the stitching around the edges, remembering how his expert hands once weaved around it.

“Oi” he brushes his knuckles on your hand to get your attention. You feel his broken skin briefly. “We could use this as our roof.”

“Mm-hmm, you do that and I'll continue searching around the shore. Maybe my satchel got washed up too” you let go of the cloth, already walking away.

“Nah, I'll come with.” He bunches up the sail in his arms, drowning his entire body in red.

Crimson like the eyes of the beast.

You shake your head, giving him a faint smile. “We can't stay together the entire time we're here. We'd drive each other crazy.”

Hobie catches up to you, wide strides and long legs sauntering over to your side. “Good thing I'm already bonkers.” he passes by you, looking over his shoulders to see your wide eyes looking at him. “Hurry up before the sun sets.”

You shake your head, jogging to walk by his side. “I bet in three days we'd start killing each other.”

He snorts. “I beg to differ.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

After a minute of walking along the beach, you find a washed up crate. Hobie opens it with the butt of his gun, punching a hole straight through. You pray that it's medical supplies or at least food.

He laughs, clutching his side, leaning on the box. Beckoning your confused self, he drapes his arm around your shoulder, showing you the contents.

You blink confused at the brown bricks. “Is this tea?”

He continues to chuckle like he heard an inside joke that you're not privy to. Taking one in his hand, he weighs it, surprised that it wasn't damaged by the sea water, he thanks whoever packed it well.

Opening the packaging, he brings it close to your nose. “Here.”

You flinch back, burnt skin tugging on your side. “What the hell! I'm not smelling that!”

He laughs louder, you wonder if his injuries ache too. “Just smell it and tell me what you think it is.”

“No! What if it's solid shit?”

“It's not! Solid shit? Really?” His broken lips hurt as he smiles wider. “Do you not trust me?”

You suck in your teeth, “fine, if this is shit I'm drowning myself.” With apprehension, you lean forward to sniff. “Is that?” You sniff again, this time with a laugh. “Holy shit!”

“It's bloody chocolate.” You grab his hand, smelling the sweet treat. “Guess you got your wish. An entire crate of ‘em too.”

“I can't fucking believe that it hasn't melted yet!” He hands you the entire bar and you grin. You both guessed that one of the navy ships was carrying it. “We only need a crate full of alcohol and we're good.”

Hobie clasps your arm, “We can stay here forever if we do find one.”

“Fuck off.” You say in between laughs. “I'm not staying here forever—” your smile falters, fear enters your body.

“What?” He turns around, following your line of sight.

A body, there's a body washed up on the shore. It's draped in a blue uniform and seaweed, seagulls land near it, tentatively pecking.

“Stay here.” He murmurs, draping the sail on top of the crate. You grasp his hand before he leaves your side. “Y/N, stay here.”

“No, what if he's still alive?” you hold on to him tighter.

He nods, eyes roaming your tensed face, your shoulders are straight, eyes staying on the body. “Alright, but walk behind me, yeah?”

You nod.

With every step, your fear encapsulates you further down to your feet, the warmth on your soles keeps you alert. Yet, your hand stays on the cold hilt of your dagger.

Hobie kicks the corpse, it stays unmoving. A group of crabs start to scavenge the body, pinching and taking skin.

“He's dead. No need to worry.” He looks at you over his shoulder, glancing at your tight grip on the dagger.

“What if we're not the only ones here?” your breath shudders at the thought.

“I'll sweep the island—”

“We'll sweep the island.”

He doesn't protest, knowing you won't take no for an answer. “Fine, just—” grabbing your hands, he fixes your hold on the dagger, guiding your fingers around the hilt. You freeze on the spot. “There, better.” He tugs at the weapon, it doesn't budge in your hold. “Now they can't take it from you. Don't let them take it away from you.”

“I won't, I promise.”

—

The island is small, smaller than you thought it would be. Green foliage and tropical trees cover half of the island. Dry leaves crunch under your foot, critters slither and chatter under the tall grass, making you conscious of where you land your feet. The rays of the sun peek behind the tree tops. Exotic sounding birds sing above the branches, their rainbow feathers fly overhead, leaving a breeze to flutter against your cheeks.

You almost run into Hobie when he stops abruptly. He whistles out, reaching blindly behind him to grasp your hand.

“Come on.”

Surprisingly enough, you don't let go, locking your fingers around his, letting the warmth course through your skin.

You hear rushing water.

“We're fuckin' lucky.” He pauses, watching you peek from behind to see what's in front.

You're in awe at the small waterfall, misty water cascading like unfurled silk; it splashes cool water down into a plunge pool. Before you know it, Hobie's stripping down to his knickers.

“Woah! A bit of a warning!” You cover your eyes quickly.

He hoots before you hear a loud splash.

Hobie calls your name, you can hear his smile from how he utters it.

“It's fresh water! We can drink this!” He yells over the sound of the waterfall.

“I'm not drinking your bath water!” You still avoid him, glancing all over the place except for where he swims.

“The water isn't stagnant! It's clean! Come over here!”

“No!”

“I'm not fuckin' naked, Y/N! Just fuckin' come here.”

With a stomp of your foot and a click of your tongue, you glance at him, avoiding staring at his bottom half.

“Someone else could still be here, Hobie and you're relaxing!”

“No one's here, trust me. We've swept the entire place, there's no one here. Jus’ us” He floats and you immediately look away. Laughing, he lets the water wash over him.

“Well I'm glad you're having fun!” You say sarcastically. “But I'll walk around so you don't get stabbed in the water.”

“I can finally teach you how to swim! Get in!” He teases, knowing you won't actually swim with him while he's practically in his birthday suit.

“Nope!” You walk away but still staying close to him. “Maybe when you're not naked I'll reconsider!”

“Suit yourself! Wait!” You pause, “Stay close, yeah?”

Nodding, you wave with the dagger.

You walk around the area, avoiding colorful flowers that you're too afraid to touch. Hands grazing the top of the tall grass, you gasp when a familiar plant catches your sight.

“What?!” You hear Hobie shout, “you alright?!”

“I'm fine!” You yell back. “Keep floating like a turd!”

He laughs, a second later you hear splashing.

—

You sit on the banks of the pool, tired muscles sagging into the dirt, your pockets are full of medicinal herbs. You're just glad you found the right plants that can help to stave off infection. If only you had a mortar and pestle then it'll help with digesting the bitterness better.

Drawing swirling patterns on the dirt with your dagger, you don't look at him, only flicking your eyes to see if he hasn't drowned from napping in the water. He floats aimlessly, skin glistening under the sun, toned chest and scars in full display. You huff, moving your eyes away from his body. Yet your mind wonders where he got them, it's better to think about it than letting your mind wander back to what happened on the revenge and your almost death.

The slight sting of your injuries helps keep you awake at least.

“You hungry?” You almost jump when he suddenly appears on the edge of the pool, arms tucked under his chin, grey eyes looking expectantly at you.

“A little. You?”

“Starving. We're gonna need to make a shelter soon.” Hobie twists in place, head resting on the ground, face staring up at the afternoon sky.

You scooch closer, he smiles when your upside down face fills his vision. “Do you know where we are?”

“No, I'm guessing we're in one of the thousand islands. We were near it when we—Just be glad that we didn't land on a cannibal island.”

“There's no such thing.” He reaches up, wiping the sweat off your brow. “Right?” you almost lean into his touch.

“We got attacked by a bloody sea monster, ‘m sure there's an island somewhere with cannibals.”

“True.” You shrug, trying not to remember what the beasts look like or even sound like. “Did you piss your pants too when they came up from the water?” Teasing, you fall into relaxation with him.

“No, I shat myself.” You laugh loudly. Hobie thinks he has the best seat in the house. “Can't fuckin' believe they're real.” He can't believe you're real.

“Still feels like a dream. Someone has to know those things exist.” The sun illuminates the side of your face, lighting up your features. He can't help but reach up again with the same excuse to wipe your face. “Thanks, I'm sweating a lot.”

“Really? I haven't noticed.” You roll your eyes. “Maybe if you take a dip then—”

“Nope.” To his dismay, you move away from his view. “Come on, fishman, we need to get started on shelter.”

“I just said that.” He stands up, groaning along the way, you look away. “and really? Fishman? That the best you can do, stinky?”

“Stinky?” You cross your arms on your chest, hearing clothes shuffle behind you. “What are you five?”

“Could say the same thing to you,” his face suddenly appears on your shoulder. You yelp, groaning comically, briskly walking away in annoyance. “Wrong way, scuttlebutt.”

You turn heel, trudging in a different direction while he chuckles.

—

Standing in knee deep sea water, the sun beaming down, soft sand under your toes and your stomach growling to be fed, you stand near Hobie whose trousers are folded up to his knees. The water laps at your legs, warm enough to be comfortable but cool enough to keep you in the water. Tiny fish weave around your legs, their fins brushing your skin.

“There!” you point too fast that you pull a muscle but you pay it no mind when Hobie misses the fish again with his makeshift spear.

“Fuck!” The spear is sticking out of the sand, Hobie who is equally starving kicks the water, it splashes all over your blouse.

Great, you're hungry and wet.

You huff loudly, frustrated like the man next to you. “I'm hungry.”

“I know.” He says flatly. Taking out the spear, he aims again.

The fish wiggle in the water like it's mocking Hobie.

“Maybe we can survive eating chocolates and coconut for the rest of our days?” You wipe the sweat off the back of your neck. “Or I can start catching some crabs.”

“Fuck this!” He yells, drawing his gun, he shoots at the fish, the bullet hits the water like a tiny cannonball, splashing you again.

It's a bullseye.

You scream when he grabs the still bleeding fish. Hobie smiles wildly, yelling triumphantly.

You both jump up and down in the water giddily.

—

The fire roars in front of you, your dinner needs some seasoning but it's better than sleeping hungry with only chocolate to fill your stomach. Times like this you miss Finn's cooking, and him.

Hobie looks at you through the fire, he's thinking of the same thing. Wishing that he wasn't.

“What kind of fish is this?” you break the quiet to stop your thoughts.

“The edible kind.”

“You have no idea do you?” Narrowing your eyes at him, you scoff.

“Fuck if I know.” Hobie shrugs, scrunching his nose.

“You're a pirate.” You stop chewing.

“Yes and? I'm not a bloody fisherman.”

“I thought you'd know, because you're in the sea most of the time.”

“Fishing was James’ job not mine.”

“Kinda wishing James was here then.” You murmur but he still hears.

“Give me your bloody fish, you ungrateful bastard.” he reaches towards you and in turn you pull your fish away from him.

“No!” he chuckles at your reaction, shaking his head before silence drapes over the peace you've both created.

You keep munching on the plain mystery fish. Hobie was kind enough to catch (shoot) another fish so you don't have to share one. It's flaky in your hands, now you smell like sweat, blood and fish. The greatest smell combination in the world.

You chew, “I need new clothes.” and a bath but you'll never admit it to Hobie.

“That bloke has some,” he points with his chin at the dead body, laying further at the beach.

“Ew, I'd rather stay in these.” You grimace, looking down at the tattered and singed cloth that's holding on to its last leg.

“I don't mind that, I can actually see your elbows from here.” he smirks, trying to look flirty but with him chomping on a fish head it ended up looking more hilarious than cute.

“My elbows? Oh you pervert.” Yet there's heat behind your cheeks even when his own cheek is covered in fish scales. “Should we bury him?” you change the subject.

“We should or it'll stink,” he flicks his grey eyes at you, the simple act wakes up the butterflies in your stomach, or maybe that's the fish. “like you.”

“I don't stink” a lie of course.

Hobie laughs into his half eaten fish. “I can smell you from here.”

“No you don't, that's the fish!”

“What's the difference?”

You flick a fin at him, it hits him on his head, sticking to his hair. Laughing, you take another bite, something hard almost breaks your tooth. You stop giggling, spitting out a round metallic thing.

Realization hits you, Hobie peeks at your hand,

His sudden loud guffaw makes you throw the bullet at him. He dodges it, still laughing hard and with a fish fin stuck to his hair.

“This is why fishermen don't shoot at fish!” You end up cackling too, finding his laughter contagious. “I almost bit into it!”

He guffaws louder, hiding his face and you get a full view of the fin on his hair. You shake your head, standing up to sit next to his shaking form.

“Stop moving! Let me get that thing off.” You grab it, throwing it into the fire.

His laughter subsides, staring at you with those stormy eyes. He sniffs, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to say something that could hurt or for him to say something that would make you leave. But you don't and he stays silent. Just reveling in each other's presence.

You read his expression, his lips still hidden under his hand but his eyes say everything. You don't want to ruin the night but you have to tell him or it'll eat at you, not letting you sleep and you ending up looking at him with pity and grief. You don't want that, you want to continue to look at him like you've recently found out from Miles, with reverence and fondness that's out of your reach.

“I'm sorry.” Your words don't hurt him but your expression brings a pang in his heart. “About…everything.”

“‘s not your fault.” Grief knocks on his door and he refuses to answer. “Nothin' to be sorry about.”

“Feels like it is.”

“You're not the one who killed them.” Grief tries to barge in on him, he blocks the door, still refusing to let it in. “There's nothin' to forgive.”

“Still, I'd like to apologize. They were good men.” Against your own better judgment, you take his hand, he doesn't flinch away, even twisting his hand to hold yours properly.

“Do you want to say goodbye? To them?” he murmurs like he isn't sure of it himself.

Hobie refuses to let it in, not again, not in front of you.

“Yes, but we'll do it once you're ready.” You whisper to him like the world could hear his secret.

Hobie sighs. Heart aching, he doesn't want to say goodbye, if it was up to him he'd never—

“Hobie?” You call his name softly, “If you need help with silencing the screams,” a shaky breath escapes you. “I'm here.”

He frowns, seeing her face and not yours for a brief second. Changing tune, he takes his hand away. “Thanks.” It's your turn to frown.

You inhale, “I'll go grab us some water for uh cleaning our wounds. I'll clean them before bed.” Walking away, you leave him alone with his thoughts, he hopes you turn back around, but you don't.

—

Hobie takes first watch, torso exposed to the sea wind, letting it calm the searing pain of his injuries. He observes for any boats or ships on the horizon, even hoping for a box full of medical supplies to wash ashore.

He rubs his heavy eyes, it's supposed to be your turn but he lets you sleep in, after everything he'd let you rest as long as you need to. Looking over his shoulder, the simple act makes him wince. He stares at your sleeping face, calm and angelic under the warmth of the fire, and he can't help but feel jealous. You're situated under the shabby shelter, protected by the red sail that's fluttering in the breeze. Foot twitching, you scrunch up your nose in your sleep,

Chuckling, he turns back around to face the beach.

There's still nothing but seagulls flying above the water and crabs digging into the sand.

Yawning, he shakes his head wildly to keep awake. So he decides to walk around the beach, stretching his throbbing muscles.

As Hobie kicks the sand between his toes, he finds himself standing next to the navy man's corpse. He stares at the lifeless eyes, lips blue, skin so pale it blends in with the sand. The crabs still eat the remains, pinching and taking bits. He scoffs, knuckles shaking, nails leaving crescent shapes on his palms.

He doesn't deserve to be buried, Hobie thinks. And he definitely doesn't need her pity. So he takes the man's legs, slowly dragging it down to the shore until it floats. The rush of waves wakes him up, cold water dousing his lower half. Hobie pushes it away roughly, letting the tides take it, letting the sea claim it like it has claimed his friends.

He watches it slowly drift away, yet his anger doesn't subside. The fire in him is still burning ever brighter. He mentally promises the crew he lost that he'll avenge them. That he'll get Mathias, even if it kills him.

Your screams bring him back to reality. Bolting away, wading through the water, the sand hinders his sprinting, he quickly runs to your side.

“Oi, oi!” Hobie watches your terrified face morph into relief when you see him. “What's wrong? Crab in your knickers?” He stops his joking when tears slide to your cheeks, your entire body is shaking. His chest heaves at your sobbing. Voice cracking when he utters your name, Hobie lets you breathe, holding on to your shoulders firmly.

You stare at him through the tears. “I–I dreamt that you left me here.” His façade breaks into two. “And I w–woke up and you weren't here. I thought—”

“I would never. I won't leave.” You continue to weep so he holds you, not to make you stop but to help steady you through it. He'd hold onto you every minute of every day if he has to.

It's frightening how well you two fit together, limbs tangled around one another. Like a pair of wings, one cannot fly without the other. And that terrifies you through the embrace.

“I'm s-sorry, I really thought.” You find your place atop his chest, face buried on his skin, his scars kissing your cheeks. Hands gripping to the small of his back, your nails almost digging.

“‘m here, ’m not leaving you, promise.” Hobie intends to keep it, not for your sake but for his.

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nostalgicnarrator · 16 days

Text

Over Hill and Under Mountain

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Word Count: 9,586 Parings: Thorn X Bilbo Description: as Thorin and his Small company make their way though the wood, Thorin is met with problem after problem, he just wants to see his hobbit.

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

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Note:

I’ve rewritten this five times, and this is the chapter filed down and useless info removed, and it still feels wrong and kind of empty and honestly I think I fumbled with the characters in this chapter but I really don’t know how to fix it and if I don’t post this now it will forever be stuck in limbo. So I’m sorry I did my best, here ya go.

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The hours passed slowly as the group continued, till they came to a bridge that was supposed to be there, and granted it was, sort of.

With its timbers rotting and broken, it wouldn’t have even supported a hobbit or an elf. it cracked and creaked dangerously as wind brushed against it.

‘This is definitely the wrong path’ Thorin thought but- it would take too long to trace back-‘ a voice interrupted his thought.

“We can’t cross here,” Dwalin said, frowning at the collapsed structure. “We’ll need to find another way.” Dwalin looked at Thorin.

Thorin nodded, his jaw set. “We must find a different path or make our own…move carefully. Stay alert and stick together.” Thorin commanded.

the group forged around in a familiar fashion. Dwalin took the back Nori was behind Thorin as the two younger found themselves in the middle of the group.

Thorin spurred his pony forward, she reared up when he tried to get her to leave the path. But after a bit of coxing the pony’s begrudgingly tread off the path.

the dense forest seemingly closed in around them. They moved slowly but not quietly, fallen leaves crunched and rustled under hoofs.

Thorin couldn’t help but feel more uneasy than before, sick almost. He glanced back at the others, they seemed to feel similar by the looks on their faces.

Suddenly a quick rustling snapped the attention of the whole company. Thorin looked just in time to watch a spider knock Nori from his pony and throw him to the floor.

The dwarf was barely fast enough to push the venomous jaws of the spider away, he kicked and flailed somewhat helplessly in his panic before a war hammer found its mark on the spider’s head.

The spider went flying away from Nori as Dwalin swung again and smashed the head of the spider.

Nori scrambled up and pulled his mace from its hold and he slammed it into the very next spider that dropped on them-Thorin drew Orcrist and joined the others, his sister’s sons not far behind.

The company fought against the onslaught of spiders, Thorin hardly remembered there being this many spiders before. He turned and sliced the head of one spider in half.

Kíli gets pinned by another spider, Fíli stabs at its abdomen, and Kíli is able to kick it away. Nori was watching the back of Dwalin horribly mangling any spider that got close.

The battle felt long though it truly wasn’t, as Kíli ran out of arrows, Fíli had lost a sword seeing as Kíli left his on his poney who had run off with the others when the spiders attacked.

Thorin’s jaw set once again, he looked around, ‘this is it, I failed, i failed my family, my friends- I failed Bilbo’ Thorin squeezed his eyes shut at that thought ‘I failed Bilbo’ he looked around desperately at that thought

‘I can’t! No I can’t fail him now I can’t-‘ but his thoughts are interrupted by a flurry of arrows whizzed through the air, striking the spiders with a deadly precision.

He looked at Kíli who was shakily welding one of Fíli’s twin swords. ‘Then who-?’ A blond and very familiar looking Elf comes into view, he slides to a stop near them, he releases arrows as fast as he drew them.

Before even a moment had passed, most of the spiders were dead, the others fled away deeper into the shadows of the forest, the sky was darkening slowly.

The blond elf spoke haltingly, “Do…do you… need help?”, he asked Thorin. Thorin watched as the elf’s gaze turned from himself to the rest of his group. Thorin eyed the elf suspiciously.

Thorin could almost recall the name of this Elf, he was sure it started with an L, he was the elven king’s son. He knew that much anyway, he also remembered how they had met, under unsavory conditions.

Thorin had also been introduced to him formally in court of course but he really couldn’t remember the elf’s name. Was it Leg? Leg something. ‘I wonder if I asked, if that would be considered rude..?’ He thought.

Apparently, Thorin had been quiet for too long, and somewhat glaring at the elf in question. So much so that Dwalin had answered for him. “Aye, we do.”

After a long moment, the elf gestured for them to follow him. Thorin felt the eyes of his small company find him, he nodded and followed after the elf as he led them away deeper into the darkening forest.

“Where are you taking us?” Thorin asked, The elf looks back at them and then straight ahead again.

“Uncle don’t worry!” Kíli said while smiling. He clapped Thorin on the back “I��m sure he’s not taking us to a dungeon again.”

“Ugh! Don’t even joke about that- that was horrible” Fíli whines as he puts his swords away.

“That it was” Nori agreed as he nodded, Thorin looked back at the Elf. He really rather not be locked away again.

You never know with the temperament of elves, even though Thorin assumes he’s in good graces with the elves he could be wrong. Well, maybe not good.

And maybe even especially with this elf in particular. The prince had been the one leading the group that captured them the first time. And Throin does openly insult the boy’s father. This could be a trick.

Dwalin, again, after a long silence, cleared his throat, getting the elf’s attention. “So, what’s yer name again lad? Aren’t ya the elf king's son?”

The elf blinked at them but decidedly remained silent. Thorin really couldn’t help the thought that came to his mind. ‘Does he know common?’

Thorin looked up when the elf answered the first of Dwalin’s questions “Le-…Legolas.” The boy said in an unsure tone while shifting his eyes away to the tree line.

Kíli pushed ahead to be beside the elf. “That’s right! Do you remember us? You kinda locked us up for being in your territory! Your guard captain helped me when I was poisoned!” Kíli said, far too cheerily.

Legolas looked down at Kíli and rolled his eyes as he looked away. ‘So he does know common?’ Thorin thought.

Kíli continued to try and speak with Legolas as they continued through the forest but the elf seemed uninterested, while Kíli continued to talk, nonstop. Thorin was a Kíli question away from having only one hire.

Sometimes Kíli would get “yes” or “no” to questions, which only seemed to fan his flame.

Legolas led them to a different path deeper in the forest, one that was a bit better kept than the other

Once they made it to the path, Legolas seemingly disappeared. Kíli looked around for the elf he was just next to but found nothing.

Thorin didn’t see much of a reason to worry, the business of Elves was none of his, though his sister’s son seemed to think otherwise.

“Uncle! Legolas disappeared!” Kìli cried, stating the very obvious. The lad looked out into the forest as if to find the elf.

Fìli looked at his brother when he cried out, he whipped his head around also looking for the elf. Fìli’s eyes found his uncle. “Why do you think he-.” But Thorin didn’t even let the question fully settle in the air.

“Lads, he is an elf, I am not his king or his father. I have no reason to worry.” Thorin grumbled, he was not in the mood at the moment.

They had lost all their supplies, the elf was gone, and they very well could starve here.

“But uncle-“ Kìli whined. Thorin interrupted them again, he was starting to get frustrated with his sister’s sons. He had far too many other things to worry about, he did not have time for a stupid elf.

“THAT IS ENOUGH.” Thorin yelled, the two boys immediately shut their mouths, all questions quickly lost before they could be asked.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the whole company. Thorin sighed and rubbed his face, a sudden exhaustion washed over him.

Dwalin was the first to break the silence by clearing his throat, Thorin peeked over his hand that was covering his face.

“Thorin, the ponies had our supplies.” Dwalin stated and Thorin had to almost fight himself not to roll his eyes. He was very aware of what was happening. “What should we do?” Dwalin asked after a moment.

Thorin dropped his hand from his face. “We’ll make do with what we have.” Thorin crosses his arms. He looks around and then looked back at Dwalin

“Dwalin, go with the boys to gather things for a fire, maybe you will find something to eat.” Thorin suggested dully, Dwalin nodded and left with the boys.

Thorin watched them for a few minutes before turning to his spymaster. “Nori help me make a list of everything we have.” Thorin nearly demanded.

Nori nodded, and the two of them dug through what little supplies they had. Aka the two backpacks. One was Dwalin’s and the other was Fíli’s Nori had a side back and Thorin had a few things in his pockets

Thorin felt himself almost pale at the prospect of how little they truly had. He felt even more so when not much wood was found for a fire that night nor food.

Thorin did not sleep. Morning came and went. After a bit of debating on which direction to take, the smaller company began to follow the new path that they were set on by Legolas.

As much as Thorin didn’t want to, he'll have to thank the lad when he sees him again. If he saw him again.

Suddenly there was a soft rustle of leaves, everyone drew their weapons and formed a circle quickly. Thorin whipped his head to the left of the path where the rustling was coming from.

Suddenly, Legolas emerged from the trees. Beside him were two of the small company’s missing ponies, Thorin’s very own and Dwalin’s old pony.

They trailed in, looking a bit battered and beaten. The ponies somehow kept they’re owners' packs on them.

“Oh! That’s where you went!” Kíli said excitedly, Thorin raised his brow at the sound of relief in his sister’s son’s voice.

He did not know this elf well nor did they meet in good will, the first time anyway, yet Kíli sounded relieved that the elf came back. Did they seriously not trust him to lead the company out of these cursed woods.

“How did you find them?” Throin heard Fíli ask, Throin watched as Fíli huffed when Legolas offered no answer.

Legolas decided to simply stand there, as if he’s waiting on something. Thorin’s theory of Legolas not knowing common was relit at his lack of response.

Nori wasted no time, immediately going through the packs on the ponies to check them. Dwalin took the reins from Legolas, offering a curt nod of thanks while waiting for Nori to confirm what they had recovered.

Fíli looked Legolas over quietly, Thorin began to wonder if Fíli felt offended when Legolas did not answer him. Fíli was used to receiving respect as the heir and crowned prince. The boy's words carried some weight among his own people. But not here

Here Fíli’s words meant as much as an elf’s would in theirs. Thorin was very sure that being ignored so casually, by an elf especially, most likely stung the princeling’s pride, and if Thorin really looked he was sure he could see frustration beginning to bubble over inside the princeling.

He had seen a similar look when they were captured the first time though Thorin was sure it was more over being manhandled by elves. Thorin opened his mouth to say something but was instead interrupted “Only two?” Fíli asked.

Thorin watched as Fíli’s eyes scanned the woods as if hoping more ponies might emerge from the shadows. Legolas only nodded.

Dwalin grunted, “The spiders most likely got the others.”

Kíli gasped, “-no! Not peanut-she was really sweet.” Kíli whined. He looked at Thorin as if asking if it was true.

Dwalin huffed and grunted, “Not much you can do for it now lad.”

“- I think that’s mostly everything we might need, we might be a little low on food and comfort.” Nori said seemingly unaware of the other conversation he was interrupting.

Thorin stepped forward to take the reins of his own pony. The animal snorted softly, almost like recognizing Thorin. He noticed a freshly treated cut across her cheek and gently petted her snout, murmuring words of comfort.

“Thank you,” Thorin mumbled to Legolas. Apparently, the gratitude did not go entirely unheard like he thought. Thorin could feel the rest of the company look at him.

Dwalin cleared his throat and Thorin looked at him, the confused crinkling on his friend’s brow wasn’t lost on Thorin.

“Remove the saddles.” Thorin began, he turned to the rest of the company. “What we can’t burden ourselves with, the ponies will carry.”

Nori and Dwalin took to removing the saddles and dropping them to the sides of the path. They won’t be needing them.

Kíli took a pack off the ponies, Kíli and Fíli moved to carry them but Dwalin took Kíli's pack, Thorin took the other from Fíli and everything else was situated on the back of the two ponies.

When the dwarves were ready, Legolas began to lead them once more. The trek through Mirkwood was slow and difficult, especially with unwilling ponies and heavy packs.

It wasn’t made any easier with the foul air of the forest. Thorin began to allow his mind to wonder once more. ‘Has Óin faced similar perils?’ ‘Is he delayed in getting to Bilbo?’ Bilbo.

Now that’s something that takes the mountain kings mind quickly. He hasn’t thought too much on Bilbo since he received word about what happened.

‘How hurt is he?’ Thorin pails at all the images that run through his head after that thought. Thorin had to remind himself to breathe, ‘perhaps, It's best not think about it…’

Thorin looked at their elven guide, and decided to wonder over to the elf instead. ‘I wonder why he has decided to stay with us.’ Thorin casted a glance at Kíli and Fíli who were talking to the elf guide.

Thorin briefly thought of asking the elf, but as Thorin watched Fíli look up at the elf expectingly only to deflate with faced with no answer, he decided that if he did ask Legolas would probably not tell him.

So Thorin resigned himself to following this quiet elf. Dwalin, Nori and himself try to avoid talking to the elf as much as possible. Kíli and Fíli kept trying to talk with him.

But as much as the elf try, it seemed it was almost impossible to ignore the two young Durins. Not even an elf prince who acted as cold as stone could out will them.

“Perhaps a funny story will lighten you, Legolas” Kíli suggested.

“Oh, I have a good one Kíli. Once my mother, our uncle and us were walking through the stall markets in a man city.” Fíli said, he looked to his brother and grinned at him

“Fíli! No-ow!” Kíli cried and tried to cover his brothers mouth

Fíli shoved Kíli away and bounced in front of the elf prince- who started to fight a creeping smirk on his face. “Hush nadadith, the adults are talking, so Kíli and I were near the fountains where some Dwarowdams were and, he tried his hand in flirting-lets just say it ended horribly- mother showed up and-“

“FEE! Shut up!!” Kíli yelled, Thorin had to stifle a laugh as the boy stomped his foot. Almost like a child not getting his way.

“-And-ah! Uncle help!!” The two boys crashed to the ground making the ponies whiny in slight panic. Thorin chuckled as he and Dwalin calmed the ponies. But almost immediately everything fell deftly silent as Legolas snorted, a sound that Thorin didn’t know an elf could make, the elf prince began to laugh.

Thorin looked up in shock, it was the first time Legolas had anything but a blank face or an annoyed look. As the elven prince calmed he had to cover his mouth but Thorin saw it, the smile the lad held. Then surprisingly, the elf spoke with a humored tone.

“Father said you are all pig headed people that hate other races, that you and your people are violent and untrustworthy, that i should avoid talking-“

Kili interrupted him with a loud “Hey!”

Legolas shook his head but showed his smile “I am beginning to think that he was wrong, at least somewhat.” That raised a chuckle from Dwalin.

Fíli got up and smiled up at the elven prince. “Maybe you’ll answer my questions now?”

Kíli jumped up and joined his brother. “To think all we had to do is tall a story-“

Fili nodded, then offered his brother a bobcat-like smile and elbowed him before saying “hey how about I tell the one about-mmph!”

Thorin knew the story the lad was talking of and promptly put a hand over his mouth and glared at Kíli who just looked lost.

Thorin huffed and opened his mouth to yell at Fíli, then the elf prince spoke up “while I … love stories, perhaps, we should continue?” He waited a moment and when Thorin nodded the elf continued to lead the way. Legolas began to gladly talk with the boys, though he was a little strange toward Kíli for a while.

After that day each evening after they made camp, Legolas would disappear into the woods, only to return with game or other food. Then sit and spend almost hours talking with the boys.

Thorin found himself very grateful for it, it kept the boys distracted and they at least had something to eat. He also, for some reason, was beginning to feel very proud of Legolas, that the boy was to be the future leader of his kingdom.

Though he doesnt think he’d ever say that out loud, Dwalin had taken a bit of a liking to the boy too, mostly because of the princes who would occasionally drag him into the conversations.

Nori had taken a liking to the elf, but for a different reason, he saw him as a personal challenge. Nori tried to steal from the elf a few times-and each time was caught.

Thorin was grateful that the young prince took it in good humor, he’d rather not have to go explain to Dori how his brother tried to steal from an elf prince then was arrested, or try and beg the elven king to let him free. They were already on a time crunch as is.

When they finally neared the edge of the forest Thorin was not surprised when it was Kíli who lingered, “Thank you, Legolas,”

Thorin knew it was a silent goodby to the lad. He and the rest of the company waited at the end of the forest now.

“You are very much welcome my friend, you are all welcome back here by my invitation any time.” Legolas offered kindly.

“Really?” Kíli asked as he raised an eyebrow.

“Yes of course. You know there is a guard captain I know, she talks about a-“ Legolas stopped and looked up at Thorin then smiled back at Kíli. “Her friend. Perhaps we can all get to know each other better”

Kili smiled and nodded. He turned to Thorin, who was very certain his sister’s son’s face might just split in half.Thorin sighed and nodded to the elf.

Legolas left them a moment later. The company paused to make sure they were ready, then the company set off once more, the shadow of Mirkwood slowly fading behind them.

Thorin’s mind, however, was already on the path ahead, focused on the time they had already wasted getting lost. Not to mention his hobbit. Bilbo was waiting for them in Rivendell.

The company had trudged along the rugged path, their footsteps began to slow as the hours passed. Thorin walked at the front now, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his mind still churning with worries.

They only had two ponies, and the meager supplies they had left wouldn't last them long.

"Beorn’s house is not far from here," Dwalin called from the back, his voice breaking the silence that had settled over them like a thick fog.

Thorin glanced back at the older warrior, then at Nori when he nodded in agreement. "Aye, Beorn," Nori added. "We all know he’s not one for guests, but he might make an exception for old friends… especially old friends of a hobbit in need…”

Thorin’s jaw tightened. He knew they had little choice. It was truly their only option if they were to see Bilbo.

The thought of his hobbit paled face, his labored breaths growing weaker was enough for Thorin to swallow pride. "Very well," he muttered. "We head for Beorn’s."

And the journey to Beorn’s cabin, though a little off track, wasn't more than a few hours away. It was silent as Thorin walked ahead, footsteps being the only noise.

With little else to do, Thorin's thoughts drift back to Bilbo. Thorin wasn’t sure when but he had come to admire his hobbit's courage and cleverness. Yet now, Thorin felt a strange ache in his chest when he was without him.

By the time they reached Beorn’s cabin, the sun had dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the clearing. The cabin stood sturdy and strong, an almost comforting sight. Almost.

Thorin’s eyes scan the surroundings for any sign of the skin-changer. A low growl from the woods made them all tense, hands instinctively reaching for their weapons.

But before they could do much else, a massive familiar figure emerged from the trees. Beorn, the skin changer was in his man form. towering over the dwarfs, glaring down at them intimidatingly.

“What brings you here?” His voice was a rumbling growl, deep and dangerous like thunder rolling through the hills.

Thorin stepped forward, his jaw clenched, and forced himself to bow his head slightly. Swallowing his pride was like swallowing broken glass, and he could feel the weight of the others’ stares on him.

“We need your help once again, Beorn,” he ground out, his voice tight. “We are short on supplies, and… Bilbo is in trouble. We must-”

At the mention of Bilbo, Beorn’s expression softened, just a fraction, and he grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s wrong with the little bunny?”

Thorin’s frustration flared, a bunny his hobbit is not. “We received word he was hurt. We need to get to Rivendell.” Thorin all but growled out.

Beorn made a noise, something between a grunt and a scoff. “The elves will heal him better. What do you and your people expect to do?”

Thorin’s fists clenched at his sides, fury bubbling to the surface. His teeth ground together as he glared up at the towering man. How dare he? He was Thorin Oakenshield, not some wandering beggar!

“If you will not help us, then we’ll be on our way,” Thorin snapped, his voice sharp with barely restrained anger. He turned, ready to lead his company away. His pride had been battered enough for one day.

Beorn raised a bushy brow, clearly amused by the dwarf’s outburst. He grunted again before speaking. “You may stay, Thorin called Oakenshield, son of Thrain. But I’ll hear the whole tale. Start from the beginning.”

Thorin’s mouth was a thin line, his pride warring with the reality of their situation. He needed Beorn’s help, no matter how much it burned. “Fine,” he bit out. “Yes, Thank you.”

Inside the cabin, the company settled in quickly, grateful for the warmth and food Beorn had provided. But as much as Thorin should appreciate the food, and the warmth around him, he could not.

Thorin glared at the food Kíli had given him, he couldn’t eat as His stomach still churned with frustration. He felt his anger still simmering under his skin like a restless flame.

Thorin left to sit near the fireplace. The crackle of the fire did little to soothe him. He grabbed his pipe and began to pack it as he glared into the dancing flames.

He spilt some of his tobacco, and Throin felt his anger flare again. ‘Why must everything be a battle?’ He thought angrily.

The words of Beorn earlier still echoed in his mind. The skin-changer’s casual dismissal of them grated on his nerves more. Just as the smoke began to curl around him, Beorn sat near him.

“Tell me, Thorin,” Beorn rumbled, his voice still deep, he sounded curious as he spoke. “Why do you insist on traveling to Rivendell? The bunny is safe there.”

Thorin inhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around his pipe. He didn’t want to have this conversation, not now. Thorin huffed and looked up at the skin-changer.

“He called for me… for us,” Thorin said, he couldn’t tell his tone was harsher than he should have used. “I sent Óin ahead. If you don’t remember him, he was the healer who traveled with us before-“

Beorn interrupted with a grunt of recognition. “Oh yes, I saw him from a distance. He was being escorted by a few elves, and passed through not too long ago.”

Thorin’s irritation faltered for a moment, as relief began flowing through him. He hadn’t realized how worried he really was until that moment. He exhaled, a small but genuine sigh of relief escaping him. “Good,” he muttered, nodding. “Good…”

But Beorn it seemed was not done yet. Thorin watched as the sink-changer crossed his arms. “You didn’t really answer my question. Why do you need to go? The elves are more than capable.”

Thorin gritted his teeth, feeling the urge to snap again, but something in Beorn’s eyes warned him off. He didn’t know what it was but the creature had an air about him.

“Because he asked for us,” Thorin repeated, more quietly this time, an uncomfortable feeling settled its way under Thorin’s skin now.

Beorn snorted. “Don’t lie to me, Dwarf. I may not know much about you, but I know when someone is lying.”

Thorin froze, caught off guard. He wasn’t lying, not really… So what did Beorn mean? Thorin felt his chest tightened as he looked up at the skin-changer.

He forced himself to look away, feeling heat rise and settle in his face. ‘Where is that pesky wizard when he’s needed?’ Thorin cursed silently.

“…I…” Thorin started, but the words caught in his throat. Why was he so intent on seeing Bilbo himself? And Thorin couldn’t answer that question, he couldn’t, he didn’t understand it himself, Thorin just needed to, he wanted to.

He tried to think of something to say as his hands fidgeted. ‘The truth, the real truth.’ Thorin did not know, he grit his teeth and sighed.

“I care for him,” he finally pushed out. “He is… my friend. I need to see him safe, with my own eyes.”

Beorn raised a bushy brow, then let out a rumbling chuckle that filled the room. “Ah, I see now,” he said, shaking his head as if amused by some private joke. “I will never understand that bunny or the company he keeps, but it seems dwarves hold just as many surprises.”

Thorin huffed, feeling the tension in his chest finally ease. He wasn’t sure what Beorn understood fully, but it didn’t matter. He kept his eyes trained on his feet.

Thorin tried to stop his hands from fidgeting so much. He tried to take a deep breath like Bilbo said to do when he got frustrated.

“He is more than he seems,” Thorin felt his mouth say, he couldn’t stop himself as he spoke. “Far more, I care for him, more than anything.”

After that Beorn left, and Thorin found himself alone with his thoughts once again. He stood and made his way outside to the garden.

He passed the flowers that were strangely enough still in bloom, Thorin was pleasantly surprised when they got to the land around the Cabin, it felt warmer than the area they came from.

He plopped himself down on a bench, he stared up at the stars that dotted the night sky. His thoughts raged loudly in his mind, and despite everything he had to think about, his mind decided on Bilbo. He felt his face warm once again.

His hobbit, when had he started calling Bilbo ‘his hobbit’? Does Bilbo think of himself as Thorin’s hobbit? Or does he think of Thorin as his Dwarf?

Thorin huffed and rubbed his face, he was sure if one could see him his face would be entirely red. Thorin leaned back against the bench and blew a smoke ring.

Bilbo had shown him how to do that, his hobbit was quite proud to show off and Thorin couldn’t help but find his hobbit so cute.

He didn’t want to admit it then, but now Thorin didn’t mind, he loved his hobbit, Thorin tried to remember when he had begun to think of Bilbo as cute too.

And in that moment, Thorin felt a strange sense of peace, a warmth spreading through him, then it hit him like a stone to the head.

He loved him, the feeling that had been there every moment he was with his hobbit, the loneliness when he wasn’t. He loves him, and he wasn’t going to let Bilbo go again once he had him back.

A day or two later the company was ready to leave Beorn’s house. It was decided that the mountain pass was too dangerous for Ponies.

Though without them the whole of the company would move far more slowly then they would like, but they would rather not have a repeat of Mirkwood.

When they left they’re packs full of provisions, Thorin hoped it was enough to make it to and through the mountains.

He looks to The Misty Mountains in the distance, their peaks shrouded in mist given her namesake Thorin thought this not strange. The company trudged on.

The wind howled through the jagged peaks of the Misty Mountains, carrying with it the first icy bite of snow. Thorin Oakenshield narrowed his eyes against the biting cold, the chill seeping through his fur-lined cloak.

The mountain range loomed above them, her sharp, reaching peaks cutting into the billowing stormy sky. The path that lay before them was narrow and treacherous, snaking its way along the mountain, slick with a thin layer of frost.

Behind him, Dwalin and Nori trudged through the frigid winter that settled over them, their breaths coming as clouds in the air.

Thorin could feel a weight in his bones, a weariness that clung to him like the deep chill of the lost caverns beneath them. The cold nipped and bit at the small company like hungry wargs

Dwalin grunted as he tightened his cloak against the chill, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of one of his axes. “This weather’s turnin’ foul, Thorin,” he muttered, glancing up at the darkening sky. His voice was low, laden with concern. “We should find shelter, now.”

Thorin nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. His thoughts churned almost sickly ’We’re moving too slowly, far too slow…’

‘Each moment lost in this storm brings us closer to danger, closer to the possibility of failure.’ He grit his teeth in an almost snarl The possibility of dying out here. Of never seeing his hobbit again.

The wind picked up, stinging his face with its icy flakes, it tore at his skin like vicious claws, Thorin had to squeeze his eyes shut tightly against the sudden blast.

His boot slipped and Thorin felt his stomach lurch as his eye snapped back open despite the sting. He caught himself just in time, gritting his teeth again as he looked ahead for Fíli and Kíli.

His sister’s sons had pushed ahead. Thorin felt his heart clench as he struggled to spot them. ‘I can’t let them get too far ahead,’ he thought. ‘The last thing we need is to lose one another in this cursed weather.’ He opened his mouth to call out to them, to demand they fall back, but before he could, Fíli stopped and turned to look at him.

Seeming to understand Thorin’s unsaid command, Fíli reached out, grasping his younger brother’s shoulder to halt him. Thorin felt a spark of pride toward the boy.

Kíli frowned, seemingly not like the idea of stopping, but a few whispered words from Fíli was apparently enough to convince him. They waited, their figures barely visible through the swirling snow.

Nori, who had, at that point, fallen toward the back of the group, pulled his hood further down, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. Or what little he could likely see of it.

Nori’s shoulders squared and he glared much harder, Thorin began to wonder what Nori saw. “Aye, this storm’s no ordinary flurry,” Nori muttered, his voice tight with palpable unease. “It feels cursed.”

Thorin’s grip tightened on Orcrist’s hilt, he looked ahead in a silent agreement to Nori’s words. ‘We need to find cover before we’re caught out in the open,’ he thought grimly.

He turned his head back slightly, calling to Dwalin and Nori. “You’re right, we cannot push on like this. We’ll be buried if we’re not careful.”

As the words left his mouth, the wind rose to a furious howl, and the sky unleashed a torrent of snow. Thorin’s eyes widened in alarm as the storm escalated from a mere flurry to a blinding blizzard.

It took less then a moment and now thick and fast snowflakes attack them in, the ice whipped around them with a fury that made it hard to breathe, let alone see.

“Fíli! Kíli!” Thorin’s voice was nearly drowned out by the roar of the wind. He knew they were somewhere ahead, but the storm swallowed them in its blanket of white.

Panic clawed at him as visibility dropped, the path ahead disappearing into a white blur. The snow was falling so thickly now that it felt like they were being buried alive.

“Don’t move! We’re coming to you, understand?” Thorin shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation. For a moment, there was no response, only the relentless howling of the wind and the sting of ice against his face.

Fear tightened in his chest, the thought of losing his sister’s sons in this frozen wasteland unbearable. He almost trudged himself forward into the flurry.

Then, finally, a voice cut through the storm, it was hardly more than a wisper to Thorin over the howling wind and cutting ice. “Okay-okay, Uncle, be careful, the path gets thinner.” Fíli’s words, though strained, brought a flicker of relief to Thorin’s heart.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself as his hands stopped shaking ever so slightly. Thorin looked back at his two friends then nodded.

The group trudged forward, the snow crunching beneath boots. Thorin pushed through the biting cold and the unforgiving wind.

Thorin kept an eye on his other companions, he noticed how their movements were beginning to look sluggish, but they couldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop and his companions wouldn’t let him run off alone.

Thorin’s heart pounded in his chest, louder than the wind howling in his ears, as he finally caught sight of a large rock jutting out in the path ahead.

It loomed like a dark sentinel in the white expanse, the path that he saw the boys take was barely wide enough for his toes to fit on and the rock looked slick and smooth, the edges of the path crumbling and slick with snow.

He reached for the only hand holds he could find, his hand finding perches as if second nature, began to inch his way past the jut of rock, his boots found precarious positions on the narrow ledge.

The ground beneath him felt unstable, threatening to give way at any moment. Then, without warning, his foot slipped, and he barely caught himself on the edge of the snow-covered ledge, his fingers digging into the icy ground.

Thorin’s hands struggled to find purchase, to grip onto the ledge, “Thorin!” The alarm in Dwalin’s voice was unmistakable, even as Thorin was dangling off the edge with wind making him haft deft.

Dwalin rushed forward, and dropped down the best he could on the narrow path and grabbed Thorin’s arm. With a strength mostly born of desperation, Dwalin heaved him up.

Thorin could distantly hear his sister’s sons calling out for him as they made their way closer.

Thorin’s heart raced as he was hauled back onto the path, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. For a moment, he stayed as flush to the stone as he could manage, the cold seeping into his bones, before finally pushing himself to the other side.

Fíli and Kíli hovered over him as he stumbled to the other side, their worry etched in their faces. Thorin turned to the two boys and caught them both by the back of the head.

They both gripped his arm, “Uncle, are you alright?” Fíli asked, his voice tight and wavered slightly. Kíli, too, looked shaken, his usual bravado replaced with fear.

Thorin forced a reassuring smile, though his heart was still pounding and his hands slightly shaking. “I’m fine, lads,” he said, his voice unreasonably steady. “But we need to find shelter now.”

He brought their four heads to his own in a silent promise that he wouldn’t let anything happen to them. Reluctantly he relinquished his hold and the two boys

The boys kept hold of him though. “Fíli, Kíli- help Dwalin find us a spot to make camp. Nori and I will gather what we can for a fire.” Thorin said quickly he nodded the boys off and watched them leave, Dwalin patted his shoulder as they passed.

Nori and him moved not too far behind Dwalin and the two boys as they scouted ahead, as time went and Thorin was nearly certain that they would find no place of relief.

Their movements were beginning to turn sluggish and the snow fell thicker, faster, Fíli called out to the rest of the small company, there, nestled in the large cliffs faces was a small concave in the mountain. It wasn’t a cave truly but it did block the harsher winds.

As they worked to set up a makeshift camp, Nori had somehow managed to get a small fire lit before the world around them had been completely swallowed by white.

The Misty Mountains had truly turned foul, she had turned and now their only hope was to wait out the storm, while being buried alive in the unforgiving snow.

Thorin wasn’t a fool, he knew they might just die there, Thorin might never see his hobbit again, Bilbo might believe that Thorin simply doesn’t care for him- such thoughts made Thorin almost feel sick.

It had been almost a week of this, of cold nights and finding something to keep the fire alive, of Thorin watching as the snow fell relentlessly, piling higher, nearly burying the company in a cocoon of white. Effortlessly trapping them along the rock face.

Of the winds that howled like hungry wargs, Thorin thought it an almost mournful sound that seemed to seep into his bones, sapping what little warmth he had.

It was a particularly strange night as Thorin stood, he felt something was to happen. Then again maybe it was just his fatigue. it was well past any hour someone should be awake but he found himself unable to sleep, his mind wouldn’t allow it.

He walked towards Dwalin, the dwarf who had volunteered to keep watch that night, that placed him outside the range of the little fire they were able to keep.

He placed a hand on his cousin’s shoulder, “I believe you should take my place, I can watch” Thorin said quietly so as to not wake anyone.

Dwalin huffed at him, he rolled his eyes before saying, “Thorin, you need to rest, I said I can-“

Thorin put up his hand to silence the warrior. “I’ll stand guard for tonight.” Dwalin crossed his arms and looked back out into the icy void.

“I don’t like this Thorin, I feel like-“ Dwalin began to say but Thorin interrupted.

“Like something is going to happen? I feel it too…I will stand guard tonight, go” Thorin said, nodding to the camp when Dwalin looked at him.

“Thorin” Dwalin grumbled, but they looked away from each other when they heard voices.

“Uncle, what are you even watching for…?” Kíli whined, rubbing the sleep from his eye.

Fíli was already sitting up watching the two older dwarfs. He nodded at what his brother said before adding “nothing with haft a mind would come out in this.”

Apparently, Thorin wasn’t as quiet as he thought, “the lad’s right,” said Nori, he got up and walked over. He looked the two of them over. Thorin could at that moment truly see how he was related to Dori.

“You two should come away from the edge, warm yourselves and actually eat something“ Nori finally finished, he had his arms crossed.

“Man, Master Nori, you’re starting to sound like Master Dori!” Kíli said, apparently Thorin hadn’t been the only one to notice the family resemblance either.

Nori whipped his head around and glared half heartedly at Kíli. “Don’t ya dare joke about such a thing lad.” Nori said as he moved his hands so they were resting on his hips instead.

The boys laughed and Thorin smiled lightly, he looked back to Dwalin and nodded to Nori with a raised brow. Dwalin sighs when he gets up.

“He said it to both of us Thorin” Dwalin grumbled, he crossed his arms, Thorin patted his shoulder and pushed him towards the group.

“I’ll be fine, I’ll join you in a moment.” He told Dwalin who was already making his way into their makeshift camp.

Thorin sighed and sat, he dug around in his pockets pulling out his pipe, he huffed at his low supply of pipe weed.

Thorin packed and lit his pipe as he watched out into the abyss of white that swallowed the mountain side. His eyes narrowed against the blizzard that raged outside.

He had barely slept, his mind as consumed as the world outside. But his laid blank with worry, worry of food and freezing but worried thoughts of Bilbo weighed heaviest in his mind.

Thorin’s gaze drifted to the snowy expanse beyond their shelter then drifted further, as far as he could. ‘Has Óin found his way to Bilbo?’ Thorin wondered as he puffed on his pipe.

The pipe brought little relief to the cold of the storm, Thorin’s focus began to come back as he stared at the blinding cold, then a distant dark shape, barely visible through the snow came to view.

It moved erratically, struggling against the wind, the closer it inched the bigger it got and more Thorin was able to make out

Thorin squinted, his heart skipping a beat as he recognized the shape. It was a raven, but not just that, it was Hugin. He stood dropping his pipe not that cared for the moment and pushed himself outside into the storm.

‘Somethings terribly wrong.’ Thorin’s thoughts offered, ‘he should not be out in this- had he even made it to Rivendell?’ Thorin thought as he watched the raven.

Hugin’s flight was unsteady, Thorin could tell with no misplaced horror, that Hugins wings beat frantically, and that the raven may not know where he is, the young raven hasn’t ever flown in this type of weather before, most ravens refused such a fight.

“Hugin!” Thorin cupped his hands around his mouth as he called to the raven. He stepped farther out into the snow, his hand reaching out now for the young Raven. Hugin snapped his head up at his name.

A gust of wind pushed Hugin aside, and he struggled to recover but when finally reached Thorin, he ignored the hand as he crashed against Thorin’s chest in a flurry of black feathers.

Thorin caught the bird, cradling the raven close like a babe. He was suddenly struck by a memory remembered of when he was lad.

Thorin would often, when he had nothing to do, go and watch the ravens, his father had given him his own to watch after when his mother had gone.

It was that raven who had entrusted Hugin to Thorin, who he had promised that the raven would be kept safe in the shire, he shook his head and hurried back into the camp.

“Dwalin! Nori! Get some food and water!” Thorin commanded quickly as he laid the exhausted raven near the small fire.

He heard the others digging through packs to find something for the raven, Fíli and Kíli had moved to Thorin’s side to look at the raven, the lads hadn’t seen many of them yet. Or at least not close up.

Hugin’s feathers were ruffled, his eyes half-lidded as he panted heavily, Thorin could see a desperate gleam in them that sent a shiver down his spine. ‘Have I led this Raven to as worse perils as my kin?’ Thorin thoughts began to swirl.

But not for long as Dwalin was at Thorin’s other side, a strip of dried meat and a small bowl of water in hand. Thorin was focused on the word in front of him once again.

He took them quickly, offering them to the raven with a gentle care he had not used in a while. “Hugin, here, eat and drink,” he urged, his voice soft.

Hugin hesitated only for a moment before he began to eat, the raven’s movements were labored. Nori had come close finally and offered a blanket to Thorin.

Thorin waited for Hugin to take his fill of food and water before wrapping the raven in the warmth of a blanket, Thorin rubbed the bird's head gently.

“What, is a raven doin’ so far this way?” Dwalin asked

“This is Bilbo’s personal Raven, Dwalin he was meant to be in Rivendell, he was to deliver a letter, warning everyone of our arrival” Thorin felt himself say. He gently petted the raven.

“What? Uncle, what do you mean? If that is so why is he-“ Fíli asked quietly.

“I do not know…” Thorin hummed just as quiet.

Nori sighed and looked at the raven “Hugin?” He asked softly “What has brought you here?”

Hugin lifted his head, his beady eyes looking at Nori then locking onto Thorin. “Gandalf… Gandalf sent me,” Hugin croaked, his breath labored gasps “Bilbo… he’s not well. Óin says he’s not well, Gandalf sent me the second time they lost his pulse-he said, you’d be here in the mountains on the western face!”

Thorin’s heart lurched. Bilbo, his Bilbo, was sick and getting worse. The news struck him like a sword though the chest. For a moment, he could only stare at Hugin.

“Bilbo…” Thorin whispered, his voice barely audible. Thorin wasn’t sure if he was breathing, he wasn’t sure if he knew how, he felt very, very far away.

Thorin wasn’t quite sure how long he stood there- till Nori was bracing his shoulders, Thorin couldn’t make anything out really but he knew Nori’s lips were moving and that someone else had a hand on his black and chest.

All he could understand was ringing in his ears, and suddenly Thorin was getting shook. He followed the arms that were shaking him.

Dwalin raised a hand to pat his cheek, as his voice cut through the ring, “Thorin, just breathe lad, breathe-”

Thorin grabbed Dwain’s arm and squeezed it almost desperately, his head stopped spinning so much. “W-We have to move,” Thorin heard himself say, though his voice didn’t feel his own anymore.

Dwalin furrowed his brow and looked over Thorin’s shoulder behind him, “But the storm,” Dwalin looked back at him then to the boys Thorin knew weren’t far away from him.

Thorin forced himself to stand up to his full hight, he felt a bit of a dizzy spell hit him. “I won’t leave Bilbo alone-,” he replied,

“He’s not alone Thorin, Óin and Gandalf is with him, you heard Hugin”

“Dwalin- i refuse to leave Bilbo to suffer without me there, he never left my side, I should have never left his”

There was a moment of silence, the only sound Thorin could make out was his own heartbeat in his ears. Then, slowly, Dwalin nodded his head.

“Okay, alright we’re right behind you.” Dwalin looked up behind Thorin and nodded to everyone else. “Gather what you can,” he ordered. “We leave as soon as Hugin is strong enough to fly.”

Hugin let out a weak caw, making Thorin turn to look at him, the bird shook his head. “No… I’ll fly now. I’ll guide you through the worst of it,” he rasped.

Thorin hesitated a moment before he nodded. “Very well, Hugin. We’ll follow your lead.”

It took them only moments to pack what was necessary and then they found themselves back outside, facing the icy cold and harsh conditions.

The storm raged on as they all but dug themselves out from the snow that had basically buried their camp. It was grueling, each push, each step, each curse.

Thorin’s breath was coming in heavy puffs of steam that froze right back onto his face as he pushed through the blizzard. The cold was biting his face raw and the wind wailed in his ear, but he barely felt it.

“Keep moving!” Thorin shouted over the wind as the others followed him not far behind. “Stay close, and help each other through the drifts!”

The path was barely recognizable, buried under a thick layer of snow, but they pushed on, even as they basically sank into the snow with each step.

The wind tugged at Thorin’s cloak, the snow stinging his face, Dwalin and the others followed close behind him, helping each other as they struggled through the snowdrifts.

It was slow going, the snow was up to their knees in places, to their chest almost in others, but they didn’t stop. They couldn’t, even if they found somewhere to rest.

Hugin flew above them, his dark shape barely visible against the white sky. The raven fought against the wind, guiding them through the worst of the storm.

Hours had passed by the time, the sky began to darken and the last homely house of the elves came into view.

Thorin quickened his pace, his heart pounding loudly in his ears and as they crossed the bridge leading into Rivendell, the storm seemed to ease, as if the very presence of the elven haven was enough to push the raging storm away.

Throin did not slow though, even as he heard the others stagger into a heap in the courtyard, even as Thorn felt his legs want to give up or how his fingers were so cold it hurt to move them.

He was making his way up the stairs in front of him to look for Bilbo, he didn’t know where his hobbit was and he did not have time for any elven nonsense.

He was stopped abruptly by an elf with flowing robes, he couldn’t place the name and he honestly didn’t care to. The elf was followed closely by Tharkûn.

The elf offered a graceful bow that got Thorin glaring dangerously at the elf, “Welcome to Rivendell, Thorin Oakenshield. We’ve been expecting you-“

Thorin brushed past and interrupted the vaguely familiar elf, his eyes scanning the buildings in sight frantically for anything familiar.

“Where is Bilbo? Where is my hobbit!?” Thorin demanded loudly. He whipped around, glaring at the two immortals before him. “You called for me, and I am here. Now, where is he!”

“Thorin…” Gandalf began, stepping forward. His voice was unusually soft. “You cannot see him right now, he has fallen gravely ill. Please, trust me-”

“Tharkûn!” Thorin cut him off, his voice cracking as he looked desperately at the wizard. “Gandalf, do not lie to me. If-” His breath hitched, Throin balled his hands up into a fist as he let out a shaky sigh. “If my hobbit is dying, please, please, let me see him!”

Gandalf lowered his gaze, his silence more damning than words to Thorin. Gandalf sighed heavily. “Thorin…”

Before he could speak further, a sudden flutter of wings interrupted the conversation.

“I know the way, my king!” Hugin cried as he swooped down, he landed on the railing of the staircase. The bird was still panting from the fly down the mountain. “I’ll lead you.”

Without hesitation, Thorin rushed to Hugin, extending his arm for the bird to perch on. The juvenile raven’s talons gripped Thorin tightly as he took his place.

“Thank you,” Thorin muttered. “Lead the way.”

Thorin’s boots echoed loudly then he liked on the stone flooring of Rivendell as he followed Hugin’s directions, the dim halls casting crawling shadows.

Thorin could feel his heart in his throat as he ran down the incredibly unfamiliar halls, finally, they reached a door, Thorin seriously doubted if he would have found this place by himself.

Hugin flew from him and perched on the doorframe. “Here, here! I remember him being here.”

Thorin was quick to shove the door open, hard enough he was sure it would have broken. Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single lamp. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and medicine.

Óin, looking up quickly from leaning over the bed, glaring at whoever just nearly broke the door down, Throin briefly wondered how much the healer had slept or if he had at all.

“Mahâl Thorin!” Óin shouted. “You can’t be in here!” But Thorin barely heard him. His gaze was fixed on the small shap lying in the bed, nearly lost beneath the silky white sheets.

Bilbo’s face was deathly pale, his brow damp with sweat. The golden caramel curls, usually as neat as one could keep curls, were tangled and unkempt, and there was a bandage wrapped around Bilbo’s head.

Thorin’s chest tightened painfully. “Wha-? What happened?” Thorin demanded as he stepped forward to go to his hobbit.

“Thorin,” Óin warned, raising a hand as if to ward him off. “The lad’s been through it. He’s got a nasty head wound from a fall, and it caught an infection. He needs rest.”

Thorin’s fists clenched at his sides, every inch of him was screaming to be at Bilbo’s side. He took another step forward.

Óin moved to block his path more, he glared up at Thorin. “I mean it lad, listen to me Thorin, If you care for him, you’ll keep your distance.”

Thorin opened his mouth, to yell at Óin to get out of his way, but a faint voice stopped him. It weak and so soft Thorin was sure he misheard. Then he heard it again.

“Thorin…?”

It cut through Thorin’s anger like a hot knife. He pushed past Óin, reaching Bilbo’s side before the older dwarf knew what was happening. His hobbit’s eyes were half-open, glazed with fever that left his face red, Bilbo reached a hand up as he searched for him.

“I’m here, Bilbo,” Thorin said, his voice softening as he knelt beside the bed and gently took Bilbo’s hand in his own. The hobbit’s fingers were cool to the touch, and Thorin felt his heart ache. “I’m right here.”

Bilbo’s lips trembled into a faint smile. “Thorin… you made it,” he murmured. “I was worried… you wouldn’t.”

“We’re here, and we’re all safe,” Thorin reassured him, squeezing Bilbo’s hand lightly. “You’ve nothing to worry about now.”

Thorin glanced up at Óin as he made his way to the foot of the bed. “He’s fought hard, Thorin,” the healer said quietly. “… I had moments I thought-well…, he needs rest lad.”

Thorin nodded, though he didn’t take his eyes off Bilbo. “You need to sleep, Bilbo,” he urged gently. “Rest now, and I’ll be here when you wake.”

Bilbo’s eyes fluttered as he tried to resist, his grip on Thorin’s hand tightening ever so slightly. “Promise… you’ll stay?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Thorin’s chest tightened once again. “I promise,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Thorin’s words seemed to ease Bilbo’s mind, and slowly, his eyes drifted closed. Thorin watched Bilbo’s breathing evened out, his soft features relaxing.

After a while, when Thorin was sure that Bilbo was truly asleep, did he finally allow himself to breathe easily.

Óin approached quietly, placing a hand on Thorin’s shoulder. “You should rest too lad.”

But Thorin barely heard him. He was too focused on Bilbo, his heart still pounding. Unfortunately, exhaustion began to catch up with Thorin, the adrenaline ebbing away.

Thorin shifted to sit more comfortably beside the bed, his hand still holding Bilbo’s. The sheer relief of finally being at Bilbo’s side, washed over Thorin in waves, and before he knew it, his eyes began to droop.

As he drifted off to sleep, Thorin’s last conscious thought was of the hobbit beside him, ‘he’s safe’ his mind happily supplied, and to him now, that was all that mattered.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Last chapter really was supposed to go at the tail end of the second chapter but I didn’t want it to be that long and I had to split one chapter into two so think of it as a filler while I make sure that this chapter was really to go.

but also this chapter got out of hand but I can’t post this chapter in twos because the next chapter is the last of it and I really hope this chapter is good enough for now, I'll probably have to fix this later but whatever. Anyway, Have a good day/night.

@m4yh4ps @bllbabaggins

#the hobbit #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #fanfic #bagginshield #thorin x bilbo #dwalin #the line of durin #nori the dwarf #fili durin #kili durin #fili and kili #the hobbit bilbo #the hobbit thorin #thorin company #lord of the rings #beorn

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vyrsgore · 28 days

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Chapter 1: Dear Diary, today i bitch kicked someone

it's all quiet on the north front. at least- it's what you tell yourself whenever you're alone on the ice. which is every day since what happened. It's already 12- you’ve been at this for 3 hours already. "I'm not tired" is your current favorite excuse. You're looping around on the ice, one foot after the other, lifting each one gracefully, ever so often lifting a leg and dipping down so your hand can skim across the ice.

You haven't skated with other people on ice in months now. You don't mind. All you can think about is the same thing- people, people watching, the score, the screams, the reporters crowding as they pushed your shoulder, the lights flashing, burning your eyes as you squeezed through the barriers and felt the tears sting your eyes.

You let out a shaky breath, trying to push down all that anxiety that's built up inside for the last 3 months. "Get it together..." You tell yourself firmly, picking up pace. You try to clear your mind. All you think is to keep moving, all that matters is your blades, the way it glides onto the ice, the way you move around. "Just. Move." You mutter. You start to do a triple- toe loop, but you landed a bit late and fall right onto your ass.

It doesn’t take a lot for you to snap these days. Proven by the way you slam your fist into the ice, already shredded and scratched from your previous forced runs. “Fuck!” you scream, throat shredded raw.

You're just staring down at the ice, breathing heavily, hands clenched into fists. You're angry and frustrated, at everything that's happened over the past few months, yourself, everyone else, and your performance. As you sat on the cold, hard ice, you can feel your heart hammering fast in your chest, the sound of it drumming in your ears. It's a familiar feeling, though, and in that moment, you're not sure if you're going to throw up or start crying. Or maybe both. At once.

The memories begin to surge back again. Cameras flashing, eyes stinging, heart shaking in your ribs, begging, pleading to be set free. You take a deep breath, calming yourself the best you can before getting up again.

"Jesus..." You hear a low, annoyed growl come from the figure that walked in. As you look up and see that familiar mop of messy blue hair, irritation instantly flooded through you. "Of course it's you.." You snap, your voice hoarse and quiet.

“I’m just here to practice,” Scaramouche says, raising his hands in surrender. But it’s obvious he’s judging you.

“Now listen to me” you snap, skating to the barricade so you two are face to face, inches apart so only the glass is separating you two. “You can judge me all you want-”

“Trust me, If I actually gave a fuck, I would. But I don’t” Scaramouche counters.

"Yeah yeah.." You sneer, pushing your face against the glass. Despite your voice being quiet, it's got a hint of venom in it. "You've made that quite clear by your lack of effort in practice lately." You counter, trying to ignore the pang in your chest. It's the same pang you've been feeling every time he's around. The same pang in your chest you've been ignoring for years.

"At least I'm trying to do something with this goddamn career.." You mutter under your breath, watching as he drops his hockey bag against the wall and walks towards the ice.

“Aww, practicing alone, pretty boy?” you laugh, leaning against the barricade, your back against the cool glass that you can feel through the thin compress shirt you’re wearing.

In response, he tosses the puck with his hockey stick, the puck hitting the glass with a bang right next to your face.

“Who said I need anyone to practice with?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

The corner of your mouth curled into a sneer as the puck hit the glass. Damn, he really thought he was doing something with that. Though from the look on his face, he thinks he's done a lot already.

“Really? Because your stickhandling sure says otherwise, dickhead." You reply back. Your lips curl back into a smirk. You know how much that irritates him. You can see the annoyance growing in his dark eyes.

“You really wanna comment on my stick handling?” he sneers. “You couldn’t even land a triple jump on the ice just a minute ago, darlin’.” He snaps back.

“You were watching me?” you say incredulously.

He gives you a look, as if it should be obvious. “Kinda hard not to when you’re falling on your ass every goddamn time.” He replies, as he finally steps into the ice.

“Your form is getting sloppy.” He comments, skating past you slowly.

“Sorry, I don’t take criticism from assholes” you snarl, lifting a foot and stomping it down so you come skidding to a stop.

He rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t, Princess.” He mutters, skating on the ice as he warms up.

“Then again, you’re so sensitive right now. I forgot you need your space because of, oh, right. You’re benched.” He says mockingly, looking back at you.

You let out an incredulous laugh. “Benched? I’m not on a hockey team, dumbass. I’m a figure skater. I’m just-” your voice catches, “on a break”

He snorts in response. “Yeah, a ‘break’. Real funny joke.” He replies sarcastically as he passes by. “We both know that they basically benched you ‘till this blows over.” He says with air quotes, skating circles around you.

“Not that you don’t deserve it, of course. You’re a shitty skater.” He mutters, almost to himself. His words dig into you, but you don’t want him to know that.

“Has a shitty skater won TWTIS six times in a row?” you ask with a snort.

“No, but they’ve been banned from it”

That stings. Big time.

You skate closer, so you two are face to face, no, chest to chest. Other than the fact you’re like a foot shorter than him, so he’s towering over you.

“Watch your fucking mouth, you bastard” you growl, lifting up a hand and poking him in the chest aggressively, “No wonder your mother hates you”

And suddenly you’re being shoved back onto the ice.

Scaramouches expression instantly darkened at your words. Your back hits the ice, but before you can get up, Scaramouche grabs your collar and yanks you up.

“You’re testing all of my patience, you know that?” He growls. You two are standing just inches away from each other. His hand is still grabbing your collar, keeping you up.

“Be careful with what you say next, princess.” He says, his voice dangerously low. His fingers tighten slightly.

“I said stop calling me that!” you snarl, and lift up a hand to shove him off you, but he catches your wrist.

He grips onto your wrist tightly, keeping your arm from moving.

“And I keep telling you to stop acting like a brat.” He snaps back. “Though, at this point, it’s practically a lost cause with you.”

He’s holding you even closer, the grip he has is almost bruising.

Your brows furrow in pain and you curl a foot upwards and kick him in his chest with your blade.

He stumbles back, letting go of your wrist, and nearly falling right onto the ice himself.

“Have you actually lost your damn mind?” He exclaims, grabbing his chest, as if he’s expecting blood to be on his hands.

“You could’ve seriously hurt me! Do you even know how sharp those blades are?!”

“Yeah” you say softly, almost dangerously, “I do. So leave me the fuck alone”

taglist

@scarasbaby@3lectraheart@realscarafan01@sunny-star-space@sleepdeprivedline@keirinrin@skyoverkill1@serossidechick@vxcmx@scaraenthusiast1@hotgirlshit5@moesthoughts@notasunshyne@theyluvkatt@princess-peachys@sanestventisimp@kunikuzushis-darling@heartsforni-ki@fagxx69@scaradooche@osakascool@tinylittlebugger@projectsfantasy@automaticpatroltragedy

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we-loved-once-and-true · 4 months

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Two's a Party, Three's... a Bigger Party

Reader and Javier are friends with benefits who use the cover of overnight jobs to release some tension. When new guy Charles joins the gang, Dutch insists he joins them on one of their trips. Will the presence of this gorgeous stranger throw a hammer in their plans, or are these jobs about to get a lot more fun?

Chapter Two: Whatever Pleases You

Chapter One Tumblr // AO3

5276 words Read on AO3

The journey into West Elizabeth is tense - not quite the reprieve from the heat as you had hoped. A friendly race fuels the fire between you and you couldn't get to that promised hotel bed fast enough.

F!Reader x Javier / porn with plot / reader not described / pre-Blackwater / the camp is Twin Rocks in New Austin / Charles will be in Part 3 / piv sex / oral, fem receiving / cum eating / creampies / wrap it up, cowpoke

// Sorry it took so long to update, I write bit by bit as a hobby and I have a horrible tendancy to overwrite. I hope you enjoy 5k words of sexual tension and smut!

The sun had barely broken the horizon when Javier nudged you awake, placing a cup of freshly brewed coffee on the trunk you used as your bedside. Mostly dressed in his shirt and trousers, he clicked his tongue at your half-asleep figure.

“Buenos días, cariño,” his voice was distant, muffled by the allure of sleep. “¿Estás pensando en levantarte?”

“Mmwha-?” Your throat was dry, and your brain fought Javier's attempts to rouse you.

A faint chuckle responded, “It's time to get up, hermosa chica. We got plans.” The coffee was placed closer to you, the warming smell of roasted beans pulling you fully from your slumber.

Pouting, you sat up and grasped the mug in your hands allowing the smell to envelope you in a caffeinated hug. Javier laughed as he left the tent, making his way over to Pearson's wagon to stock up. You gave yourself a quiet moment to enjoy your coffee, shaking the last of your dreams from your mind. The stubborn hands of dream-Javier slowly slipped from your mind - you didn't have to hold onto your passionate dreams when the real thing would be waiting for you tonight. Yet still, last night the image of him snuck into your bedroll, caressing your skin with warm fingers, whispering Spanish (or rather, your subconscious’ muddled up Spanish) into your ears, gently laying kisses along your collarbone.

You shook your head again. Downing the last of your drink, you stumbled up out of your bedroll to stretch.

Javier watched you from the food wagon, head cocked and smiling, wondering what thoughts you were trying to shake from your mind.

The clacking of your horses’ hooves against the ground was therapeutic; consistent and rhythmic like a lullaby, you risked falling back to sleep. With the heavy and hot air of New Austin finally behind you, you stretched in your saddle and took a deep breath. The two of you had barely crossed the border but you could already feel the shift in climate.

“Feel better already, mi bonita?”

You grinned back to your riding partner, “Much better, guapo!” You giggled as a blush ran up his face.

“Rein it in, vaquera, or we might not make it to Blackwater.” His voice dripped with sweet threats like honey, promising a punishing reward.

Despite the slightly cooler weather of West Elizabeth, the heat of his words cloaked you - not unbearable like New Austin. The way his teasing rolled off his tongue like one of his songs was a sure-fire way to make you weak in your knees. A small fire started to spark low in your stomach, the fuel provided from your prophetic dream the night before. Thankful to be on horseback and not standing, there was no tremble to give away how affected you were by his attentions.

With a devilish smirk, you wrapped your hand around your saddle horn, leaning slightly to readjust your seat - totally accidently raising your ass and arching your back. You shimmied back into the saddle, “Can't help it, cowboy,” you teased back, “I was born to ride. Wild and free!”

Javier's Adam's apple rose in his throat as your words finally caught up to him. Narrowing his dark eyes at you, his face wore an expression somewhere between hunger and ecstasy.

He loved it when you played along.

He considered your retort for a moment before loudly laughing, “Oh, hermosa. You are funny.” Your smirk dropped to a scowl. You were about to argue when he held up a hand and continued. “You think you can ride, huh? Prove it.” Leaning back slightly, he let his left hand sit on his thigh. You could hear your heart beating louder than your horse's steps as you watched him drum his fingers against the denim. “Prove it to me, cariño,” he pulled your attention back to his face, “Race me. Let's see how well you can ride, ay?”

And so the bet was made, the first one to Quaker's Cove would win. When you asked about the prize, he just responded, “Whatever pleases you, mi bonita.”

You both brought your horses to a stop; you leant forward to hand your steed a carrot, once again arching your back. Beside you, Javier fed a few mushrooms to Boaz, not before giving your raised behind a firm smack.

You straightened out and scoffed indignantly at him. You definitely had to win now.

Horses compensated, you counted down.

“Three.”

“Dos.”

“One!”

Your horse grunted in protest, upset to find out the carrot was a bribe, but trotted forward nonetheless. Javier and Boaz raced ahead of you, sprinting being his horse's advantage. You gradually urged your horse into a gallop, not pushing them too hard but quickly falling into step alongside your competitor. He cursed as you rode up beside him.

You called over the wind whooshing past you, “Thought you got ahead of me, huh?”

A glare met your gaze - even in good fun, Javier was fiercely competitive. He dug his spurs into Boaz and pushed forward, refixing his sights on Quaker's Cove coming into view. It wasn't often you pushed Javier's ego, rarely did you want to, but with the swirling fire in your core the idea of winning the vague prize of pleasure had you poking the beast.

He got cocky. He always did. Huffing from Boaz made Javier slow slightly, his fight never turning on those he loves. He'll win, but never at the expense of hurting Boaz. He'd run on foot if he had to.

You took the opportunity to sprint ahead, your horse at full speed. The wind carried your laugh back to Javier. Your braided hair began to fall loose, and you had to release the reins with one hand to secure your hat. Huffs from your horse made you consider slowing, but with Boaz's thundering steps behind you and the finishing line so close, you cheered on your horse. So close, so very close. You could see the wooden shack, the dock, the birds sitting on the water's surface. You were there, you were going to win-

With a deafening cry, your horse reared up, causing you to grab on to them with both hands again. As you calmed your steed, you saw the tail of a rattlesnake slither into a bush.

“It's okay, shh, baby it's okay. Just a snake, you're safe,” you pleaded reassurances with your horse but to no avail. They reared again, this time throwing you off balance.

A strong arm wrapped around your waist and you were pulled from your seat. Expecting to hit the ground, you were surprised to look up at Javier's smarmy face. He slowed Boaz and circled around to your horse, shushing them and finally managing to calm them. He whistled and trotted Boaz down to the finish line, with your horse in tow.

Your panting chest heaved against Javier's, arms thrown around his neck for balance. Strewn side-saddle on his lap, you felt the burning blush creep up from your chest to your face. One hand held you close to him, close enough to smell the leather of his bandolier, close enough to feel his gun press into your hip. Looking past him at your horse, you ignored the triumphant look on his face.

Boaz settled to a stop by the shack, flicking his mane. Your horse nudged your leg as they arrived, as if to apologise. Sighing, you slipped off of Javier's lap and let your horse nuzzle their face against you.

“S'not your fault, baby, it was just a snake. Sorry for pushing ya,” you offered them another carrot and it seemed all was forgotten.

Forgotten, that is, until a distinct cough turned your attention back around. Javier stayed atop of Boaz, his round hat fanning his face, his other hand once again on his thigh. Maybe it was the way he sat, the way his jeans folded, but you could have sworn you saw the seat of his pants straining a little. You didn't think you could blush anymore until you remembered the feeling of his gun against your hip. Was it his gun you felt?

He cleared his throat again, offering a dramatic bow in his saddle, and replaced his hat on his head. “That was some race, cariño. But I think your riding has much to be improved on, ay?”

Squaring up to him, you placed your hand besides his, lightly squeezing the toned muscle of his thigh. “Oh I can ride, vaquero. Just didn't want to bruise your ego. You're a sore loser, Javi, but an even cockier winner.” You let your hand drape across his lap as you returned to your horse.

That was definitely not his gun.

A few hours of gloating, mocking, then comfortable silence later, and you rode into the east side of Blackwater. Glad to get out of the saddle, you swung yourself off the back of your horse and instead led them on foot. You led your horse, Javier and Boaz to the stables where you opted for the horse care package, partly to prepare for the job but mostly to apologise again. You took a deep breath as you left the stables. Blackwater was a coastal town, allowing the sea breeze to soothe your face and clear out the dusty desert air from your lungs.

“Well, chica, it's lunch time. You hungry? Or do you need another siesta?” Arms looped together, the pair of you walked down the road towards the saloon.

“Hmm, a siesta at the saloon? In a nice big bed? What if I get lonely?” You batted your eyelashes, playing coy was a fool-proof way to get Javier's attention.

“A beautiful lady like you? You'd have no problem finding a fella here to keep you company.” The earnest compliment made you dip your head; as accustomed you are to the playing, his genuine care and appreciation of you was something you could never get used to. The playing quickly returned when he lowered his voice for only you to hear, “Although I'd fight any man who tries to take my place in your bed.”

Appetites (mostly) satiated and a room booked for the night, the two of you returned to the streets of Blackwater. The banking coach was due to cross the river that separated the two halves of West Elizabeth, making its way to the north entrance to the town. Saddling up your horses, you and Javier took to the roads once more, scoping out vantage points and hiding places.

According to John, three coaches pass through. One way up ahead, followed by the main coach and security. Crouching behind a small cover of trees, Javier suggested letting the first coach pass, as to not alert the next two. Then, you would both fire on the wheels from either side, stopping them. By the time the first coach would hear the gunshots and turn around, you should already have the guards taken care of. Javier would fight off the final coach as you broke the lock and filled your bag with the money.

It would be a bloody robbery, but when weren't they?

Despite being the main road from Big Valley to Blackwater, there were scarce few riders. It was a small reassurance that no innocent travellers would get caught up, although there would still be blood on your hands tomorrow evening.

As darker clouds rolled in with evening, Javier suggested returning to the hotel, extending a hand to help you up.

“That eager, eh, Escuella?” You let him pull you up, more eager than you were willing to let on.

He scoffed, “Course. Road's been scouted, and I paid for a bed.” His eyes burnt into you, and the fire simmering in your core lurched into flames.

Trying to steady your voice, you said, “Lead the way.”

The key clinked in the lock as Javier pushed the door open. He extended his arm into the room, and you took the first step in. It took all your energy to not shake in anticipation, your eyes noting the bed and not much else.

His ‘gun’ pressed against your hip as your cowboy wrapped his arms around your waist. His lips tickled your neck as he spoke, “So… what was the prize for winning again?” He raised your chin with one long finger, looking deeply into your eyes, “I forgot.” Your breath shook as he released your chin, trailing his hand down to his belt and unbuckled it one-handed. The gun belt thudded on the dresser. “I asked you a question.” His voice was low and commanding.

You swallowed thickly before answering, “Whatever pleases you.”

“Buena chica.”

Finally he kissed you. Plump, chapped lips pressed against yours, prying them open. His teeth nipped at your lower lip, making you gasp and welcoming his tongue into your mouth. The passion did nothing to soothe your fire, instead stroking it into a blaze. His hat fell to the floor as you tangled your fingers into his hair, kissing him as deeply as you could, letting him arch your back and tip you. A strong hand grasped your thigh through your riding skirt, pulling it onto his hip. A relieved moan escaped your lips as you felt his hard member press against your clothed mound. His other hand pulled your shirt from the waist band and was working its way to your corset binds.

Nothing compared to the feeling of Javier's hands on you, stroking you, squeezing you, pleasuring you. Mesmerised by his lips, his caress, you allowed him to remove your corset as you unbuttoned your shirt. With every button his lips trailed down your throat towards your cleavage. As your shirt and corset hit the floor, he gasped like a man drowning in lust.

“Mierda, I never tire of you,” he sighed against your skin, your chest pressing into him with each shuddering breath. Javier pulled back reluctantly to remove his shirt. Not wanting to waste another second, you made quick work of your skirts and boots. When you turned back to him, you gasped at the sight of your lover, already bare-chested and holding his hand out to you.

Legs trembling, you took a slow step towards him, dressed only in your drawers, stockings and chemise. Your braided hair was still messy from the race, and your heart pounded like your horse's hoof beats.

Taking your hand in his, he pulled you close to his chest and wrapped his free hand around your waist. The cotton of your chemise bunched under his grip as he gently swayed you, the gentle dance sending heat to your core as his firm cock pressed against you separated by layers of clothes. Javier nuzzled his face into the slope of your neck, kissing along your jaw, your throat and your ear. “¿Qué me agrada? Hmm,” he sucked sharply against your pulse. “How long has it been since I tasted you, hermosa?” If it weren't for him holding you up, your legs may have buckled beneath you. His lips trailed along your jaw before returning to your mouth, “Get on the bed… quiero devorarte.”

Limbs numb, you stumbled back until the plush bed caught you. Your pussy throbbed at the sight of him standing in front of you, his eyes hard with lust but his smile soft with fondness. You sat with your feet on the floor, your chemise exposing the lace of your bloomers as you coquettishly swung your knees open and closed.

Javier, ever the devout Catholic, fell to his knees with a reverence reserved for the most sacred prayers. His hands rested on your knees, stilling them and sending electric shocks throughout your body. Large brown eyes looked up at you, always asking for consent. At your nod, he slowly pulled the ribbon ties of your bloomers, exposing your thighs to the air, pussy barely covered by your chemise. Diligently, he kissed the scar on your thigh as he did every time, an apology for the messy stitches, and a thankful prayer for you being there. You allowed him to position you as he pleased, propping your heels on the edge and sliding your hips closer to him. The pull of your body shifted your chemise, and finally you were exposed to him.

His gulp was audible as he shifted his hips, attempting to ease the strain in his jeans. Breathlessly, he chuckled, “Oh cariño. ¿Todo para mi? Gracias.”

You keened as his tongue swiped up along your slit, pausing at the top to kiss your mound. Fingers kneaded into your thigh and hip as he kissed and licked up and down your desperate pussy. You squirmed as he ran his fingers along your slit, tickling and teasing you.

“Ja- Javier, please,” you panted, no longer interested in the playful dance you both enjoyed. Days of restlessness had resulted with his handsome face inches away from burying itself in your aching cunt, and you had no intention of waiting any longer. His hair was soft in your hand as you pulled loose his hair tie, the ends tickling your skin. Getting the hint, he placed his fingers either side of your labia, massaging and carefully exposing your clit to the air.

A firm flick of his tongue against your clit nearly made you black out, the rush of burning pleasure making you lightheaded. Strange, the effect this man had on you. Javier continued his perfected craft, flattening his tongue against you applying friction and pressure at the most sensual pace. He worked his way lower, easing into your cunt with his tongue, nuzzling your clit with his nose. Moans vibrated into you, doing nothing to quench the fire building in your gut. His name stuttered out of your mouth in gasps and shuddering breaths.

Humming in approval, Javier returned his tongue to your clit and pressed one long, slender finger into you. One hand gripped his hair tighter, the other clamped across your mouth, muffling your screaming. With a wet pop, he pulled from your clit to look at you, finger still stretching your hole.

“Now, querida, you know that I love to hear you. How else will I know if this,” he ducked to suck your clit into his mouth, rolling it between his lips, “makes you feel good, ay?” A sob tore from you as your hips canted into his face. He grinned, the desperation to bring you to orgasm overpowering his pleasure at teasing you. “Buena chica,” he whispered, kissing your clit and pressing a second finger into you.

His tongue lapped and flicked your clit as his practised digits stretched you. Every time you clenched around his fingers, he pulled out, keeping you on the edge with his tongue before pressing in again. Three fingers curled inside you, brushing against the sweet spot that made you cry out his name. Spitting on your pussy for lube, he started to press his fingers faster and deeper into your fluttering pussy. Sensing your impending orgasm, he sucked hard on your clit, rolling it, flicking it, as his fingers stretched and pistoned in and out, in and out, in and out.

You yelped as you came, thrusting your hips and arching your back as he ate you out through your orgasm. “S-stop, too much, Jav- oh fuck, Javier,” you threw your head back as he kissed your clit once more. The rustling of his jeans sounded distant and muffled as your head swam with ecstasy. A kiss on the inside of your knee, still covered by your stocking, brought you back from your dream-like state. You sat up, batting your lashes up at him as the bulging press of his cock threatened to break free from the union suit.

“You are so beautiful, you know?” Pulling your hair from your ribbon, he stroked your cheek and ducked down to kiss you tenderly.

Compliments came freely from Javier, spilling from him like his songs, expressive and full of passion. They flowed from his lips, his touches, his thrusts. It was just sex, but you both allowed yourselves the pretence of deeper intimacy at the peak of orgasms. Never saying, but always feeling the split-second of love between you. A feeling that would be long gone by morning, replaced with friendly banter and sex drunk chatting.

Swooning under his gaze, you lowered your eyes to his bulge. Your hands released him and you felt your cunt clench at the sight of his swollen cock. Licking your lips, you leant forward, but a finger under your chin stopped you. "Eager girl," he purred, "but why don't you make yourself comfortable, ay?" His dark eyes watched you scoot back on the bed, tongue darting out to taste the remaining sweetness of your cunt on his lips. Your drawers were left on the floor beside the bed, your chemise quickly joined it. Relief flooded your body as you laid back, the plush pillow cradling your head like a cloud. If it weren't for your lover desperately kicking the leg of his union suit off, you could have fell asleep. Your bedroll was as comfortable as you could make it, but it wasn't a four poster bed by any means.

Your dreamy musings were interrupted when a warm hand pressed against your thigh, “Mi ángel, si tan solo pudieras verte a ti misma.” In these moments, Javier's internal translater often shut down. English just didn't have the words he needed, the words he felt. His panting Spanish was hard to follow sometimes, but in the haze of an orgasm you doubted you could hear anything.

Looking down your body towards Javier, your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him kneeling between your knees, cock leaking precum onto his toned stomach. With one hand on your thigh and the other holding his cock at the base, he pretended to take pause. “What will please me?” He hummed as he slowly stroked his dick, “Tasting more of you? Having you scream my name until all of Blackwater knows who you are bedding?” His fingers tapped down your thigh back to your dripping pussy. A slow stroke up your slit in time with his own stroking made you tremble. “Or,” he pondered, sliding his hand back up your thigh, “will that pretty little mouth please me? Hmm? Please me until I am satisfied? Ay, I know how much you love the weight of me in your mouth.” You whimpered under his stare, pliable to him and his whims.

Sometimes he was gentle, sometimes he was rough, but always passionate. He knew your body as well as you knew his; your fingertips would trace his v-line, your lips would find the hollow between his collar bones, your tongue mapping out his scars and freckles in the darkness.

Nights like tonight, he liked to drag out your pleasure for as long as he could. To tease you, tempt you, and torture you was the highlight of these stolen nights with you. Two strong hand grabbed the flesh of your hips, pulling you closer to him. His heavy balls pressed against your aching cunt, promising you a night of endless pleasure.

“I can feel how wet you are, hermosa. Mierda, you're so pretty when you blush like that,” a small roll of his hips gave away his need: brushing his balls against your clit, a shuddering breath escaped him. You swallowed thickly at the thought of him I'm your mouth, your pussy, anywhere. The longer Javier made you wait, the more you needed.

He pressed both hands against your thighs, spreading your legs open in front of him.

“How will I take you? Huh?”

A sharp but gentle slap against your cunt made you gasp. “I asked you a question. Should I spread you like this? ¿Tan abierta y necesitada para mí?” Lifting your ankles to his shoulders, he leant forward to hover over your face, stretching your legs. The best angle for a fast and deep fuck, he considered it for a moment. “You like this one, don't you, mi putita?” In contrast to how he spoke, he kissed you gently, a reminder that you could say no, that he would make love to you. A reminder you didn't need.

“Please, Javier, I need you.”

His eyes widened, “Yeah? You need me, ay?” Suddenly he pulled back, your legs falling back on the bed. “Roll over.”

Excited to finally have him take you, you flipped over, bouncing on the bed as you landed. A hand on your back steadied you as the bounce had him wobble. “Careful, cariño, you're gonna fall off.”

Giggling, you wiggled your ass at him. Another smack against your ass made you sigh. “Ass up, now.”

Getting yourself into position, you could hear his moaning as he stroked his cock behind you. Your body jolted forward as the head of his cock parted your pussy. Groans filled the room like his music as he rubbed his cock in your slick. “Mierda, mi putita siempre tan mojada y lista para mi, ahh-” his words caught in his throat as he pushed his head against your tight hole. Despite his earlier preparation, you were always tight for his thick cock.

The pressure of his pleasure against your pussy made you keen; arching your back, you pushed back against him, thoughts completely consumed by him.

Him. Him. Him.

Every inch of your body buzzed, drowning out Javier's voice from behind you. You had enough talk. A sharp pinch alerted you to his cock entering you, a brief discomfort of that initial breach. Soothing coos and a hand massaging your hip eased the tension and you quickly relaxed against him. His hard and hot cock slowly pushed deeper into you; his hands slammed against the mattress either side of your head as he finally bottomed out.

Heavy pants against your neck made you shiver and clench around him, earning a deep moan from your lover above you.

“Amor, por favor. Déjame, te necesito,” Javier begged, no longer interested in the game. You moaned out a yes and, without missing a beat, he pulled out and snapped his hips back against you.

His strong thrusts rhythmically pounding into you forced you forwards, your chest and face collapsing into the plush quilt. The silky fabric rubbed against your burning skin, building you towards total ecstacy. Two toned hands gripped your hips, as Javier straightened up and angled his thrusts to hit your g-spot.

Stars swam in your vision as all you could feel was Javier. The way he filled you, the way he held you, the way his moaning serenaded you.

Slowed thrusts and a distant call of your name snapped you out of your heady pleasure, “Huh?”

“I asked if you're okay? You're not very responsive.” There was caring and loving kind Javier, concerned for your well-being as ever.

“Huh? Yes, yes it just - fuck -” you panting and pushed yourself up again, “it's just been so long and - God this is embarrassing - I really needed y- this.”

You cringed as you felt him pull out, worried that you had scared him off. Admitting your addiction to the way he fucked you was maybe too heavy for a hook up.

“Cariño, turn over. Look at me.” You obeyed, surprised to see a soft expression in his eyes. “Tell me what you need.”

Tears filled your eyes at his gentle order, your need for him overwhelming you from your core to your heart. “You.”

A sincere smile kissed you, tilting your head back against the pillow and returning his hands to your sex. Gentle stroking of your clit made you gasp into his mouth and cant your hips against him. You swallowed Javier's moan as he again entered you, his cock throbbing as he made love to you.

With one hand lifting your leg over his hip and his over caressing your breasts, he rocked into you, replacing the burning rush of pleasure with a more sensual satisfaction. Your pussy fluttered as his cock pressed against your g-spot and his fingers travelled from your thigh to your clit. Whispered praise and encouragement between kisses made your heart throb.

“Buena chica, tomándolo todo. Joder, no hay nadie como tú, ni coño como el tuyo. I feel you getting close, ay does it feel good when I grind against you like this?”

Little shocks of erotic delight pulsed with every slow, deep, rolling thrusts of Javier's hips. Your heart pounded and your breaths became irregular gasps. Throwing your head back you arched into him, gasping and moaning his name like a prayer.

Encouraged by your reaction, Javier sped up his thrusts, making sure he hit that spot each time, forcing a grunt from his chest.

A tremble shook your leg as your orgasm approached, “Oh - oh! Fuck, Javier, I'm so - oh fuck -”

“I know,” he grunted, his own building orgasm clearly pushing him to the edge, “Let go, cariño, cum for me. Come for your papi, ay?” He teased as you keened and writhed beneath him. The silk sheets creased in your fists as you loudly moaned his name. Electricity sparked throughout your body, blinding you, deafening you, making you unaware of anything but him.

He fucked you through your orgasm, his voice and thrusts getting shakier as you came around him. His thoughts were full of you: your face, your voice, your body.

Your climax descended into post-orgasm bliss and you blinked up at him. Javier, in your opinion, never looked more handsome than the moment before he cums. Loose, dark hair stuck to his blushed and sweaty face. Parted plump lips panted your name between pleading wishes and blasphemy. Toned muscles tense and roll with every shuddering thrust.

Dark and desperate eyes caught yours, “Please, where? ¿Dónde puedo correrme? Por favor, por favor, cariño. Necesito, decirme dónde - joder!” He shook as you wrapped your legs tighter around him, keeping him deep in your pussy.

You kissed him sweetly, massaging his shoulders and back, “You work so hard, do so much for all of us. Let go, Javi, just this once, papi, cum in me- oh!” A hot spurt of cum filled your pussy, sending orgasmic aftershocks through you. Javier thrust weakly a few more times, desperate to not waste the chance.

You laid beside eachother, panting and heaving breaths finally calming back to normal. You went to excuse yourself but Javier pulled you back, causing your body to once again bounce on the bed.

“Let me, just stay for a moment,” he held you tightly. Aftercare was always as good as the sex. Kisses, praises and gentle touches soothed you both.

Javier let go, shuffling to the edge of the bed and picking up his bandana from the bedside table. Returning to his place between your legs, he ran the cloth up and down your legs. Sighing, you relaxed into the bed, eyes dropping closed as your lover removed the excess of sweat and your wetness that had dripped from you moments before. A sudden kiss your pussy made you buck up into a sitting position. Your shocked expression was met with a devious smile as Javier licked up your slit, collecting his spilling cum on his tongue. Open mouthed, you stared back at him. He took the opportunity to kiss you, and you hungrily accepted his cum for a second time.

“Buena chica, always so good for me.” His nose nuzzled into your neck licking and kissing everywhere he could reach.

“I could say the same to you, papi,” you half-heartedly teased.

Javier's attention snapped back to you, “Now, querida, don't get me started again.”

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thetriumphantpanda · 1 year

Text

Ghost Of You | J. Miller (Chapter 3)

Series Summary / Grief is a strange thing. In the beginning it had been all-consuming. There wasn’t a moment of the day where you didn’t cry, didn’t ask yourself why it couldn’t have been you instead. And no-one ever explains the guilt you feel when it isn’t anymore. When it’s just a dull ache and you can finally breathe again, when you can start letting people get close to you again. People like Joel Miller.

Pairing / Joel Miller x Widow F!Reader

Word Count / 3.7K

Warnings / Descriptions of grief and depression, alcohol consumption but nothing else I can think of.

Series Masterlist / Main Masterlist

The next morning, Joel is hammering on Tommy’s front door as early as is acceptable. It takes him a few minutes to answer the door, frustration written on his face that Joel had interrupted his morning coffee with his wife.

“You wanna come in?” He asked, “We’ve got enough for an extra mug.”

Joel accepts, sitting down at the table with Maria whilst Tommy fixes his coffee, “So, to what do we owe the pleasure, brother?” Tommy finally asks when he’s sat back down at the table.

“What are y’all doin’ tonight?”

Tommy glances at Maria like any husband does when he’s not sure whether she’s made plans for them or not, she shakes her head, “Nothin’,” Tommy then answers, “Why?”

Joel takes a deep breath, “I asked sweet pea for a drink tonight and now I’m thinkin’ it would probably be better if there were people there she actually knew, y’know, so it doesn’t feel like a date?”

Tommy has a look of confusion on his face, “Who the hell is sweet pea?” He asks.

Maria obviously kicks his leg under the table. Joel watches as she gives him a look and then a flash of recognition is appearing on his face, “She got a nickname already, that’s fast, even for you.”

“Tommy please,” Joel begs, “I’m asking you a favour.”

“And is it?” He asked, “Y’know, a date?” Maria swats a hand on his bicep, “What?!” He exclaims, “I’m just makin’ sure I got all the facts.”

“Of course it’s not a date,” Joel grumbles, “I told you, I just don’t think it’s right she doesn’t feel like she can’t go anywhere, has to spend all her time cooped up in that house.”

“Well, I for one think it’s a great idea,” Maria adds, “Although how you’ve managed to get her to agree to it in less than a week when we’ve been trying for months I won’t ever understand.” She’s smiling though, which Joel takes as a good thing.

“I’m pickin’ her up at six so just meet us at the bar, alright?” He’s standing to leave now.

“Will do,” Maria stands and gives him a quick hug, “And thank you Joel, really, for whatever you’re doing for her.”

It’s late afternoon, Joel is sitting at the table in the kitchen, warm cup of coffee in his hands, pouring over some maps Tommy had given him of the patrol routes so he could prepare himself to go out instead of doing wall patrol. Ellie comes bounding in through the front door, dropping her backpack on the floor.

“Have fun?” He asks, she’s been with Dina since early this morning and he’s happy that she’s finally starting to make friends.

She nods, walking through to the kitchen to get herself a glass of water from the tap, “Listen, I’m heading out tonight, with your Uncle Tommy and Maria, you gonna be alright by yourself?”

“Where are you going?”

“Just for a drink or two at the bar.” He replies, meeting her eyes, “What’s that look for?”

“Can I come?”

He was about to protest, tell her that no, she couldn’t come. He never would have taken Sarah to the bar with Tommy before all this, but then that’s usually because he would spend his nights nursing a single drink whilst Tommy tried to pick someone up, before driving him and his lady back to Tommy’s place. This was different, just a family having a good time. And if he brought Ellie, surely that was more proof to you that he didn’t think of this as a date. You wouldn’t take your kid on a first date, would you?

He shrugs his shoulder, “Sure, but no alcohol, you hear me?”

She makes a cross over her heart, “Cross my heart.”

He chuckles, “Well, go and have a shower and get ready, we’re heading out at six.”

A few streets over, you’re sat on your bed with your head in your hands trying not to cry. You have no idea why, but for the first time since the outbreak happened, you’re worried about what to wear. You remembered these dilemma’s from before. Sitting with your roommates before a night out discussing which of you was wearing a dress, who was going for a skirt and which of you was wearing jeans. It never really seemed to matter beyond the fact that none of you wanted to look like carbon copies of each other, but for some reason, this matters.

You can’t place your finger on why though. You hadn’t ever cared what you wore around Mark. You weren’t trying to impress Joel – it was, after all, just a drink between friends. You’d circled the same three outfits from your wardrobe since Mark’s death – an old pair of jeans, or shorts when it got warm, and one of three plain t-shirts, two black, one white. The odd tank top for days in the garden or your thick jacket for the winter.

It was warm outside, so you’d initially pulled one of two dresses you owned out of the wardrobe. Maria had traded it with you when you first arrived – it fell just above your knee and was a pale yellow colour. Short sleeves and a low neckline. It would have been perfect. If it wasn’t for the fact that you knew people would talk. Not only were you walking into the bar for the first time since your husband died, but you’d be doing it with Joel Miller in a silly little sundress. No, you wanted to make yourself as invisible as possible, to make this as easy as possible.

Finally settling on a pair of shorts and the cleaner of the black t-shirts, you bend into your wardrobe for your boots, you’re fumbling around in the dim light but finally feel what you’re looking for but pulling them out you realise these are not the boots you wanted.

They’re a pair of simple, brown cowboy boots. Mark had found them in a house just a few months before you stumbled into Jackson. He’d remembered a conversation you’d had when you were back in the QZ, one of the very first nights you’d slept together. You were splayed over his chest, hands running circles with your fingertips, talking about what you’d buy if you could go back to outbreak day and waste your money, knowing what was coming.

He'd been practical, something about a bow and arrow to be able to get rid of infected without drawing the attention of others with the sounds of gunshots. You’d said a pair of cowboy boots. You’d always wanted some, and if this was going to be the last thing you could ever buy, it would be those.

He’d got his signature grin on his face as he pulled them from behind his back and you swear if you were remembering right that you cried. He’d managed to fit them in your backpack with the promise that one day you’d be able to wear them to a barn dance or something, when you were safe and found a community. He hadn’t been wrong. The first fall in Jackson there had been a barn dance and you’d put them on and danced until you got blisters.

They were dusty now, having been pushed to the back of the wardrobe and forgotten about in grief, but looking at them now there was a spattering of joy through your blood. You loved them. You would wear them. You sat on the edge of your bed, slipping your feet into them. They fit like a glove, almost like you’d gone straight to Nashville and had them made for you. You looked up to the ceiling, trying to imagine the sky above it and whispered a thank-you to Mark. You weren’t particularly religious, but it was a comfort to think he was out there somewhere.

As you sat and waited for the clock to tick down to six, you realized that if he was out there somewhere, watching you, that he would be horrified at what you’d become. He’d hate that you were miserable, unable to do even the most basic tasks at the beginning of your grief. He’d want you to go out and make new friends, to enjoy the life you had left, no matter how hard it might be.

“Joel, the bar is this way, where are you going?”

“We have to go get someone first.” He replies to Ellie, walking in the opposite direction.

She starts following, “Tommy and Maria?” She asks, when she’s finally caught up to him.

“No, they’re meeting us there.”

“Ohhhh,” She drags out, “Pie lady.”

“Ellie, she has a name!” Joel exclaims.

“I know, but that pie was fucking great,” She beams, “So, you’re bringing your entire family on your date?”

“It’s not a date,” Joel grumbles, “Listen, she’s been goin’ through some stuff, so I’m just try’na be nice to her, make things a bit easier.”

“Sure you are,” Ellie smirks, “You fix anyone else’s steps so far, old man?”

“Ellie…” He almost moans at her, he’d not missed this side of things, Sarah was always poking fun at him when he’d been on a few failed dates back in the day, “Just be nice to her okay?”

“I’m always nice,” She counters, “I heard Maria and Tommy talking about her a few days ago, you don’t have to worry about me.”

Joel took a moment at the bottom of your steps before he walks up and knocks a few times on your door. You’d been on the other side for a few minutes, pacing lightly trying to keep yourself calm. You waited long enough to make it seem like you hadn’t been right behind it waiting for him to knock before you opened the door.

Joel had to take a moment when you opened the door. Your hair looked freshly washed, flowing down your back and around your cheeks. You had a pink tinge to your cheeks as if you’d been rushing around to get ready and he couldn’t help letting his eyes wander to your shorts and down your legs, before shooting his eyes back to your face.

“Ready?” He asks, clearing his throat.

“As I’ll ever be,” You reply, stepping out and closing your door behind you, when you turn back around you notice that there’s a girl stood just behind him, “You must be Ellie, right?”

“The one and only,” She grins, giving you a little wave, “Nice boots.”

“Thanks,” You give her a genuine smile, “It’s lovely to meet you finally.”

Joel is shifting to walk down the steps of the porch, so you follow him, trying to choke down the nerves in your belly. Ellie is making light conversation, telling you about the riding lesson she’d had yesterday whilst Joel was building your chairs. She seems genuinely excited about it, mentioning she’d ridden horses before with Joel before they arrived but wanted to learn properly. There was something about her excitement that put you at ease. Joel was quiet but kept looking over and smiling as she spoke.

Before you knew it, you were outside The Tipsy Bison. You could hear the chatter behind the closed doors and panic was rising. You came to a stop, Ellie walking in front of you. Joel motioned for her to go inside but kept his place by your side. You could feel his hand come to your lower back, but all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears.

“Hey, you alright?” His voice was so low and deep, breaking through the rising panic.

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and tipping your head back, “I didn’t think it would be this hard.” You whimpered.

“It’s alright, sweet pea, I’m right here,” His hand presses further into your back, “It’s a big step, but think how good it’ll feel once you do it.”

You take a few more deep breaths, wringing your hands like you always do when you panic, before you turn your head to look at him, he’s taller than you and he’s looking down at you with those calm, brown eyes. He’s not pushing you, just waiting for you to be ready.

“Okay,” You nod, “I guess we just need to rip the plaster off.”

You take a step forward and Joel follows you, keeping his hand on your lower back. He pushes open the door and you didn’t really know what you were expecting, but no-one really stops their conversation. No-one even looks up at you. It calms you. Joel waves at a table and you can see Ellie sat at it with Tommy and Maria. Even more calm flows over you, all your friends are here. Everyone who would fight your corner for you are here.

“Why don’t you go and sit down, let me get you a drink?” Joel asks, you nod, “What do you want?”

“I haven’t been here in ages, but Shane used to make blackberry wine,” You speak, “If that’s not there then whatever you have is fine.”

You drop your head to look at the floor, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, as you head to the table. Maria greets you with a hug, and Tommy is stood squeezing your arm as you wrap it around her neck, “So proud of you, doll.” She whispers into your hair, and you can feel tears prick at your eyes. You’re damn proud of yourself too.

You take the seat that’s empty between Ellie and Maria, which puts your back to the rest of the room. It makes you feel safer, not being able to make eye contact with people. There’s quiet around the table until Joel places a glass of dark red liquid in front of you, you look up at him and smile, saying a quiet thank you before he takes the other empty seat across the table from you.

“Looks like it’s time for a toast,” Tommy beams, lifting his glass of whiskey, the rest of the table follow him, “To friends.”

You smile and you all clink your glasses together. You take a sip of your wine, trying to push away the memory of the last time you’d drunk it, just after Mark’s funeral. Maria had brought you a bottle to your house, trying to give you something to ease the pain. You’d drunk the entire bottle that evening, wiping away so many tears you didn’t know where they were coming from anymore. The hangover the next morning had been horrific, so you’d sworn then that it wasn’t the answer. This was your first drink since then.

It was warming through your stomach, sweet and sticky, almost like medicine, but you have to pace yourself. You really want to drink the whole thing in one go and go back for another, but you put the glass down and instead try and zone into the conversation around the table.

Ellie leans closer to you, “That pie was fucking awesome,” She grins, “I’ve never had anything quite like it, will you teach me how to make it?”

You look to her and smile, you really like this girl, “Of course, you’ll have to wait for me to get my next round of rations, but it’s super easy.”

“Do you always make it with strawberries?”

You shake your head, “You can make pie with pretty much any fruit, my favourite before all this used to be apple pie, my mum used to make it with loads of cinnamon, and we’d have it warm with ice cream.”

“Looks like she’s made a miraculous recovery, all of a sudden.”

Dread sinks into your stomach when you catch the voice walking behind you, this is what you’d dreaded. The opportunity to laugh and forget for a few hours and people were judging you. You were waiting for the usual comment that you’d heard before, “If she can sit here and laugh, why can’t she start contributing again.” There wasn’t time for anyone to add anything else though, because Ellie was whipping around in her seat.

“What did you just say?” She snaps, and you close your eyes, you don’t want her to get into an argument for you.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise we were being listened to.” You knew that voice, Vanessa. Her husband had been killed on patrol probably a year before Mark died. You envied her when you went through losing Mark, how she’d managed to bounce back after a few weeks, and you were sure that she envied the way you’d been given a pass to just float through until you were ready to become a real member of the community again.

“Yes, you did,” Ellie retorts, standing from her chair, “It was loud enough for everyone to hear.”

“Ellie, sit down.” You hear Joel ask, you look at him briefly, hoping your eyes could express how sorry you were for this.

“No, this is bullshit,” Ellie continues, “It’s not fair for them to say that about you,” She looks to you this time, “You have as much right to be here as anyone.”

“Ellie, that’s enough, mind your language.” Joel is standing now, as are Tommy and Maria, but you remain seating with your back to the room, trying not to let the hot tears of frustration fall from your eyes.

“How about you just head back to your table, Vanessa?” You can hear Tommy say to try and diffuse the situation, it’s muffled in your ears, the blood rushing around them again. You’re trying to listen to your heartbeat to stop the rising panic in your chest.

You assume that Tommy’s involvement means Vanessa does as she’s told because Ellie is sat next to you again, and you can feel Maria’s hand on your shoulder, “Are you alright, honey?” She asks, kneeling to grab your attention.

You shake your head, and as always, someone’s kindness towards you is what tips you over the edge, you let a single tear drop down your cheek, furiously wiping it away, “I think maybe I’ll just go home.”

Maria knows better than to push you in these situations, she squeezes your knee slightly and nods in understanding.

“Let me walk you.”

You look up to Joel for the first time, his jaw is clenched and his eyes, which are looking straight into your own, are full of guilt. This was his idea and it put you in this situation, “Okay.” You nod, standing up, leaving your half-finished glass of wine on the table. You don’t wait for him; you make a beeline for the exit and down the steps.

He catches up to you a little way down the street, no doubt making sure that Ellie would be alright with Tommy and Maria whilst he drops you off. He doesn’t speak and doesn’t try to place that comforting hand on your back either, just walks next to you in silence.

“I’m sorry.” Is all he says when you arrive at your front door.

“It’s okay Joel, it wasn’t your fault.” You reassure, leaning on the front door.

“It was my idea though, I’m sorry she said that to you.”

You shrug, “I didn’t have to agree to go with you, neither you nor I can control what other people say.”

“It’s still not fair that people think it’s okay to talk about you like though.”

You shrug, “It’s my own fault really,” You always did this, brough it back yourself and your strength, or the lack of it, “They’re not wrong, I haven’t contributed to the community in over a year, I spend all of my time trying to avoid having to go back to normal because it’s easy, it’s easy to sit and do what I’ve always done, day in and day out.”

He steps forward and takes your hands in his and for a moment you’re slightly overwhelmed by how they dwarf your own. Calloused and hard against the soft of your own skin, “Please don’t do that,” He implores, looking into your eyes, “Don’t minimize your pain, don’t say it’s easy, because it’s not,” He sighs, “People should understand that we all heal differently when we lose someone, I don’t know what her problem was, but please don’t stand in front of me and pretend she was right,” You’re almost overwhelmed by his thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the tops of your hands, so much so that another tear falls from your eye, “You never have to pretend with me.”

His next move is unexpected. He lets go of one of your hands and uses his palm to cup your cheek. He brushes away the trail of tears that had fallen a moment ago, and you feel his thumb catch the one that falls when you close your eye and briefly let yourself be taken away by his touch. No-one had touched you like this since Mark and for a moment you enjoyed it. Almost like he could sense the quickening of your breathing as panic rose through you again, he drops his hand, letting your other hand go before he pulls you into a hug.

Instinctively, you wrap your arms around his waist and breathe in the scent of his jacket. There’s a hint of the washing powder from the laundry room, there’s a hint of tobacco which you think might be from the standard issue body soap that is issued to the men in Jackson, homemade in Brenda’s kitchen, and then something that is distinctly Joel. Before you can get too wrapped up in it, he’s whispering a “Sorry.” Into your hair and pulling back. You wonder what he’s actually sorry for – what happened before? Or the way he’d touched you. You don’t ask because you’re not ready for the answer.

He pulls away and finally steps away from you, “You’re hell of a man Joel Miller,” You whisper softly, “Thank you.” Thank you for being you. You want to say. Thank you for pushing me, even though I don’t think you realise you are right now. You want to add. But you leave it where you left it.

“You’re hell of a woman too, sweet pea.”

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Consort and King [IronStrange]

Summary: Anthony Stark, King of Midgard, needs a spouse. Whether he wants one or not. So he accepts an arranged marriage with the Prince of Kamar-Taj – a man he has never met in his life to the day they are standing in front of each other at the altar, speaking their vows. Is it possible that the feeling of duty grows into something more? Will their future be happy?

Relationship: Tony Stark / Stephen Strange

Tags: arranged marriage au, royal au, strangers to husbands, enemies to lovers, slow burn, idiots in love, fluff, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, all the good stuff

Chapter 6: A Picnic

Tony was in the castle's forge, swinging his hammer. Peter assisted him. The boy was a fast learner and a great help; he got the fire going while Tony pulled out a piece of metal with a pair of long tongs, inspecting it.

It was hot enough and he moved it onto a large anvil.

Peter swapped places with him, so that the boy was now holding the tongs while Tony grabbed a big hammer.

Both of them were used to the loud clang of the iron tool hitting the metal; still it was ringing in their ears. It was hot in the forge due to the never-dying fire. They had stripped down to their linen undershirts, but were still sweating from the heat and the work.

It was important to Tony that Peter was involved in every step of the process and learned the art of blacksmithing. The boy loved it. Especially when he was allowed to wield the hammer himself under the supervision of the king. His strikes not yet strong enough to do much; it was mostly the weight of the hammer working for him.

But Peter had reached an age where he grew fast. And with him his strength.

So now the two of them were still working on a sword that Peter did not yet know would one day become his.

"Go get the other hammer," Tony instructed him.

Peter ran to the wall where larger tools were lined up and grabbed the right one without Tony having to specify.

"Did you know that Sir Strange hasn't been outside of the capital yet?" the boy asked back at Tony's side, "How about we take the horses for a ride? With some food?"

"Sure, why not." Tony was always glad to escape the palace for a few hours these days. Not necessarily with Strange, but if Peter wanted him to join Tony would not object.

It could be quite fun.

It was certainly better than listening to the boring and dry rants of the court members anyway.

_____________

A few days later, Tony stepped into the box stall of his light gray horse Friday and put a head collar on her. She nudged his jacket’s pocket where she knew he was hiding treats. But she had to wait until later for them. Instead he petted her neck. “Patience, girl.”

He led her out of the box and two stable boys came over to saddle her and prepare her for the ride. The mare let it happen calmly, familiar with the procedure, and enjoyed the attention she received from Tony.

He noticed out of the corner of his eye when Stephen entered the stable. "I see Peter has successfully persuaded you too."

The consort nodded. “He was very persistent that I join you.”

Tony chuckled. “Yep, that’s Peter.”

Stephen stepped to his side and looked at Friday. "She's beautiful. Strong ankles, clear eyes.” He appreciated a thoroughbred when he saw one, even if he wasn’t a fan of riding horses anymore.

“She’s my favorite,” Tony said proudly. “Don’t tell her brothers though.” Then he pointed to a chestnut horse. "Levi was saddled for you. He can be a little stubborn, but he’s loyal until the end – if he likes you.”

Stephen's eyes follow his gesture to another horse. Levi was tall and sleek but strong. A fine horse. Its color was almost identical to Stephen's last horse. The one that had been involved in his accident – the horse hadn’t had a chance to survive their fall.

Stephen tried not to think about it. Midgard had less steep cliffs than Kamar-Taj. He would be fine.

He had been sitting on horses since then. A few times. It wasn’t very likely that he would ever enjoy riding again. But it was a means to an end. A common way of traveling. In his opinion though, portals were much more convenient.

But now he was in the situation where he had agreed to the picnic – and really, it was probably impossible to refuse a request from Peter when he made his puppy eyes. So he pulled himself together and stepped in front of the chestnut colored horse, offering it his palm.

He wore his gloves, so it was fine. No need to be nervous about anything.

“Hello handsome,” he cooed.

Curiously, Levi moved his nostrils to Stephen's open hand. Intelligent black eyes watched him. But when Stephen tried to pet the horse, Levi dodged his hand and stepped closer to nick at Stephen's cheek.

The consort pushed the horse's neck aside. "Hey!" He wiped the horse drool from his face.

Tony, who had watched the encounter, chuckled. “I knew you two would get along.”

Stephen hmpfed. He wasn’t so sure about that. But at least his husband had fun. He patted the horse’s neck, before turning back to Tony.

“Where’s Peter?” he asked, because the boy hadn’t arrived yet.

Tony glanced around and came to the same conclusion: it was unusual that the boy was late. So he ordered one of the stable boys to go fetch him.

In the meantime, Stephen re-checked all the straps and girths of his saddle and its equipment. It wasn't that he didn't trust the staff – he knew Tony had capable people. He just needed to make sure for his own mind.

“I figure riding was also a big part of your education growing up?” Tony asked him.

“It was,” Stephen agreed. “I find that magic has more convenient ways of travel though.” He failed to mention his accident in this context. He didn’t want his husband’s pity.

“I heard about portals. Thank you for not opening one right into the throne room on our wedding day. People would have been shocked.” Tony would probably be one of those people. He had only seen portals after the wedding and the alliance between the realms. And while he saw the benefits of them, he wasn’t sure if he trusted them personally.

“There are actually rules for it,” Stephen explained. “We don’t open portals to a destination without their consent. We had no such agreement back then, so we portaled to the border of Midgard. Also, I have to know a place or at least see a painting of it.”

He faced Tony as he spoke, which seemed to displease his horse. It demanded his attention by nudging his shoulder again and again. Stephen petted its head absently, but that wasn’t enough in Levi’s opinion.

He gently shoved the consort, which earned him a nasty look from Stephen – which the horse didn't care about.

Tony was clearly amused about the whole ordeal.

A stable boy stepped up to the king’s side. “Your Majesty, Parker says he’s very sorry but he has important duties to tend to and cannot join you. He insists that you take Consort Strange for a ride anyway and show him the beauty of your kingdom.”

Tony raised an eyebrow and dismissed him with a gesture. The stable boy bowed again and then disappeared. Tony looked at Stephen. “What do you think about that?”

“I think that the boy is trying to set us up.”

“Clearly,” Tony agreed, amused. His gaze, still on his husband, became more playful. “Is it working?”

Stephen looked from Tony to Levi, thinking about it. It was the perfect excuse not to get in the saddle. There were enough duties waiting for him that he could do instead. Or he could just read a book. Or drink tea.

His mind wandered to his study, where he spent most of his time when he wasn't supporting Tony in court.

He liked the seclusion of his own space. Though there were enough servants in and out that could be considered company in a broader sense.

Still, in the long run it became a bit lonely.

Stephen’s eyes focused back on Tony. “They already packed the food, didn’t they? It would be a shame not to have a picnic.”

Tony rewarded him with a smile. “Exactly. There’s a beautiful place at the creek I want to show you. It’s perfect for a picnic.”

It shouldn't really surprise Stephen that Tony had already given it such thought – even though the whole thing had been Peter's idea. He learned that his husband was constantly making plans for everything, his mind running a mile a minute.

It warmed Stephen's heart and he decided that he had made the right decision in agreeing.

But now he had to face the task that was mounting Levi. While Tony went to his own mare, Stephen looked at his horse in earnest.

"I need you to be still for a moment here, okay?"

Or this might end up in a panic attack.

With the reins in his left hand, he grabbed the saddle’s pommel and reached for the stirrup with his other hand.

Levi glanced at him, waiting.

Stephen swallowed his fear, because his husband was already hoisting himself on his own saddle. Stephen would not back down. He put one foot in the stirrup and called upon his magic to strengthen his grip; and to swing onto the horse.

Then he sat on the saddle.

It was higher than anticipated.

Being a horse, Levi was somewhat taller than the ponies Stephen had sat on since his accident. The ground was further away than he would have liked and when he looked down, he felt like an invisible force was trying to pull him down. It didn’t quite feel like falling but it was certainly close to it.

Stephen grabbed the reins tighter – although that wouldn’t do anything to keep him on the horse in an emergency.

Levi became bored and started to walk forward. Stephen used the movement to distract himself from the fact that his own feet were not on the ground and he steered the horse using leg pressure and the reins.

Levi responded excellently and sensitively. It was obvious he had undergone a good training.

Stephen steered him out of the stable and Tony followed him.

In the courtyard, Happy and Rhodey were already on their own horses, waiting for them. The two guards would accompany them; as it was standard protocol. Their horses also carried the saddlebags with the equipment for the picnic.

“Ready?” Tony asked Stephen.

Well, as ready as he would ever be. For a moment, Stephen wished he was in his chair at his desk instead of the back of a moving creature.

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

They moved at a leisurely pace out of the castle’s gate. Stephen and Tony rode side by side. The horseshoes clattered on the cobbled path until the road turned into plain earth.

Happy and Rhodey followed at a distance to give the couple some privacy.

Stephen focused on the path ahead. His gaze was fixed at the spot on the horse's head between his ears – not too high as well as not down to the ground.

Tony rode beside him and talked about something. Stephen wasn't sure what; he didn't really listen. Too absorbed into pulling himself together, he was glad that the horse was doing most of the work.

Levi stayed at Friday’s side. Sometimes he swung a little closer to her, but steering him back took little effort. And Tony didn't seem to mind.

After a while Stephen realized he somehow missed the point of their ride since he was too busy to stay calm to notice any of the landscape. There was a lot of green around them. But that was it.

He hadn’t even noticed they had left the main road and were now riding across a meadow and past a small forest.

“So… did you?”

Tony's question made him look up and he noticed that his husband was watching him expectantly. Stephen had no idea what he was being asked.

“Pardon, I was in thought,” he admitted.

Tony’s smirk told him that the other man had definitely noticed his inattention, but Tony played it off as if nothing had happened - just as he ignored the blush of embarrassment on Stephen's face.

“I asked if you ever participated in a royal riding contest.”

“No,” Stephen said. “At least not outside of Kamar-Taj. And our tournaments are a little bit different.”

Royal riding contests were popular among many kingdoms. Not only members of the monarch families were allowed to enter but also every other noble born, like dukes, lords… Sometimes even very skilled soldiers or knights.

The contests were mostly for honor and to show off – so it was actually surprising that Stephen's parents weren't interested in them. But then again it would have meant they would have had to invite lots of people from outside their realm and host them – and they didn’t really like foreigners.

Instead, they preferred to host a tournament among their own people.

“How so?” Tony asked, intrigued to learn more about the closed up realm.

"We don't have any wide plains that can be used for racing." For the first time since they had left the castle, Stephen let his gaze wander and took in their surroundings. The bushes and trees had grown thicker, forming small islands in the vast landscape. There were ups and downs of small hills, but in Stephen's eyes they seemed flat, compared to the high mountains he was used to.

It actually made sitting on a horse more bearable since he could see where he was going. There were no yawning gorges, no hidden crevices, no sloping debris.

Nevertheless, his gaze returned to the horse's head.

Levi snorted. He probably sensed his rider's tension. It was a wonder that the stiffness was not transferred to the horse and he didn’t become restless. Instead, he behaved calmly and attentively.

"It's not just about speed – it's about skills and keeping your horse under control," Stephen continued. "The most popular race goes right from the castle park to a temple ruin on the mountain. Whoever reaches it first, becomes reigning champion for a year and gets a favor from the King.”

The corner of Tony’s mouth curled up. “How many times did you win?”

“A few times in a row. But that was years ago.”

Before his accident.

To be precise until the very day of his accident.

Stephen took a deep breath, deliberately thinking about anything else.

It was a nice day in Spring. The sun was doing its best, but the air still felt fresh in the lungs. There was still frost in the mornings, a fine blanket on the meadows and roofs. But by midday, it became warm enough that people shrugged off their scarves and hats.

Now it was Tony who closed up to Stephen. “Let’s see if you still got it in you. Race you to the bridge.” He pointed ahead, where in the distance a bridge – or rather a wooden crossing – led over a stream.

Before Stephen could object, Tony put spurs to his horse and got a head start.

Levi didn't want to be left behind Friday and he automatically quickened his pace without Stephen having to do anything – or being able to prevent it.

Panic overcame Stephen because he no longer had control over the horse. Leaving the reins loose, he held onto the saddle’s horn just to hold onto something.

Naturally, Stephen tensed up. And Levi took the leg pressure as an incentive to lunge into a full gallop. The previous walking pace had apparently bored him and he was happy to move his legs.

The meadow went downhill. There were a few ditches in the way. But they were no obstacle for the horse, who flew over them. A piece of cake.

Levi and Friday were now on a par.

Stephen heard Tony laughing. He was having fun.

For Stephen it was a nightmare.

He wanted his feet back on the ground. In his mind, however, he could already see himself falling again – which he wanted to avoid at all costs. In his panic he yanked the reins to stop Levi, while at the same time trying to hold onto them. His grip was weak and his hands were shaking.

Levi misunderstood the command and steered to the right, no longer heading to the bridge but directly to the water.

They got closer and closer to it, but the horse didn’t stop.

Stephen yelped as Levi jumped. The horse landed safely on the other side, but Stephen was now pulling on the reins as hard as he could.

He had to get down.

Levi slowed down and pranced restlessly sideways, not happy about the handling. But finally he stood still enough for Stephen to glide off.

As soon as his feet touched the ground, he felt his legs give way and he held onto the saddle. Stephen felt sick. Everything was spinning before his eyes.

He didn't hear the muffled sound of hooves on grass approaching but only noticed Tony when he spoke. “Wow, that was-… are you okay?”

Stephen didn’t look at him. He was trying not to black out and simultaneously fighting down his panic. “Yes, just… need a minute.” His voice broke, but he found that was the least of his concerns.

He wasn't sure if Tony was watching him. He felt eyes on him, but it could be his imagination as well.

Tony instructed Happy and Rhodey – who had been slower to follow – to set up the picnic as planned and handed Friday into their care before he turned back to his husband.

Stephen and Levi had moved to the stream. Levi drank the water while the sorcerer held his hands into the stream. His gloves, which he usually never took off, lay in the dirt next to him.

Something wasn’t right and it felt like Tony was missing something.

He walked up next to Stephen, who turned his head and finally looked at him again. He looked pale, almost shaking. The fresh water of the stream had to be freezing for his scarred fingers.

“Do you want to sit down?” Tony asked carefully with a nod to where the blankets had been spread out on the ground.

Stephen nodded and without a word he stood up and followed Tony to the picnic.

Absorbed in his own thoughts, he barely noticed as the two sat down and Tony poured them both wine. Only when the goblet was put down in front of him did Stephen focus on it.

He would love to calm his nerves with it, but he didn’t trust his hands at the moment.

A small piece of cake appeared in front of his face and when his eyes followed the arm, he found Tony looking at him expectantly. Stephen didn’t make a move to accept the food. Instead his eyes turned into a glare.

Tony sighed dramatically and way too over the top to be serious. “You know, feeding my husband sweets at a picnic would be way more romantic if he actually participated.”

Stephen snorted. “I never understood the concept of feeding someone being romantic.”

Tony was pleased to finally get some kind of reaction from him. He put the cake down on a plate next to Stephen's goblet. “Me neither. But I think you should try everything at least once in order to judge it.” He took a sip of his own wine and took in their surroundings.

It was a beautiful piece of meadow between the stream and the forest. Green grass with a few wildflowers. No farms or huts were in sight.

He had always liked this place. The simplicity of it. And he had hoped to share it.

His eyes returned to his husband.

“Are you afraid of riding?” Tony’s voice was softer than before.

It was a simple question. Stephen could just answer in a single word if he wanted. He wouldn’t be forced to tell the whole story, if he didn’t want to.

Just a question that was enough to inform Tony but that didn’t push Stephen into exposing himself.

Stephen respected him for that, and was thankful.

He spotted Levi next to Friday. The horses were visually comfortable in each other’s presence. And Levi really was a fine horse.

“I don’t enjoy it as much as I used to,” he finally admitted.

Tony made a noise in acknowledgment, but didn’t ask any follow up questions.

Stephen sighed. He knew it was better to get it all out at once. And this was the perfect opportunity. He knew he would hole up if he didn’t come clean now.

So he started talking before he could change his mind.

“Three years ago I participated in the annual riding tournament to defend my title as the reigning champion.” Tony looked surprised about the fact he actually kept talking, but Stephen had his eyes fixed on the cake. “The weather was particularly terrible on that day. It didn’t start that bad, just some rain, so the king decided to not postpone the tournament. Most of the riders agreed. So did I…” And he had regretted that decision ever since. “The weather got worse during the day. A storm arrived and some riders turned around. The mountains are dangerous on a good day for those who aren’t careful. But I was too prideful to give up. I didn’t want to face my parents empty handed.”

Stephen sighed again and glanced at his husband. Tony knew where this story was going. He saw it on his face.

“I’m not exactly sure what happened. My horse must have slipped or lost her footing. We fell down a cliff. Next thing I remember is waking up in the healer’s wing two days later. My hands were crushed. The horse had died. Poor thing. It wasn’t her fault; I pushed her beyond the limit.”

Tony's hand rested on his, gently. His gloves were still lying in the mud by the stream.

“Must have been tough for you,” Tony sympathized.

It had been. But what hurt the most was that his parents had shown their disappointment towards him.

But at least one good thing had come out of this: “It’s what made me turn towards magic.”

Stephen couldn't imagine his life without magic anymore.

He turned his hand under Tony’s and interlaced their fingers loosely.

Tony smiled softly at him. “One of these days you should tell me about the mechanics of magic.”

That suggestion actually surprised Stephen. So far, he hadn't had the impression that Tony was interested in magic. On the contrary, he seemed rather cautious about it; edging on being wary.

“I can do that if you want to know more about it,” he therefore offered.

“I like to know how things work.”

Stephen had learned that much about his husband. He was curious and incredibly smart, paired with a quick mind.

He felt his heart flutter. The prospect of sharing something that was so dear to his heart with Tony felt intimate. And he was looking forward to it.

“So, is that still a no on romantically feeding my husband at this picnic?” Tony prodded.

Now it was Stephen who was sighing dramatically. “I guess I can accommodate – if you keep on insisting.” His teasing smile told Tony that it was no burden at all.

Tony brought another piece of cake to his mouth and Stephen took a bite. A few crumbs fell down. Both men laughed about the clumsiness as well as the consistency of the pastry.

“Well, how would you rate your experience?” Tony asked while Stephen was still chewing.

He swallowed. It was a delicious cake.

"I can only judge that once I've tried both sides." He felt confident enough and his hands weren’t shaking as bad anymore. He grabbed a piece of cake and offered it to Tony’s lips.

The king was surprised but delighted. “Well, if you insist.” Gently he put a finger on Stephen's wrist and helped him subtly to stabilize his hand while he took a bite.

He made a satisfied noise.

“Hmm, best cake I ever had. Not sure if I have to compliment the baker or the company though.”

Stephen huffed; partly amused, partly to hide his embarrassment. But he couldn't hide the slight blush due to that compliment.

“I’m not sure if feeding feels very romantic,” he said, but then added, “At least no more than a picnic in general already does.”

Tony looked very pleased at these words. “It was worth a try,” he shrugged, but the smile stayed on his lips.

They continued to eat. Stephen ate slowly, but after the initial shock had finally passed he was hungry. He also tried the wine and emptied the goblet. Tony immediately gave him a refill while the conversation drifted to lighter topics.

Tony told him about Peter's upcoming birthday and his plan to gift him the sword he and the boy were currently crafting. Stephen voiced his approval of the idea. He had grown fond of the boy over the past weeks.

“You know there are techniques to embed magic into steel while welding it. It’s a way to add extra layers of protection into a weapon,” Stephen added, looking at Tony. “That’s something I would actually like to do with one of your own swords.”

Tony considered it. “What kind of magic would that be?”

“Mostly protection spells. But offensive spells are also an option. I can put together a list. We can go over it and I will explain them to you in detail.”

“Okay.”

Eventually, as the day went on, the picnic came to an end.

Tony stood up first. “Do you want to show off with your fancy portals on the way back?”

Relieved, Stephen nodded. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to go back on any horse’s back today. He could endure it – if he had to – but he would rather not.

He took his sling ring out of his pocket. Tony watched him sliding it on and then studied the motions of his hands.

A sparkling circle appeared showing the inside of the stables. Noises of surprise could be heard from the other side; the staff was not used to this. Yet.

Stephen moved first and stepped halfway through the portals, standing now on both sides with one leg. He turned to Tony and offered him his hand.

Tony eyed the orange-ish magic both with wary and intrigued. He took the offered hand and stepped onto the other side. Although he was thankful for the considered help, he couldn’t suppress a shutter. It just felt weird.

“I must admit, it is convenient, “ he still admitted. “But also disorientating.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Probably.”

Stephen enlarged the portal for the horses that were led by Happy and Rhodey. The stable boys immediately arrived to help them unsaddle the horses. Leaving the king and his consort with no further work to do but to go back inside the palace.

“We can use a carriage for traveling in the future,” Tony offered as they walked side by side, out of earshot of the others.

“There will be times I will prefer that,” Stephen admitted. “But I also want to overcome my fears. It shouldn’t be something that defines me.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It restricts me.” Even though it had been years since his accident, he sometimes still had nightmares about it. They would most likely never stop completely. But he could try.

_____________

Taglist: @goopierthenyou (tell me if you want to be added/removed)

#ironstrange #doctor strange #stephen strange #tony stark #tony stark x doctor strange #Consort and King #marvel #mcu #spacemermaid #Janora #enemies to lovers #slow burn #strangers to husbands #angst #hurt/comfort #miscommunication

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sarahowritesostucky · 6 months

Text

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: Fresh AU, dark rom-com, dark!Bucky, pre-serum Steve, cannibalism, kidnapping, yandere/basement wife, meet cute-ish, gay sex n' stuff, dub-con

Summary: Steve is so tired of the meat market that modern dating has become. Just when he's deleted all the apps and given up on ever finding Mr. Right, he meets the perfect guy at the grocery store.

A dark, cute, funny, fucked up, and very tasty love story.

It's a Fresh AU. "If you can't handle the cannibalism, get out of the kitchen"--or something like that

3. Hors D'oeuvre

Wait! I haven't read the previous chapter(s)

James winds up apologizing profusely for the insanely bad bite.

Steve’s a little disturbed that the guy would do something that rough on their first time together, but he chalks it up to the heat of the moment and forgives him,` telling James that: it's okay, he’s always been a freaky-fast healer anyway.

“S’my superpower,” he quips, making light of it when it's obvious James feels terrible.

“I’m still sorry,” he insists, thumbing carefully over the mostly-healed skin two days later. He stares at it like he stares at everything else—intensely. “I got carried away. Won’t do it again.”

Steve believes him.

Within a week, it’s pretty obvious that they’re dating. Steve kind of feels like the other shoe has got to drop at any moment, but that just keeps not happening. James is like, the perfect guy.

“He’s a doctor?” Clint says, on the third day after Bite Night. It’s movie night and he and Steve are rewatching Midsommar, because Clint’s a movie nerd and is convinced there are still hidden themes he can pick apart in the freaky-ass film. Right now the screen is paused at the exact second where they hammer the old guy’s head into paste. Clint really is a savant with a remote control.

Steve looks the gore over critically and stuffs more chips in his mouth, crunching. “Um, yeah,” he says distractedly.

He wonders how movie people make it look so real. How would they even know what to make it look like? Did one of the movie people see somebody’s head collapse in real life?”

“Earth to STEVE,” Clint waves a hand in front of his face and Steve blinks.

“What?”

“I said: what kind of doctor is he?”

“A surgeon,” Steve says, feeling warm and tingly even as he remembers it. He’s not only met a smart, sexy and funny older guy— he’s met a surgeon. Which automatically means he’s rich, too. Nobody is that fucking lucky in love, certainly not Steve.

“Of what?” Clint prods. “Like, hearts and brains? or boob jobs?”

Steve pauses with another handful of chips. Hm. That’s a good question. “I don’t know,” he says. “What’s it matter?”

“It matters because it’ll determine how much I esteem the guy,” Clint insists.

Steve snorts. “What? If he's a plastic surgeon he doesn’t deserve your respect?”

“Are you kidding? I’d respect him more if that’s what he was.” Clint grimaces. “I respect the hell out of anybody who can pull people’s skin off and rearrange it and unnatural shit like that. S’way more horrible than operating on a regular old heart or whatever.”

Steve makes a face as he considers that. “Yeah, I guess so. I heard once that when they do a nose job they literally like, pull the nose up off the face first.”

Clint gags. “Dude! No. My brain can’t unknow this now!”

“And yet you can watch shit like this.”

Clint presses play and the film resumes, the frame shifting from pasted-guy's head, to Florence Pugh's horrified face. “That's different," he says. "It’s movie magic, dumbass.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You’re a dumbass.”

James tasks Steve with picking an actual date activity for them to do next. “No pressure,” he teases him over the phone, “but I hate stereotypes.”

Well. So much for mini golfing or the movies.

The place is called Bad Axes, their logo is a butt with an ax lodged in it, and the only two things to do there are drink beer and throw axes. Steve doesn’t reveal what they’re headed for when they meet at the subway, so James doesn’t know what's in store until they’re standing right outside the business' doors with the logo on them.

He stares for a long, long moment, and then busts out with the loudest, most sudden laugh. He looks over at Steve with a pained, almost hysterical expression.

Steve laughs. “What?”

“Nothing!” James squeaks. “This’ll be fun!”

Steve spends the rest of the date preening over the fact that he’s impressed his boyfriend.

(He only calls him that in his head, so far. He knows they’re not ‘boyfriends’ yet. They’re still feeling each other out, trying on the idea of being boyfriends. It’s just hard for Steve to remember that, when everything feels so natural between them.)

They grab drinks and get the safety and throwing tutorial from the unimpressed girl whose job it is to supervise drunk businessmen throwing sharp objects after work. It’s an over-the-head kind of deal, and Steve is prepared to nurture his manly pride and leave feeling a little bit like a Viking.

“Want to bet on who wins?” James asks, where he stands beside Steve in their little throwing area, a devilish gleam in his eye.

Steve considers it. The Axe Girl had told them it’s not so much a strength thing as a technique thing, so he’s not worried about being at a disadvantage. “Sure," he decides. "What are we betting on?”

“Hmm, how about … loser has to tell a secret about themselves,” James says. “First to stick the target twenty times wins.”

Steve’s stomach jumps at the look in James' eye. He grins. “You’re on.” Steve doesn’t have any good secrets anyway, so losing won't be a big deal (even though he fully intends to win).

They throw.

There’s a certain amount of body memory to it, Steve discovers after about fifteen minutes of fruitless throwing, his axe cracking off the plywood and thunking pathetically to the ground each time. He winds up getting the hang of it, but not in time to win the bet. James’ axe sticks on the first throw, and the second, and most of the times after.

Steve sulks about it as they take a break at one of the high-top tables, drinking their second round. “You’ve done this before,” he pouts, accusing. “Admit it.. You're a secret lumberjack.”

James looks at him fondly, like he thinks Steve’s reaction is cute. “Not exactly. But I've chopped enough to know my way around an axe.”

Steve grumps playfully at him. “Fine, cheater. I’ll think of a secret to tell you.” Bucky chuckles while Steve sips his beer and tries to come up with something juicy enough to be a ‘secret’ but not so juicy that it reflects badly on him. “I used to get in fights a lot."

James rolls his eyes. “Like as a kid? That doesn’t count.” He shoots him a sly look. “Adult secrets, Steven.”

Steve flushes at the use of his given name. There’s something oddly domineering about it that he likes. “Um, well … I've been arrested?”

James’ eyes light up. “Oh, do tell.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“Of course not.”

“It wasn’t!” Steve laughs, shoving James’ shoulder. “It was a bar fight, basically. Some asshole bothering this woman he didn’t know, not taking no for an answer.”

James’ smile softens to something fond. “Aw, Steve. I should'a known. That's you then? Always trying to be a white knight?”

Steve scowls at the term but doesn’t try to deny it. “Well somebody had to do something,” he mutters. “I wasn’t the one who threw the first punch.”

“Why the arrest, then?”

“The charges were dropped. But I guess the jerk had some friends backing him up when the cops came, so I got rounded up too.”

James hums in understanding. “Well, I suppose that’s sort of a secret. But I have to say, I was really hoping for something a little more intriguing from you, Steve. A little more naughty.”

Steve snorts. “Why? You planning to blackmail me?”

“No.”

“You just like bad boys, then,” he jokes. He’s about the farthest thing there is from a bad boy. “Sorry. You’re outta luck with that one.”

“I’m not,” James says quietly, looking him in the eyes. “I actually like the sweet ones.”

Steve colors, he knows he does. “Oh.” He’s a sweet one. He chuckles and looks down at his beer bottle, turning it in little circles. “Thanks. I guess.”

James hums. “Hey, why don’t I apologize for my non-disclosure of my axing abilities, huh? I’ll tell you one of my secrets, too.”

“I’m all ears. What’s your secret?” In his head, Steve sarcastically imagines James saying something like, “I’m actually married and have two point five kids,” or, “I’m addicted to piss and shit porn.”

That’s not what he says.

“I’ve eaten human flesh.”

Steve blinks. “What.” He waits for the punchline, the second part of that confession that’ll make it funny, but there isn’t one. James just sits there and nods somberly. Steve laughs. “No, you haven’t. You have not.”

“I was just out of med school and interning at a center for pediatric reconstructive surgery in Shanghai.”

The smile drops right off Steve’s face. So he is a plastic surgeon, he thinks. He'll have to tell Clint. "The fuck?" he breathes.

James' mouth twists. “Yeah. That's what I said, when I realized."

"You're making this up," Steve says weakly, even though he can tell he's not, because James is sitting there looking completely serious and nodding grimly.

"We'd gone out to a rural village, to assess a few kids for cleft palate correction. There was a mud slide on the only road out of the valley, and we wound up stuck there for a few days."

“What—” Steve realizes he’s nearly whispering. He firms up his voice. “What happened?”

“I was served a meal from a local family, already cooked.”

“Oh." Steve exhales in relief. "So then, you didn’t actually see—”

“No.” James cants his head. “But it wasn’t any meat I’d ever had before. It was …” He trails off, eyes going distant as he thinks about it. “It was so different.”

Steve stares at him, shocked. “But … but that's a big leap. I mean it could’ve been anything. Dog or ... or tiger. Don’t they have tigers in China?”

“Not in that part of the country.” James watches Steve closely for a moment, gauging his reaction. Eventually he looks away, frowning. “And you could tell there was something going on. There was ... At the time, I didn't understand, but it was the way the villagers acted. There was something off about them, something about the way they skulked around, the way they looked at us. How gaunt they all were ..." He shakes his head, deep in thought. "I did some research once I got back. There are some recorded accounts; those soccer players that crashed in the Andes, the Donner party. An anthropologist in the thirties who ate with a tribe in Africa. He wrote a very detailed account of how the different cuts of the meat tasted, what it looked like, what it smelled like.” He inhales deeply, as though pulling himself out of the memory. When his gaze lands back on Steve, it's dead serious and shockingly nonchalant. “It all matched up to what I’d eaten.”

Steve gapes, horrified. He can’t believe that it was a … a human that James had been served. It was too awful. People wouldn’t do that. ... Would they? “It wasn’t,” he says, as if he can make it so by saying it. “They wouldn’t have.”

James still doesn’t seem bothered, though he has pity in his eyes for Steve, apparently able to see how shaken he is by it. “You gotta understand, it was a bad situation. A dead, closed off valley where nothing ever grew. The Chinese government had banished these people out there for some slight, blocked off their access to food. It was like a gulag. These people were living in extreme poverty: cold, sick, and halfway starving. Animals'll do anything when they’re starving."

"Animals ..."

He shrugs and sits back in his chair. "At the end of the day, that’s all we really are. Some very big, overly-clever animals.”

Steve swallows thickly, his throat suddenly dry. He reaches for his beer and takes a hasty swig. “How do you, um, how do you deal with it, then?” he asks. “If you really think that’s what it was?” He’s a little bit stunned by how calm James has remained through telling the whole story.

“It doesn’t bother me,” James says easily. “There’s no way I can know for sure that’s what I ate that day, and I didn’t do it on purpose.” He shrugs and waves it off. “It was so long ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Wow,” Steve says, stunned. “I mean, just … no. And wow.”

“Pretty big secret, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, trying to lighten up. James isn’t dwelling on it and he probably doesn’t want Steve to, either. “Yeah, you have, um. Much juicier secrets than me.”

James tips his bottle back for the last dregs of his beer, then clacks it firmly down onto the table. “So,” he says, eyes regaining their challenging, sly glint. “Now that you know my deepest, darkest secret; want to throw another round?”

A few days later, at precisely 11:30 am, Steve receives a text:

Weird Meat Guy: Hey you. I’m starving. Want to grab lunch with me?”

Steve looks down at his dirty work clothes. Yikes. Knowing himself, he figures there's a good chance he also has paint in his hair or on his face, or both.

Steve: yeah sounds good. In 30 or so? Gotta wash up.

Weird Meat Guy: see you soon, handsome.

James texts him an address that's in Park Slope, followed by a cartoon ‘nom-nom’ eating GIF. Steve holds his phone with gesso-crusted fingers and beams at the screen. James must like Steve just as much as Steve likes him, because he’s thinking about him during the week. He’s texting him and sending stupid GIFs and asking him out on lunch dates.

This is going incredibly well.

It's nothing fancy, which Steve appreciates. They meet inside a Panera by Prospect Park. They order drinks and find chairs to sit in by the windows while their sandwiches are made. “Don't you work in Midtown though?” Steve asks, confused. “This is a bit of a hike for a lunch break.”

James stares at him for a long few seconds, blinking repeatedly. “... Oh! Well … I had a big gap between clients today.” He smiles winningly and covers Steve’s hand with his own on the tabletop, giving it a squeeze. “There’s nobody I’d rather make the hike for.”

Steve tries not to let his smile overtake his face, but it’s hard.

Their food arrives, and they eat while trading stories about themselves. Steve tells James how he lives and works alone, but doesn’t mind it one bit. He tells him about his family, or at least, what family he used to have.

“So, nobody?” James asks. “You’re all alone?”

“It’s okay,” Steve says, thinking that James might be feeling pity for him. “I miss my mom, but it’s been a long time. And I’ve made a couple friends. They help.”

“Oh yeah? Who're your friends?”

“Oh. Well there's Clint. We met back in college. And Natalie. She’s the one I told you about.”

“Your patron.” James nods. “I remember.” He leans forward. “So do they know about me?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell them about me?”

Steve smirks. “Oh I dunno. Just that I met a really good looking weirdo at the grocery store. Haven’t called the police on him yet.”

James laughs. “That’s all?”

“Pretty much.” Steve shrugs and takes another bite of his sandwich, unconcerned with it. “Clint says he respects you for being able to—and I quote—‘pull people’s skin off and rearrange their outsides’.”

James’ lips quirk. “Well, it is a skill.”

Steve shivers theatrically. “Uck. Power to you. I guess somebody’s gotta do it."

"Alas, yes. The meat market. Demand is only ever growing."

Steve snorts. "Well hey, at least it means you’re, ah … intimately familiar with anatomy.” He winces before he's even finished saying it. Ew, what a lame joke.

But James’s eyes crinkle in amusement anyway. “Yes," he says, reaching for his sandwich again. "I certainly am.”

Steve has James over to Netflix and Chill. He’s not sure if this counts as their sixth date or seventh, but they’ve been seeing each other steadily for the past three weeks, calling and texting daily, so it’s definitely not too soon to start thinking about the “R” word. That’s where it feels like this is headed, but Steve is too chickenshit to speak up and ask if they’re officially in a relationship.

He researches how to make eggplant parmesan and mostly doesn’t screw it up, and James seems touched that he went through the trouble of cooking something vegetarian for him.

“It’s delicious,” he reassures Steve. “I even like the crusty black bits.”

He asks Steve what he does for fun, and Steve is once again left feeling like a boring dolt when he can only answer, “I mean, I really just paint or draw, or watch tv. Clint tries to drag me out for bowling or karaoke once in a while.” He fights not to wince at himself. Jesus god is he boring. He thinks again about joining a gym, maybe getting into boxing or Krav Maga or something. “What about you?” he asks. “What do you do when you’re not carving people up?”

“Hardy har.” James thinks about it. “Well, I do love to do stuff outdoors. I work out ...”

“Yeah you do,” Steve teases, leering a little. James laughs him off.

“I read some, usually have two books going concurrently.”

Steve imagines James having a big, expensive library, complete with those nifty rolling ladders.

“And I’m a pretty good cook,” he adds. “I enjoy it. Working on being an amateur cuisinier, as I said.”

Steve pointedly looks at both of their plates of semi-burnt eggplant slop. “Then why am I the one making us dinner?”

James chuckles, leans across the table to kiss him on the cheek, and promises he’ll cook for Steve sometime soon.

After dinner, Steve pulls up his Netflix queue and scrolls through for something that looks good but not too good, since they’ll probably start fooling around partway through and miss half of it.

They watch a documentary about Richard Ramirez, which Steve apologizes for. (“I know, I know. Me and every other basic white girl likes the true crime stuff.”)

Halfway into Ramirez’s fucked up childhood, Steve says, “Man, what would you do if your kid turned out like that, huh?”

“Question my parenting choices, that’s for sure.”

“I know, right?" Steve shudders. "I feel so bad for Jeffry Dahmer’s mom.”

“Why? She’s alive and kicking. Feel bad for Ed Gein’s mom: pretty sure she’s a lampshade now.”

“Christ.”

James looks over at Steve. “Do you want kids?”

Steve freezes, the unexpected change in topic throwing him for a loop. “Um …” Not ones that'll turn me into a lampshade, he doesn't say.

This is something they haven’t done yet; asked each other what they want for their lives long-term. Because such questions naturally infer that they might be considering each other for a starring role in said life.

Steve swallows heavily and works up the courage to softly admit, “Yeah, one day I do.” He dares to meet James’ eyes, and is relieved when he doesn’t see any rejection there. “I want what most people do, I guess. Get married, have kids.” He shrugs. “The American dream, right?”

“What? No white picket fence and a dog named Fido?”

Steve deflates a little. “Don’t make fun.”

“I wasn’t.” James scoots closer and puts his arm around him. “Hey. No, Honey. I wasn’t making fun of you. I want that stuff too.”

“You do?”

“Mmhm.” He kisses Steve's cheek. “I’m glad you told me,” he says. “Makes you even more of the perfect catch.”

Steve snorts. "Yeah. Sure."

James is the perfect catch, Steve is just incredibly lucky.

James has to go on a sudden work trip, and it's a solid week that they're apart.

The next time he comes over to Steve's place, he’s barely in the door before Steve is slamming it shut and pushing him up against the wall. He sinks to his knees and looks up at James, whose eyes have gone from widened to heavy-lidded in seconds. "Hey."

James smiles lazily and cups his cheek. “Hey there.”

Steve touches him over his jeans, starts rubbing slow and purposeful. After a moment or two, James gets hard enough that he can feel it through the denim. He knees in closer, pushes his face into his groin and rubs his cheek along the bulge of his dick.

James’ hands migrate to his head, running through his hair, over his scalp. “Mm,” he hums, amused. “Did you miss me, Sweetheart?”

It’s been little more than a week apart, but Steve has missed him embarrassingly much. He makes a plaintive noise against James’ crotch and nods. “Yeah.” He’s barely heard from the other man. He doesn’t want to complain though, because it’s still early for them and he doesn’t want to seem too needy.

James had warned him he’d be very busy working and mostly unreachable. He'd had to take a flight out for a surgery consult somewhere—Steve can’t remember where. It doesn’t matter. He’s just glad James is back. He looks up from his spot on the floor, batting his eyelashes and reaching for the front of James’ pants. “Can I?”

James grins and relaxes back against the wall. “All yours,” he says, watching Steve like he’s ready for a show. Steve flushes in a heady mix of arousal and shyness. He tucks his lips in as his fingers find the button at James’ fly, pop it open and pull down the zipper. He curls his fingers over the waistband at James’ hips and pulls, until the jeans are halfway down his thighs. He stops.

James is wearing briefs today—white, and with a waistband that has black lettering: Calvin Klein. Steve grins as arousal hits him harder, his own dick stirring in his sweats. “Tighty-whities, huh?” he teases, and when he looks up, he sees James looking down at him, amused.

“What? You don’t approve?”

“Oh, I approve.” He presses his face against the front, against the hardening line of James’ dick beneath the fabric. What he really likes is to see it get hard from the very start, and he's already making a plan to have James naked for this from the get-go, next time. He palms the soft weight of James’ balls through the fabric while placing kisses along the length of his stirring dick. “Been wanting to do this since that first night,” he murmurs. He rubs his other hand over him, circling the wet spot just by the head. “You've got such a nice cock.”

James makes a pleased noise. “Why don’t you get it out, then?” he says softly, one hand cupping Steve’s chin. His thumb pulls down on Steve’s bottom lip. “I want to see your pretty mouth stretchin' around it.”

Steve moans quietly and nods, fingers hurrying to pull his underwear down. James’ cock bobs obscenely in the air once it’s released, still angled downward from the weight of it and from only being half hard. Steve licks his lips, excited at finally getting to really appreciate it up close. He hasn’t had much chance yet, but he’s seen it, knows that it's beautiful.

James is big—as big a top can get before it becomes counterproductive, in Steve's opinion. A respectable length, with a truly mouth watering girth. His balls are soft and warm in Steve’s palm where he holds them. James is shaved there, while everything else is trimmed down short. "Sir," Steve teases, fondling the smooth weight of his balls. "I may just have to wind up sucking on these."

Above him, James chuckles lowly. "Gotta do what you gotta do, Steven. I won't hold it against ya."

Fuck. What is it about James saying his given name like that? It's so hot, feels almost dirty. Steve can't hold back anymore. He takes his cock in hand and explores it with the gentlest of touches, tracing a prominent vein that runs underneath and up along the side, circling his finger on the wet head that’s peeking out, just barely pressing the tip of his thumb into the slit. He bites his lip as it twitches and jerks. Fuck. It’s fucking beautiful.

Above, James makes a sound in his throat, and when Steve looks up he sees him looking darkly amused. “You sure are taking your sweet time with that, Princess.”

Ooh, Princess. That’s a new one. Steve smirks. “I can take all the time I want.”

He says that, but in the next few seconds he’s already lost his patience, too eager for more. He wants to feel it on his tongue, wants to taste it. He sucks the head into his mouth and is rewarded by James’ quiet groan.

“That’s it,” he praises. “Mm.”

Steve sucks him, swirling his tongue over the head and pulling gently with his hand, jerking him off a little while he sucks. He keeps it up, feeling James twitch and grow in his mouth, until he’s fully erect, and Steve just has to pop off to see. His own hand looks tiny and pale on James' dick. He jerks him softly and groans at the sight of the foreskin sliding over the weeping, fat tip. God, Steve loves uncut guys.

James is watching him with heavy eyes, his lips slightly parted, enthralled at the sight of Steve exploring down between his legs. Steve smirks up at him and looks him in the eye as he kisses along his thigh, hipbone, pelvis; all the way up to his stomach and belly button and back down. He rubs his cheek on the hot juncture of his groin and returns to stroking his cock at a languorous pace. “You’re so pretty,” he murmurs. “Could do this all day.”

“Oh yeah?” James cards a hand through Steve’s hair—a hand that Steve is very smug to note is trembling the tiniest bit—and leaves it there, caressing his scalp. “Can you go deeper?” he asks quietly, offering it up rather than demanding it.

Steve appreciates the concern, but he’s eager to show off. “‘Can I go deeper’,” he mutters, scoffing. “Hold onto your dick, Honey. This is gonna feel really good.” He sucks James’ cock back into his mouth, only this time he keeps going, taking it all the way until it's in his throat and his nose is buried in the short hair at the base.

Above him, James finally loses his composure, his breath stuttering out in a stifled, “Oh, fuck.”

Steve hums eagerly. He grabs onto the back of James’ thighs and squeezes, uses the grip to yank him even closer. He slides his hands up and grabs at his ass, able to feel the muscles tensing and relaxing as James tries so hard not to thrust into his mouth. Steve pulls off and meets his eyes. “You want to fuck my face?” he asks, eager to give James whatever he wants. “You can.”

James looks utterly smitten. He hooks his thumb in at the corner of Steve’s mouth and pulls gently. “Sweet boy,” he murmurs. Steve’s about to take that as a ‘yes’, but then James tells him otherwise. “Another time,” he says. “Right now I just want to watch you work for it.”

Steve’s belly flips in arousal. Fucking hell. He reaches down to squeeze his own dick, which is painfully constricted in his sweatpants by now. He mostly ignores it though, wanting to put all his focus into pleasing James and pulling more wrecked sounds of pleasure from him. This is a relationship Steve really wants to go the distance in, okay? So he shoots James his best sultry look while wettings his lips, and then sinks right back down with eye contact, prepared to give this man the best head of his life.

They shower together, after coming from each other’s hands and mouths. It’s an intimate experience, standing naked and sated together under the spray of the water, touching each other’s bodies without intent. It’s almost more intimate than the sex they’ve just had.

Steve shivers and luxuriates in it as James stands behind him and runs water-slicked hands over his body, not speaking, just enjoying what he’s touching. He kneads the meat of Steve’s ass, his thighs, draws soapy-slick circles down his ribs and across his belly. He kisses and mouths at his neck as he touches him all over. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, and that’s the only word uttered between them for the entirety of the shower.

Later, when they’re sitting together on the couch, drinking wine and talking lazily with nothing but towels wrapped around their waists, James describes his apartment in Manhattan. It’s centrally located but small, because “real estate in the city is sickening.”

“Tell me about it,” Steve murmurs, giving his own shoebox of an apartment a onceover.

James insists that he spends as little time in the city as possible. His preferred residence (because of course he has multiple) is “in the wilderness.”

“Jersey?” Steve asks, lip curled in a sneer.

“Oh no! A little more wild than that,” James laughs, pouring more wine into the glass Steve’s holding out. “It’s out in the Catskills," he confides. "My secret cabin."

"The Catskills?" Steve frowns, trying to think of how long of a drive that must be. “I’ve never been."

“Oh you’d love it,” James insists. “It’s gorgeous out there. Miles and miles of trees. Peace and quiet, no neighbors to bother you.” He smiles wistfully. “It’s the one place I can really let go and relax, be myself. It’s my retreat.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Steve says. James looks so happy when he talks about it, it makes Steve want to go there with him. “Will you take me there someday?” he asks. He’s very aware that the question implies that they’ll still be together down the line. That this thing they have, whatever it is, will continue.

James considers him thoughtfully, though, eyes soft and mysterious, not seeming to mind that Steve is envisioning them in the future. He peers at him in that intense, evaluating way that he has. “Well,” he says. "I mean why not? That'd be fun. Let’s do it.”

“Wait, what? Do it?” Steve repeats, surprised. “You mean like a trip? Like, now?"

“Yeah!" James laughs. “We can go for a few days. I’ll drive us out there and we can just relax together. Cook, watch movies. There’s hiking around the area. And I have a hot tub.”

Steve gasps. “I love hot tubs!”

James laughs and holds out his arms for Steve to climb into his lap. He wraps his arms around him and kisses him. “Okay then, it’s settled. When do you want to go?”

Steve tries to remember his work schedule for that next week, but his thoughts are a little slowed by the warm and gooey feelings he’s got filling him up. James wants to spend a weekend with him. He wants to take him away, show him his favorite place. Steve squirms happily in the other man's lap and tucks his face into his neck, inhaling the rich, clean scent of him and pleased as punch, because this means that James really likes him, and maybe even wants to make him a part of his life.

Jesus Christ, maybe Steve's actually, finally done it. Maybe he really has managed to scoop up the last remaining, non-married, high-value homosexual who actually wants to be in a serious relationship.

It's too good to be true!

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brighttears · 1 year

Text

Filth II

Joel Miller x f!reader

No use of y/n, no physical description other than having hair

Summary: You escape a threat and find a motel on your way out. You decide to stay the night, but Joel has one last thing he’d like to do before you fall asleep.

Word count: 4k

Warnings: smut (minors dni), dom!Joel, but also some soft!Joel, cunnilingus, orgasm denial, pet names (baby, sweetheart, good girl, precious girl, beautiful girl, darling)

A/n: this smut was honestly so fun to write cause you know mmMMMMMM anyways hope y'all enjoy :3 more to come(heehee)! got some angst comin up i think chapter after next? cause i miss it

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The dogs bark again, viscous and sharp, and Joel pulls you into the treeline, sliding down to crouch in a ditch. As the sounds grow nearer and Joel peeks his head out above the ditch, looking down the road. When he comes back to you, his demeanor is intense. “Stay down, stay silent, don’t move a muscle.” Voices start coming along with the dogs, and your breathing becomes shakier, heart hammering in your chest. “It’s a scavenging crew,” He tells you quietly, “probably five or six of them. They’re looking for people.” At his words, your heart lurches, a shiver of fear running through you. “We have to wait for them to pass. Okay?” You nod, trying to calm your breaths, keep yourself quiet and steady. Even without the threat of people, you know those dogs could tear you apart, and you bet they’re trained just for that.

You wait, hiding and listening as the sounds come closer. Your eyes are locked on Joel, staring at him as you try to keep yourself as relaxed as possible, settle into some sort of stillness, but your blood rushes in your ears. When Joel looks down at you, he reaches up to brush his hand over your chek, nodding reassuringly.

After what feels like an hour, the sounds fade, and Joel peeks his head back out to look around. You stay crouched, looking at him for direction, a deep breath releasing some of the tension that has your body pulled taut. Without looking at you, he says, his voice still low, “We’re gonna move fast and quiet. If you hear them, if they see us, you haul ass. Got it?” You nod, and as soon as you do, Joel pulls you into the woods, gripping your hand tight as you weave quickly through the trees. He moves with intense focus and you follow behind trying not to trip, legs still indisposed.

“Where are we going?” You ask quietly.

Joel eyes dart around, keeping a fast pace. “Just keep up.”

Eventually, you reach the other side of the woods, coming to another road. Across it, you see a dilapidated, faded pink, two story motel.

“Alright,” Joel says, stopping at the treeline. “We’ll see if we can stop here for the night. Stay quiet.” Still keeping hold of your hand, he starts for the motel, scanning your surroundings as you hurry towards the cover.

When you reach the building, Joel lets go of your hand, looking back at you as he takes his gun out, signaling for you to do the same. You sneak around the perimeter, checking it out. Most of the windows of the rooms are broken, some doors boarded up, some open, some not even on their hinges, but no sound, no sign of anything, and relief starts to lighten your shoulders.

As you walk up the stairs crossed over the front of the motel, he says, “If it’s all clear, we’ll stay up here on the second floor. Gives us the high ground, more time to react if anything comes.” You nod, looking over the railing as you climb. It’s mostly clear, just the road, trees, and a dusty, empty parking lot. No movement. No sound. You’re safe. For now. Hopefully.

The second floor is in slightly better condition than the first, most windows still intact, doors still on their hinges. You slide against the wall as Joel checks through each opening into the rooms. At the very end is the single room with both door and window fully intact, and he pauses to look at you before he opens the door.

The room is small but in good enough shape, with a bed, a small desk, and a dresser. There are a couple things strewn about the room—an empty, dusty suitcase open in the corner, some pieces of jewelry scattered across the desk. Someone left here in a rush, likely around that time in 2003. You hope they happened to have left some clothes behind, too. Joel goes around the corner in the back of the room to check the bathroom while you check the closet next to it, finding nothing.

“Alright,” he nods as he comes back into the main room, locking the door and drawing the wispy curtains. Dropping his pack on the floor by the door, he sighs as he sits down on the edge of the bed. You set your bag down next to the dresser and start opening the drawers. The top one is empty, but the bottom holds a few folded pieces of clothes. A smile spreads across your face as you take out the shirt resting on top. As you hold it out in front of you, you see that a woman stayed in this room, her size, by good fortune, only a little smaller than yours. You turn to Joel, holding the baby blue t-shirt over your body to show him. He smiles back, slightly amused. Still smiling, you look down at it in your hands.

“...Can I make a request?” You hear him.

Looking back up, “Hm?”

“...Can I put them on you?”

His words force a deep breath out of you and you pause, face going hot. Such an intimate act, and not something you had expected from him. You’ve learned that his demeanor can shift quickly, and there’s a lot more hidden under his surface. Things you’re dying to see. After a moment, you nod, and he stands, walking over to you slowly to take the shirt from your hands. Your eyes are locked on his as you start on the buttons of your—his—jacket. As you reveal more of yourself under it, Joel sighs deeply, eyes following your fingers.

“Raise your arms for me.” He tells you, eyes on your bare body as you slip the jacket off and let it fall to the floor. You do, completely exposed and open as you do as you’re told. He slips the shirt over you, gently pressing his hands over your arms to lower them, then slides the fabric down until it rests at your waist, a thin slip of skin exposed before your jeans. Joel’s hands come to rest on your waist, and he sighs again, then whispers, “Beautiful.” He plants a light kiss on your lips and your heart throbs, looking into his eyes as he steps away.

“Are there… are there underwear in here, too?” You ask, sounding much more shy than you intended.

A small smile spreads over his lips and he bends down to dig through the drawers. “Sure are.” He smiles at you, pulling out a pair of lacy black panties, holding them out to display for you. You manage a small smile back, face on fire.

“Hold these for me.” He says quietly, handing you the underwear, then comes back close, very close, holding your gaze as his fingers go down to undo your jeans. As he slides his hands over your hips, hooking his thumbs over your jeans to pull them down, you let out a deep breath. Slowly, he lowers, kneeling under you to slip your jeans off, eyes on yours all the while, and your breathing quickens as you look down at him.

Joel’s hands slide up your legs, from your ankles, up your calves, then to rest over the sides of your thighs. “My beautiful girl,” he says quietly, and you can't help but let out a shuddering breath. He presses a kiss over your stomach, just below your belly button, the sensitive touch blossoming all through your body. He begins to plant kisses lower, lower, lower, and he says again, “My beautiful girl,” speaking slowly, almost in a whisper. You bunch the panties in your fist, looking down at him on his knees before you, his lips on your skin. Holding your gaze, he kisses the inside of your right thigh lightly. “My sweetheart.” He plants another kiss in the center of your hips, once again moving lower, lower, until he stops just above where you want him the most. “My precious girl.” Your breath catches in your throat. He grasps your thighs, as if readying himself before he noses his way in between your legs, and you lean your head back, letting your eyes close and the panties fall from your hand as you comb your hands through his hair. He teases a wide lick over your pussy, and you moan out quietly, running your hands through his hair, your nails over his scalp. He moves to kiss the inside of your thigh lightly again, and you feel his hot breath over your skin as he whispers, “Please…” Suddenly, his mouth closes over the entirety of your pussy, his tongue licking flatly up your slit, closing it around to suck over your clit, and you gasp, gripping his hair. “Please, baby…”

“Wh–what?” You breathe out.

“Stay still, sweetheart. Don’t move. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe out again, breaths too shallow to allow anything more. Anything, anything you want, you think to yourself, I’ll do.

“Put your hands at your sides, baby.” You do, then bunch them into fists, your hips starting to quiver, needy for his touch. “Oh, baby,” he whispers as his hands slide up and down your thighs before you feel the warmth of mouth over you again. You moan out at the ceiling, willing yourself to stay still and not press yourself into his mouth. He licks wide and flat, flicking his tongue up over your clit, and you moan. His stubble scratches the insides of your thighs as he starts on your clit, sucking and licking, and moans come out with each deep breath that slips out of your body. Reflexively, your hips push into him, and he pulls away, making you whine at the loss of contact. He shifts his hands from your thighs up to your hips, gripping, holding you in place. “Don’t move,” he whispers, and you turn your head back down, melting at the sight below you. He looks up at you with gentle pleading in his eyes, his brow drawn up, parted lips wet with your juices. You nod, and he leans his mouth back into you, keeping his eyes on yours. He lets his mouth rest over the entity of your pussy, working his tongue up.

“Fuck,” you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning your head back again, and you feel your body cursedly shift towards him again, making him pull away.

“Be still, baby, please,” he whispers, and you look back down at him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you breath out, voice barely audible.

“Shh… ‘t’s okay,” he whispers back before putting his mouth back over you, working at your clit again. You moan loudly, digging your nails into your palms as you will yourself to be still. He pulls his mouth back again, pressing light kisses all over your inner thighs. “Please…” he whispers, teasing his lips all around the place that yearns for him most. “Shh… just relax…” You bite your lip, nodding with your eyes closed. Joel kisses over your clit, pulling away in a torturous pattern. “Please, please be still…”

“Ahuh,” you breathe out, looking back down at him. You moan again just at the sight, those puppy dog eyes on you as he finally places his tongue back over your pussy, licking from bottom to top repeatedly. “Oh,” you moan out, your thighs starting to quiver as you strain to keep them locked in place. His eyes close again, kitten licking your clit before he closes his mouth all the way around again. You continue to quiver and moan, standing as still as you possibly can with his fingers digging into your hips. As he quickens his pace, tongue dancing along your slit and teasing your clit, you have to focus hard to keep still. Noticing your strain, Joel keeps his mouth where it is but slides a hand to the back of your thigh to carefully hook it over his shoulder. He moves that hand to then reach around to splay over your lower back, holding you more securely with his thumb on your hip, fingers still digging into the other side, and you lean your head back with your mouth open wide as he continues. He hums as he eats you out and you squeak out a moan at the gratifying vibration that shakes a quiver through you, feeling yourself roll up towards your climax, but Joel moves his mouth away again, and you whine. “Shh… I need you to stay so still, sweetheart,” he whispers, his breath hot on your soaking wet pussy, and you feel wetness start to roll down the inside of your thigh, making you shiver. He licks flat again and you whimper again, desperate for more, needing it as you feel yourself start rolling up the hill again, but he whispers again, “Shh… shh.. Just be patient…” You whine more, fiddling with your fingers in your fists. He kisses your slit, his nose on your clit, and you bite your lip, straining with all your might to stay still.

“P–hh–please, Joel,” you whimper, but he shushes you again.

“Patient, darlin’, be patient.” You hum and nod, knowing you’re at his mercy, that he knows it, and that he loves it, so you bite your lip again, stilling, but you have to tense yourself when his lips start to focus on your clit. Involuntarily, your entire torso starts to shake as he sucks, the tip of his tongue rolling back and forth over the very tip, and you cry out again, “Please,” instantly regretting it when he pulls away. “Shh,” he urges you with a gentle pat on your thigh, “Just be patient, darlin’, be quiet and patient. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

“Yes, yes, I can,” you shudder out.

“Good girl.” He goes right back at your clit, and you clench your fists and cry out, eyes rolling back in your head as pleasure jolts through you and your body rocks forward.

“Darlin’,” Joel speaks, quiet but stern as he comes away, and you look down at him to tell him, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t stay still when you do that, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”

“No, no, darlin,” he whispers, shaking his head slowly, “‘T’s alright. T’s okay. You’re alright. Just, please, stay still for me, okay?” He tells you, though it’s not very reassuring, knowing that he’s going to do what he wants to you, and it’s up to you to do as he says. You nod.

“Good girl,” he whispers, slowly taking his mouth back under to open wide and close back around you, coming into a sucking kiss away. He repeats the motion, then simply kisses your entrance, teasing, watching your eyes. “Such a good girl,” he speaks as he kisses your clit, “stayin’ so still like this for me.” Finally, his mouth comes back, licking and sucking and kissing, slurping at this point, and you start moaning louder, digging your nails into palms so hard it hurts. He hums delightfully again before pulling away yet again, and at this point you want to scream, repeatedly coming closer and closer right before he stops again.

“Shh, baby, be quiet, be patient.” He urges you in a whisper before starting to swirl his tongue around your clit, then slips it down to tease your entrance, and you clamp your hand around your mouth to muffle your sounds. “Such a good girl,” he licks, “you’re so beautiful, you know that? I can’t believe I get to touch you like this.” His hand runs over your thigh over his shoulder before shifting it to hold you securely so that he can lick into you again. He suctions the entirety of his mouth around your pussy, teasing your entrance again, and a shake runs through your torso, but you tense it, willing yourself to be still. He licks up, closing his lips around your clit only to pull back once again, and you clench your teeth, mind reeling. You turn your face back down to look at him, and he looks so sweet, so innocent, as if he’s not torturing you right now, though his mouth, nose, and chin are wet with his spit and your cum.

“Such a good girl for me. ‘T’s okay, I’ll give you what you need. Don’t worry, darlin’.” You nod vigorously, breathless with your brow furrowed, still with your hand over your mouth, and you almost catch a little smile from him before he buries it between your legs, closing his eyes as he slides his tongue up and down. When he starts to add pressure you squeeze your eyes shut, crying out breathy moans as your core quakes. Adding more pressure, he speeds up, tongue slipping top to bottom, the tip of his tongue curling up the underside of your clit and letting the bottom come back down over it before he drags it back down lower. He adjusts his grip on your thighs, holding you in place, and shakes his head back and forth slightly and slowly as he buries it deeper. He picks up the pace further, devouring with abandon while you squeak and cry moans into your hand, feeling yourself coming closer to a climax. He hums, and your hips shudder, desperate for more, so close, so close, and he must be able to tell, because he grips you harder, leaving more bruises as he pulls your hips into his face. Keeping that fast pace, he hums low and long, and your eyes start to roll back in your head as the pleasure builds, the feeling flowering over your hips, into your stomach, shooting up in your head and it falls back, and you can’t to stop your body from leaning into his face, your body shuddering around it. He continues to moan and lick and your free hand grips his hair thoughtlessly. As your climax peaks and tumbles, Joel slows, mouth moving leisurely but keeping his mouth around you, and your heel digs into his back as you shake.

After a moment more, pulls back slowly, releasing his mouth. You feel his hot breath over your skin and hear low, grumbling purring. Finally, you take your hand off of your mouth, letting both hands brush and comb through his hair as your shuddering subsides. Slowly, he leans back in kissing your clit once or twice. “Jesus,” you breathe out as he pulls out another convulsion. As you catch your breath, you continue to pet his hair. Joel leans his head against your thigh, sliding his hand around the leg still hooked over his shoulder, gentle touch under his hands. You let your hands rest on his head for a moment, then comb your hands back to gently pull his head away from your leg, cupping his cheek to pull his face up. His eyes are sleepily half lidded, mouth and nose wet.

A smile rolls over your lips. “Baby…” you say; his expression does something to you, like a warm wave of thick water washing over you, feeding into some sort of bouquet blossoming from your heart.

“Mmmmm,” Joel lets out a contented sigh and closes his eyes, resting his chin on your thigh. Watching his face, you brush your hands through his hair, and he continues to purr, breathe slowing, then turns his head to lay his cheek back against your skin.

“Come on, baby,” you say quietly, turning his face back to yours, cupping it to pull slightly and urge him to his feet. He makes a little grumbling noise, but doesn’t resist, letting you raise him up. Your leg slips off of him as he grumbles and groans to his feet, as if he can’t stand to pull himself off of you. Joel’s hands lay lax at his sides as he stands with his head in your hands, and for a moment all you do is stare at him. Big bad Joel, melting in your hands. Slowly, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into an embrace. You wrap your arms back around his shoulders, swaying him gently. He’s so sweet now, so soft.

You’ve seen him serious, violent like he has to be in the face of danger, you’ve seen him let go completely, submissive to you in pleasure, and you’ve seen him deeply hungry, a desperate animal, forceful in need. You’ve had him begging, thirsty and needy, and now, soft like a kitten.

“Mmmmm…” he nuzzles into you, rubbing his cheeks and face against your shoulder and neck. He clasps his hands around your back, letting his weight lean into you. Breathing deep and even, he lets out another contented sigh, and you start to think he might be falling asleep right here.

“Come on, little baby boy,” you say with a smile, nearly chuckling, and start to step back, pulling him towards the bed.

“Mmmm…” he complains, but his body follows as you move. You let go of him to sit down, then shift back and reach your hands out, beckoning him to lay down with you. Joel lets out the tiniest of sleepy murmurs as he crawls onto the bed, falling to his side next to you, his eyes barely open. He starts to curl into you, laying his arm around your waist to pull you closer, then lays his head down to nuzzle into your chest. You slide your arm between his neck and the bed, pulling him closer with your other around his back. He shifts his arm further around you, pulling you closer, and pushes his leg in between yours, wrapping it around the one below to pull you ever closer. Chuckling, you swing your leg over his side, and he sighs deeply. Smiling, you tip your face into his hair and reach back to brush your hand over his cheek. He sighs again, his body relaxing into the bed. Then he reaches for your face, leaning his head back to gaze into your eyes. His are sleepy, but you see something in them, unreadable but heavy. His lips move, as if he wants to speak, but he stays quiet. You brush your thumb over his cheek, his skin you finally know, every detail clear, all the spots, wrinkles and scars. Pretty eyelashes over pretty brown eyes. The slight pout of his lips, the heart shaped patch in his salt and pepper beard.

Your chest is full and warm. You love him. Deeply. Completely. So much it fills you, your skin tingling with it, and the words rumble in your chest, boiling up, and they come out almost without permission, in a whisper, “I love you.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, Joel’s eyes close, his shoulder relaxing further, and now his body is completely limp, a faint whimper falling from his lips. They move again, ever so slightly, words faltering, and his brow furrows up for a moment before he pushes his head back into your chest, pulling his arm tight around you.

Whether he loves you or not, you love him, and you just need him to know that. Every part of you needs him to know. And not just because he just gave you the most mind blowing orgasm of your life in the span of a day, because they’ve been so much more than that. Pure passion, pure love, desperate need, for you. And you for him. And you do need him. Forever, you need him.

Joel’s breathing becomes deeper, and he shifts his arm back from around your waist, reaching for your hand on his cheek to intertwine with his and pull against your chest. He's so delicate now, every part of his mind, body, and soul relaxed, and he's almost like a child, afraid to leave you, lonely in the night, needing the warmth of your body against him.

You pull yourself closer, surrounding him, wanting to make him feel safe, like he can be like this, show him that he’s allowed to be like this with you. You feel him melt against you, and your body relaxes around him.

This is all you could ever ask for. The peaceful contentedness of the moment lays over you with the heaviness of sleep, and you hold each other close as you drift off.

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enam3l · 1 year

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love, lola / chapter nine pt.1 / going solo (5.7k)

Eddie’s arrived in California, leaving you behind, to start his new life as a rockstar.

thank you for 1.2k of you kind angels!!!??? and thank you guys for your patience, life has been hectic with work and school and after the anniversary of eddie’s death (but not in this fic baby) i thought fuck it imma post what we got for chapter 9 - I hope it’ll all be worth the wait

a/n: sex drugs and rock and roll - no fr there is graphic sex here

series masterlist / follow #enam3l love lola for instant updates / my other work / now available to read on AO3!

comment for tag list. requests open for prequel stories.

California is too fucking hot. That is what Eddie Munson has learnt since moving. Far too hot for hair like his and definitely far too hot to stay hidden behind the safety of his leather jacket. After years of the mind numbing mundanity of Hawkins, Eddie was propelled into the fast pace L.A. mindset. Each morning for a moment his heart hammered, wondering where he was until the palm trees outside the window reminded him it definitely wasn't Indiana. The apartment the record label had set him and rest of Kraven up in was definitely not the trailer - maybe the size of every single one in the park combined.

So far, everyone had been nice; a niceness you're not usually privy to when you're known as 'The Freak'. Kraven were excited he accepted the offer and their label and manager had heralded him the hero of the hour. But a nagging part of Eddie couldn't ignore the feeling that this wasn't really his band, he was a replacement. There was a brotherhood between the bandmates long before his arrival and it's hard to ever truly assimilate with a bond like that. Regardless, he was there, escaped the confines of his small town and now living the dream of becoming a rockstar. This was always the fantasy, wasn't it?

September 2nd 1986

For the first time in his life, Eddie is sat in a real life, high tech, actual recording studio. A far cry from Gareth’s egg box insulated garage. An egg shaped chair swallows him whole which feels tediously symbolic of his time so far in California. Everything is much bigger than him. As the band and producers play him the demos they have already, with hopeful looks on their faces, he resorts to anxiously twisting the rings on his fingers. They're a tangible reminder of home. He thumbs them in order. Skull. Pig. Cross and bones. Mom's. But now there's a new edition - yours.

It made its way onto his finger as you said your final goodbyes in the airport terminal and it hasn't left since. Between runny noses and weepy eyes, Eddie frowned as you withdrew from a hug that had already lasted several minutes (which was still not long enough).

'I have something for you, Teddy,' you confess as you sift through your bag.

'You already threw the party, sweetheart. Whatcha wasting money on me for?' He sighs.

The protests were not what you wanted clearly as he's met with a silencing finger until you finally found what you were looking for. Now you chew your lip anxiously, fumbling with a little velvet pouch.

'It's not for going away... it's - well, I gathered, this will be the first time since we met that we've not spent our birthdays together...'

Eddie's stomach drops, he had not gathered that. 'Oh...' he murmurs.

'So, I thought I'd give you your present now. I guess. If that's okay?'

Totally thrown, he only blinked and nodded. Taking his hand, you lay his palm out flat and shake the pouch until Eddie hears a little clinking, then feels cool metal on the skin.

'It's the big 2-1, y'know. I wanted us to have something special. I couldn't think of anything to buy. But, I - uhhh - I could think of something to make.'

Finally, he moves and inspects your gift closer. Two silver rings, perfectly imperfect. Carefully, he spins them round until he can finally see what the feature of them is. It causes him to gasp and you to resort to nervously stumbling over your words.

'I was taking a silversmithing class at college and I was thinking about your rings and then I thought I could make you one. Then I thought I could make us some. Matching ones. For our birthdays. It's silly. They're not professional or anything. Y'know a little wonky. Just thought it'd be nice...'

Eddie balls his fist up, clutching the precious contents and closes his eyes to swallow up a sniffle. One ring has E for Eddie on, the other identical except for your initial.

'Wonky? Y/N... they're perfect. This is, holy shit, this is the most amazing thing anyone has ever given me...'

The compliment makes your insides fizz.

'Are you sure? I mean, I was gonna tidy them up more but when you were in hospital. When I went back to New York... I brought them back with me. Just incase... y'know...'

Just incase Eddie never made it to his 21st is the unspoken ending to that sentence that you both understand. Eddie takes your hands in his and squeezes. The rings shielded by your conjoined palms.

'Thank you, sweetheart. Thank you... put it on me! Go on! Make me your little hand model m!'

As usual, Eddie's theatrics ease the tension and force you into giggles.

Carefully, you slide the E ring over Eddie's finger. He prompts you to place it on the bare one next to where his Mom's old ring resides. Then, he takes your hand and delicately places your own ring onto the matching finger. To the rest of the people in the airport, it must've looked like the exchanging of vows between two lovers being forced apart. Really, they wouldn't have been entirely incorrect.

‘So what do you think man?’

Eddie breaks his daze to be met with a room of hopeful eyes.

‘Huh?’ He murmurs.

‘The demos!’ The manager Chris encourages, ‘for the album! These are what the guys have put down so far. Love em?’

Eddie’s brain stumbles over what will be the correct thing to say. The songs bad? God no, there was a reason the bad were signed. But were they what he would do? Not really. It was clear they were angling as more commercially marketable, less niche like metal, a more digestible rock. Taylor was more Iggy than Ozzy.

‘Yeah, yeah they’re tight,’ Eddie scrambles, praying he didn’t appear rude.

Already though, his brain has calculated how he would rearrange each element of the songs, what lyrics he’d tweak, how he’d make it his own - but he has to remind himself that’s not why he’s here.

‘We want a single out for Christmas. Make a big splash over the festive season. Hit the talk shows, the radios. Get you boys out there. Build up the hype for a Valentine’s album release,’ Chris cheerfully continues.

‘But don’t forget, none of these songs are finalised,’ a rough voice from the corner of the room interrupts Chris’ ambitions.

Riz, the producer, sits like the mastermind behind the console in his swivel chair. His skin weathered and tanned, littered with scribbled tattoos not unlike Eddie’s own. Tired eyes that have seen too many young ambitious bands and their teams come in and out of his studio, are concealed by thin tinted glasses. A mane of salt and pepper curls, some formed into dreads cascade past his broad shoulders. A real old school rocker.

‘Oh well, yes, yes of course,’ Chris fumbles, ‘plenty of room for your inputs Eddie.’

It’s clear Chris is entirely intimidated by Riz’s presence. His clean cut Armani suited self a direct contrast to the producer’s rough look. One is the face, the other is the real brains.

‘Speaking of, Chris, why don’t you take Taylor, Spike and Keith to lunch. Use that gold card the label bestowed upon you whilst me and Eddie get accompanied?’

Eddie shoots round to look at Riz, used to his name being called out as the signal he’s in trouble. But when he meets his eyes, they only offer warmth and a small smirk; something Eddie had yet to see him crack so far.

‘Oh are you sure?’

‘Yeah, yeah, lots of technical things I need to adjust now Eddie is with his. Go on,’ Riz practically shoos Chris out the door. The rest of Kraven following suit, amused by their manager’s nervous babbling.

Finally, once the door is shut and locked, Riz returns to his throne, spinning round and looking at Eddie expectantly.

‘Well, come on then,’ he chuckles, smacking his tattooed hand against a leather chair beside him. Eddie immediately scrambles over, Sweetheart safely in her case towing behind him. There’s an awkward silence as Eddie toys with his guitar case, desperate to avoid Riz’s piercing gaze.

Nonchalantly, Riz swings his feet up onto a nearby stool and reclines in his chair.

‘So… you hate the songs,’ he chuckles.

Eddie finally looks up to gawp, scrambling for a response.

‘No, I don’t, it’s not, I never said I-‘

‘It’s cool brother. You’re a metalhead. They aren’t a metal band. They’re not your first choice, no sweat.’

Riz, in just a few minutes of knowing each other, has called Eddie’s bluff. The tone in his voice is not anger or judgment, it’s just matter of fact with a hint of amusement.

‘They’re not my first choice either, sound wise. I’m a lot more old school myself, personally. But, fuck, you know what, those boys got more star power than anyone else who’s been brought to me in the last two decades.’

Eddie nods eagerly. There’s a reason he was honoured Kraven had asked him, they were really fucking good and most surprisingly - nice. Riz eyes the boy before him, big brown soulful eyes that scream there’s a story behind them.

‘I think you’re an old soul like me though, Munson. Let me guess… you’ve got notebooks full of lyrics in that case of yours?’

A beetroot blush flushes Eddie’s cheeks, he’s been rumbled and stutters an agreement.

‘And I bet you’ve never shown anyone either, huh?’

Two for two.

‘No, never. They’re all a little… personal,’ Eddie murmurs.

‘All the best stuff is. So what you’re gonna do is get them out and show me who the musician Eddie Munson really is.’

With an eagle eye, Riz combs through the tattered pages of scrawling lyrics. Words dating back years. The afternoon flies by as Eddie demonstrates the melodies he wrote for each with Riz adding his own input.

‘Well, Munson. I don’t think Kraven or the label know what they’ve accidentally come across with you,’ Riz scoffs. His fingers gloss over the stacks of song lyrics Eddie’s unveiled.

‘And you better be marrying this girl you’re writing about. Ain’t heard love songs like this in a lifetime.’

The way Eddie nervously shrinks in on himself over his words isn’t lost on Riz, things rarely ever are.

September 21st 1986

‘TWENTY ONE MOTHERFUCKER’

Raucous laughter and cheers manage to erupt over the booming club music. The fine spray of champagne, more expensive than his trailer, soaking Eddie’s curls. The women that had crowded the booth, struggle to get in the stream of booze. Liquid gold dripping from their open mouths and exposed cleavage. No, this was not the usual Munson birthday set up.

Despite attempting to keep his twenty-first birthday a secret, Eddie had been rumbled. Chris’ assistant Sammy had discovered his impending celebration after going through files. That was spilt during bedroom talk with Spike the bass player who she’d been hooking up with. Spike then mentioned a small night with the boys to Taylor and Keith to celebrate, which was overheard by manager Chris. So now due to Chris’ inability for subtlety, the boys found themselves in an exclusive WeHo club, surrounded by bottomless bottles, scantily clad girls and yes men - all courtesy of the label. Eddie was light years away from where he’d usually spend his evenings round humble drama room DnD table or with lukewarm beers in Gareth’s garage.

After three weeks of locking themselves in the studio when the sun had begun to rise, only leaving well after, the band were finally letting loose. The guys had all told Eddie their tales of L.A’s debaucherous rock’n’roll night life; the secret places where other musicians mingled, where dealers made their money and girls got the memorable nights they went looking for. But so far, he’d yet to experience it and now he was, Eddie wasn’t sure it was for him. A rainbow of pills scattered the table without discretion, he could tell they were far better quality than the shit he used to sell. Servers came with an endless supply of bottles, money no question. A far cry from the gruff, stingy bartenders at The Hideout. The clientele is a far cry as well. The girls that had flocked to their booth looked straight off a Hollywood set. One busty blonde sat on a bewildered Chris’ knee, his eyes desperately trying not to focus on the cleavage that bobbed below his chin. Spike was making it clear he and Sammy weren’t exclusive as a brunette and a redhead sat either side of him as they purred in his ear. Taylor had disappeared into the crowd, ever the life of the party, surely feeling the effects of the pills he’d let fizzle on his tongue. Out of everyone, the only person Eddie felt envious of was Keith.

Nestled happily in the corner of the booth sat Keith and his fiancee Grace, lost in their own little world. The pair had scoffed when a girl had tried to luck with Keith, knowing hell would freeze over before he left Grace. High school sweethearts who had made it work as he’d followed the path of wannabe rockstar. She was no eager groupie or ditzy model, Grace was a lawyer; officially Kraven’s lawyer. Put together, fierce and completely soft on Keith - reminding Eddie of you. Although, they were a real couple, best friends and lovers, exactly what Eddie had failed in making the two of you. When they whispered private jokes or sleepy appeared from their bedroom, his heart panged with envy. Mind racing with questions of how they managed to make it work. Who made the first move? How did they know it was mutual? How did they know it wasn’t a mistake? All the questions he fretted over when his lips burnt with desperation to meet yours.

Eddie’s wishful gaze is interrupted by a sudden touch to his thigh. Eyes wide with confusion, his head spins round and are met with a fluttering pair staring right back at him. The stranger’s fingers tucking rogue curls behind his ear causes Eddie to freeze. A touch too intimate to receive from anyone but you or his family.

‘Your hair is nearly as long as mine,’ the girl drawls. Long nails still trailing up his shredded jeans and now up his exposed bicep. Whether she hadn’t noticed Eddie’s bewildered look or had just chosen to ignore it, the girl pressed on.

‘The boys told me you're the new lead guitar… I think you’re definitely an upgrade, honey.’

Eddie gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. So far he had been able to avoid interacting with these legendary California girls. Throwing himself into rehearsals with the band and his own late sessions with Riz long after the rest of the guys go home. Women weren’t on his radar. Everyone dull in comparison to the shine he knows radiates off you.

‘Urm, thanks,’ he mumbles, trying to squirm out of her grasp.

‘And he’s a little shy?’ She giggles, ‘sooo cute.’

Eddie’s eyes, wide like saucers, scan the surroundings rapidly, desperate to escape this uncomfortable encounter. He wasn’t interest in a hook up, the thought unimaginable and he definitely didn’t want this. He’s desperate for you more than ever now, wishing for your soft touch, wishing it was your tipsy words being whispered in his ear. His birthdays weren’t for sharing with random hookups, they were always reserved for you. After being separated by your college, Eddie was giddy at the thought of getting to spend your birthdays together again. But now you were torn apart again, now even further apart.

Finally, Eddie spots his opening. The girl leans over to the table to pour another drink, her grip on him loosening. Quickly, he darts up, hopping over everyone’s legs and abandoning the booth as the girl calls after him. Eddie’s feet seem to take him away before his mind is even sure where he wants to go. Hand’s planting on the bar top, causing an unexpecting bartender to jump, Eddie pleas,

‘Is there a phone anywhere I can use?’

The bartender nods, finger jabbing to a corridor beside the toilets. Shouting a thanks behind him, Eddie shoots off in the direction of the promised phones.

Frantically, he punches in a number he’s known by heart for most of his life. Ringed fingers twist round the cord anxiously and the dial tone hums over the vibrations of the club’s speakers.

Eddie’s breath hitches as the other end picks up and fumbling can be heard.

‘H-hello?’ Your sleepy voice croaks.

It’s the best noise he’s heard since he arrived, better than anything he’s heard in the studio.

‘Hi,’ he whispers shyly, ‘it’s me, it’s Eddie. I’m sorry, did I wake you?’

Your giggle makes his stomach churn.

‘I know it’s you, Eds or should I say birthday boy? No, no, it’s okay. I was already awake.’

‘Are you okay? Are you sick?’ He enquires desperately. For a moment, Eddie is sure he hears a hesitation in your voice.

‘No, no, I - urm, you know, just one of those nights. I’m fine! It’s nice to hear your voice.’

Eddie for once is grateful for the distance that separates you for seeing the blush that spreads across his cheeks.

‘It’s really nice to hear yours too. I’m sorry I’ve not been keeping up with the calls, it’s all just -‘

You interrupt before he falls into a spiral of apologies.

‘Eds, it’s fine! You’re a rockstar in training, I don’t expect you to be missing all the fun to be calling me every second.’

‘But, I want to, sweetheart… I wish you were here,’ he sighs.

‘I wish I was too… but this your adventure. This is everything you’ve ever dreamed of.’

Eddie desperately wants to let the alcohol coursing through his system to take ahold of his tongue and confess no, you’re everything I’ve dreamed of. But he doesn’t. Your voice chirps up again, trying to dispel the sad silence that took over the line.

‘So, how’s your birthday? How is being 21? Are you not out and drowning in booze and those Cali girls?’ You’re chuckling but he doesn’t laugh.

‘No, no I’m out with the guys. But, urm, no Cali girls. Definitely not.’

Eddie’s not sure if you let out a relieved sigh or it’s just wishful thinking.

‘You’re out?! Eddie, what on earth are you calling me for!’

Your scolding tone makes him grin. He can picture perfectly how your brows are furrowed and how if you were in front of him your hands would be flailing animatedly.

‘Cos birthdays are our thing. You’re much better than this club full of fuckin’ posers.’

‘Yeah, they are. Am I now? Are you trying to flatter me, mister?’

‘Always, sweetheart.’

The pair of you giggle down the phone. His dimpled cheeks aching from the grin you inspire. As the giggles finally subside, Eddie hears you attempt to disguise a yawn and remembers how once again distance keeps you apart.

‘Guess I should let you get to sleep then, huh sweet?’

‘You should go and enjoy your birthday more importantly!’

Eddie huffs, knowing such a thing is impossible without your presence.

‘I’ll try… I’ll speak to you soon, promise.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Eds. Whenever you have time!’

‘I’ll always have time for you. I’ll make sure I at least call you on your birthday.’

‘You better,’ you sleepily smirk, ‘it’s two days after yours, you’ve got no excuse to forget.’

‘How could I?’

Eddie rakes a hand through his curls, knowing he needs to hang up but it’s too hard to let you go.

‘Get some sleep, sweetheart. I miss you.’

‘Goodnight Eddie, I miss you too.’

The line goes dead and once again the only sound filling his ears is the throbbing base. Trying to replay your words in his head, Eddie flops against the wall. Eyes closed tight as he wishes it was you he was breathing in rather than the cloud of perfume wafting from the women’s bathroom nearby.

It’s only when he can feel a presence beside him does Eddie open his eyes. A woman mirrors his position against the wall but faces him, a wicked glint in her cat-like eyes. Taken aback by her close proximity, Eddie jumps causing her to giggle at his squirming.

‘Whatcha waiting for cutie?’

Eddie continues to shuffle away, the phone your warm voice once echoed out of, now uncomfortably sticking into his back.

‘Was just… just using the phone…’ he murmurs nervously.

‘Oh?’ she cocks her head, auburn waves tumbling, ‘and here I thought you were waiting out here for some fun.’

A slender manicured finger reaches out, tugging at a bewildered Eddie’s bottom lip. He stutters as his brain scrambles for a response. Another awkward round of full frontal flirting from random girls. The thought of supermodel groupies throwing themselves at him was somewhat appealing when he was a raging hormone of a teenager. But even then, you were still in the back of his mind on a pedestal, now you live there front and centre. Eddie recoils from her touch, swatting her hand away.

‘No!’ he surprises himself with the firmness in his voice, ‘M’sorry, not looking for anything.’

The girl scoffs a ‘whatever’, rolling her eyes and flouncing off. Just as Eddie finally feels his body relax, a snigger from the corner catches his attention. A frame steps forward from the shadows.

A man, also in his twenties, grins an infectious smile that makes Eddie feel a little giddy. Shorter than himself, but broader, tanned muscles that glistened with sweat from dancing.

‘I think she’s a little disappointed,’ the guy chuckles.

‘I really was just using the phone!’ Eddie insists.

Gradually the two move closer towards each other, Eddie drawn in by the piercing pale eyes that never leave him. Despite the corridor being much cooler than the dance floor, heat bubbled between their bodies.

‘So… Eddie, are you definitely not looking for any kind of fun?’

October 31st 1986

Now in the depths of autumn, the madness of life had only increased. Kraven had found their sound with the addition of Eddie, days spent mastering their sound in the studio. When out of the studio, the boys sat round meeting tables listening to suits spew corporate jargon about their mastermind ideas for selling the band. That was his least favourite part, hearing his existence and passion whittled down to money making schemes. It’s also where Eddie was forced to tackle the idea of fame. Seeing his name in small print under photographs of the band, plastered in pages of music magazines about the next hot thing. Personally, he found it mortifying but Wayne insisted it was proof of him achieving his dreams, whereas you cackled down the phone at the surrealness of it all.

At the end of the day, Eddie buried himself in sheets of paper, attempting to put into words the feelings that brewed inside. Trying to heal the internal wounds the events of the year had left, whilst being a thousand miles from the people who actually understood. Vocalising the sadness he wished he didn’t feel over achieving his dreams of making it but not with his own band. Then as ever, trying to find an outlet for the love he felt for you that bubbled with fervency in your absence and

with every stolen phone call. Then, a couple of times a week, Eddie would present his lyrics to Riz to make sense of, during after-hours at the studio. A secret project the two of them found themselves falling into outside of Kraven. That was another source of guilt, that his heart and soul weren’t invested in the band in the same way Taylor, Spike and Keith’s were. That he reserved the heartfelt work for himself, letting his real passion erupt during the late night sessions with Riz.

Then there was another output Eddie found for his pent up frustrations about his overwhelming emotions and suffocating new lifestyle. A way to let go in a way that didn't leave him ashamed as if he had betrayed you. The guy at the club on his 21st birthday had opened up possibilities that Hawkins had limited. Small town life was oppressive, he didn’t need the rumour mill buzzing with fresh stories that the satanist Munson was also a sodomist. Whilst Taylor and Spike drowned in girls, Eddie became comfortable seeking out something else in the bars and clubs they’d frequent. It was easier, less intimate. He didn’t need to worry about coy teasing, didn’t need to exchange names and take girls home. Eddie could find release down the back of another guy's throat, quick and hot in dark corners and back allies. He was unsure if his bandmates had realised and was anxious that they’d reject him for it but that was another issue forced to the back of his mind, stored in another box overflowing with anxieties.

Halloween was decided as a good marketing angle for the band. Their name added to the line up of hot new rock bands performing at an infamous West Hollywood Halloween party. Something thrown by a record executive’s tabloid covering daughter that had become notorious enough to be spoken about on MTV. Eddie being no stranger to a costume and outlandishness being second nature to Taylor, the pair had put themselves in charge of putting together the band’s costume.

‘This is pretty hardcore you guys,’ Spike admitted, ‘didn’t think you’d pull it off.’

The four cramped into a backstage room at the venue, getting ready for their performance. Eddie’s tongue stuck out in concentration as he finished painting Spike’s body. All four of them were skeletons. Leather trousers and boots embellished with white paint, creating the illusion when on stage they were void of flesh. Their torsos mostly exposed aside from frankly decorative scraps of leather. Spike in long leather sleeves that covered wrist to arm and left the entirety of his chest exposed. Eddie and Keith both in tight leather waistcoats. Then Taylor, naturally, entirely topless aside from some leather wrist cuffs and mask that made him appear as a devilish gimp. All exposed skin had bones painted on top which was now Eddie’s current job.

‘Of course we did,’ Taylor boasts, ‘you really doubted our little DnD nerd’s ability to put together a costume?’

Eddie splatters paint in the singer's direction. Even if they weren’t his friends from home, his band mates had become real friends. Their bantering is interrupted by the door opening and a fallen angel with a clipboard appearing.

‘You guys gotta be outta here in like a minute, the band on stage are wrapping up and you’re next.’ Her sentence is finished with a pop of her bubble gum and the slam of the door.

After final adjustments to the costumes, the boys file out to the side of the stage. Eddie’s chipped black nails gripping at the neck of his guitar. The usual pre-show jitters causing his stomach to flutter.

‘You good brother?’ Keith whispers, a reassuring firm hand bracing Eddie’s shoulder.

‘Yeah, yeah, all cool, I mean y’know aside from usual pre-show nerves,’ he shrugs. Keith nods with understanding, spinning his sticks - a nervous tick Eddie has come to notice.

‘Damn, you better at this fuckin rockstar shit than me. My heart feels like it’s about to fall out my god damn asshole knowing who’s in that audience!’

Quirking an eyebrow, Eddie warily responds,

‘What do you mean… who’s here?’

Keith’s eyes bulge at his bandmate’s obliviousness.

‘Holy shit, you got no gossip rags in that little town of yours? This party is infamous. It’s some real Motley Crue as shit out there. Full of rockstars fuckin heiresses n shit! Little Miss Clipboard said mother fucking Slash is here!’

Before Eddie can even clear his now dry throat to respond, the sound system booms with the excited announcement of the MC.

‘Next up is rock’s hottest new band… Kraven!’

The cheers are muddled by the ringing in Eddie’s ears, his body seized up until Spike nudges him along. With a gulp, he steps out into the spotlight, trusty axe in one hand whilst the other spins the ring you made him.

Dripping sweat causes the paint to bleed down Eddie’s exposed skin. Unsteady hands grab one of the bottles of whiskey thrusted upon them once the band exited the stage and merged into the party. Eddie’s ear’s still buzzed with the raucous applause and hollering that erupted once Kraven finished their set. Immediately after they were mobbed by names he’d read on the backs of cassettes he couldn’t afford in record stores. Producers, lyricists and fellow musicians, all congratulating and praising him - Eddie the freak Munson, the kid who grew up awkward, poor and unwanted. The change of pace in his life was surreal; after a lifetime of critical fails, he’s been rolling nat20s.

A soft evening breeze provides Eddie with as much needed respite as California weather can. The surrealness of inside was getting to him. Skin sticky from sweat induced by the growing crowd of important people with his name on their tongue. His name. Eddie Munson.

‘Eddie Munson?’

It takes a moment for Eddie to realise that voice wasn’t coming from inside his head. A few feet before him, leaning against the roped barrier a guy peers with his head cock. Soft flopping quaff falling into his curious eyes. A cowboy. Blue wash denim waistcoat with nothing underneath exposing taught tanned muscles. A tanned cowboy hat pushed back so it hangs off the back of his neck.

‘Uh, yeah, yeah… can I help you?’

The guy shrugs, hands sliding into the back pockets of tight jeans and rocking on the balls of his cowboy boots.

‘Nope. Just thought it was you. Saw you perform, you were great. More talented than most of these rockstars,’ he scoffs.

‘Oh, I - I don’t know about that. Thanks, I guess,’ Eddie fumbles over his words, eyes focused downwards at those damn cowboy boots.

With a chuckle the guy responds, now daring to move forward, strong hand adjusting Eddie’s waistcoat.

‘See, you just proved me right. Most of those guys would’ve agreed and definitely wouldn’t thank me…’

His fingers brush over Eddie’s jittering own.

‘Need a light for that?’

He pulls up Eddie’s hand that holds a long forgotten cigarette that remained unlit. Gulping, he nods. The mystery cowboy draws nearer, a zippo and a cigarette for himself materialising from inside the waistcoat.

‘I’m Max by the way,’ he smiles as he takes Eddie’s cigarette and places it into his agape mouth for him.

‘I’m Eddie…’

‘I know, babe,’ Max whispers, his own cigarette in his mouth now.

The tips of both cigarettes almost kiss as the distance closes between the two men. The zippo crackles alight, the flame illuminating a pair of wide chocolate eyes staring at a charming pair of green, both sets of pupils dilated.

‘Holy fuck, I knew you were big. Could see it on stage in that tight ass leather,’ Max groans. Metal scrapes on marble as Eddie Munson’s ringed fingers grip at a bathroom countertop as the man he met moments ago pumps his aching cock. Finally the tension built up inside him from the pressure of the evening was on the brink of dissipating. Huffs of air escape his mouth as Max drops to his knees, long tongue flicking at the drip of precum.

‘Knew you’d taste good as well,’ he smirks.

‘God damn, shit,’ Eddie pants as warm lips caress his tip, he struggles to contain himself. His hand lunges out, grabbing at Max’s soft locks. ‘Shit, my balls, suck my fucking balls.’

Pliant, Max does as he’s told, firm balls popping into his mouth causing wild bush to prickle at his face. After a few luxurious sucks, he’s hauled back to his feet and Eddie’s previously shaking hands are nowhere to be seen as he swiftly unbuttons denim.

‘I can’t be the only one to play show and tell.’

Eddie smirks as he watches green eyes flicker in bliss as his fat cock is released from its denim cage. Tanned to match Max’s toned body with a pretty pink head, fair pubes trimmed neatly. A real pretty boy.

‘No wonder you were so confident,’ Eddie chuckles, ‘knew you had that ready and loaded, huh?’

Max whimpers now he’s the one to receive relief from another’s hand. Eddie tugs his chin to force eye contact. Only a moment can they maintain contact before both men are chest to chest, jerking the other off, a mess of precum leaking between them. Open mouths and tongues flickering at each other, spit swapping. It’s dirty and hot and far too filthy for this fancy carpeted bathroom.

Pushing aside a wail of pleasure, Max uses a free hand to fumble inside his waistcoat until he brandishes a foil square. Eddie arches a brow.

‘Jesus, just, just fuck me before I cum,’ Max pleads.

The desperation makes Eddie snigger but it’s mutual.

Quickly, the man is bent over the counter, ass exposed as Eddie’s warm spit drips down. Groans echo as his thumb circles over Max’s tight hole, slipping in as both men’s dicks twitch in suspense.

‘P-please, fuck me,’ he grunts.

‘Alright, alright. You ready cowboy?’

Moans echo off the tiles as Eddie eases into Max’s asshole. The pair’s eyes meet in the mirror they face until he tops out and his head drops into denim. After a moment, Max begins to wriggle beneath, fucking himself on Eddie’s cock until the message is received. Eddie braces himself, fingers digging into hip bone as he begins to drag his length in and out.

Eventually the air is thick with heat and the sound of skin on skin. Full balls slapping against each other. A ringed hand against a plush asscheek. Feral groans and whines of pleasure. So loud that no head is turned when the bathroom door bursts open.

‘What the fuck is this shit?!’ A new voice booms off the tiles.

Eddie and Max’s heads snapped round to the figure in the doorway. The pair caught, trousers round their ankles and Eddie balls deep in a stranger. The image is too incriminating to be anything other than it was. He was exposed and the sweat from the impending orgasm now runs cold. There was no hiding.

-----

damn who tf at the door? my man didnt even get to nut in the hot cowboy

tag list: @tlclick73 @probablyin-bed @fangirling-4-ever @booksarekindaneat @azydrateanatomy @sadbitchfangirl @fluffybunnyu @big-ope-vibes @beam86 @midnightsgetawaycar @stevieharringtonswife

#enam3l love lola #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x yn #eddie munson angst #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x best friend reader #rockstar eddie munson x reader #rockstar!eddie munson #eddie munson is bisexual #rockstar eddie munson x you #eddie munson series

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mariaofdoranelle · 1 year

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Look at Us Now — Ch. 6

Fic masterlist

This chapter is a little atypical, but we’ll get to our regular schedule next week. I almost rewrote everything last minute because this is a little too charged, but I hope you like it 😅

Warnings: language, incarceration

Word count: 3,7k

Calling his students out for their little looks and whispers would only make things worse.

It was no surprise, considering how his night routine with Fenrys consisted on listening to all the gossip his friend learned throughout the day. News ran fast inside this base.

It took only one day for the entire Air Force to find out that Rowan was sent to the guardhouse for improper sexual conduct. It was only his fifth day, half of his sentence, and he was beginning to wonder if going to work was that much better than spending all his time in a cell. Rowan couldn’t stand all the curious or pitiful looks he was getting, and it was almost as bad as the shame he felt weighing down his chest.

“Whitethorn!” Lorcan barked, coming his way and scaring away the recruits around.

“Captain.” His salute was the same he’d do to any superior. They were friends, yes, but every step Rowan took had to be thinly calculated. He was doing everything by the book to regain his reputation.

“You are the dumbest person I’ve ever met.”

Lorcan had his arms crossed, eyes narrowed at him. Rowan nodded in agreement.

“You’ve told me that plenty of times over the last five days, sir.”

“I got the doctor’s report on this last class two days ago. Turns out Galathynius didn’t do her test because she’s pregnant.”

Rowan nodded, not saying a word and feeling his stomach drop. As proud as he was to become a father, he didn’t like the way Lorcan, his boss, was leading this conversation.

“And don’t you think it’s strange that, right after that, her uncle locked you up?”

Rowan just hummed in acknowledgement. He would find out eventually, but Rowan was saving this conversation for a time where Lorcan wasn’t so pissed at him.

“And don’t you think it’s even stranger that Galathynius showed up at the training center thirty minutes ago, demanding to speak with you, even though you were busy and your position leaves you with no privileges whatsoever?”

“Where is she?”

Aelin was here. To talk to him. All of his insides twisted and quivered with the realization. He didn’t know if she was here to yell or make peace, but he’d take anything after five days of not being able to go after her because of his fucking sentence.

“She’s at my office.” Lorcan gripped Rowan’s forearm when he mentioned to leave. “I’m trying to help, but you’re walking a very thin line here, Whitethorn. Do not. Do. Anything. Dumb.” His friend squeezed his arm, making sure he understood how serious this was. “Copy that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope the kid puts some sense into your head,” Lorcan disclosed, but Rowan barely listened to him. He was walking as fast as he could, heart hammering against his chest each step he took.

When he opened Lorcan’s office door and recognized that silky golden hair, half of the weight on his shoulders vanished. The other part was still there, with promises of getting better or worse depending on how this conversation went.

“Did you read my letters?”

“All four of them.” Aelin gave him a tentative, close-lipped smile. “I would’ve come sooner if I knew about them. Lieutenant Moonbeam was delivering them at the wrong house.”

“Who did he gave them to?” His voice was taut and low as his mind ran the million different ways Fenrys could’ve got this wrong.

“Don’t worry.” She snorted. “He dropped them at my uncle’s, but I’m staying with my cousin now. Philippa gave them to me tonight, and I drove straight here.”

“Oh.” Rowan’s shoulders dropped in relief. It wasn’t Fenrys’ fault, then. Rowan was the one to give the wrong directions. “I didn’t know you moved.”

“It’s recent.” Aelin bit her lip. “I’ve been staying at Aedion’s spare room since Monday. It’s fine.”

Monday. She left her uncle’s house the day Darrow locked him up. Rowan wanted to ask if something happened, but he didn’t want to say anything that would risk his actual goal, that was getting on an agreement about the baby. Which he would start to work on now.

“I was a jerk the other day. I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are.” She seemed much calmer than when she left on Monday. It was probably because of Rowan’s clumsy groveling through desperate letters.

He was going to be a father.

That word couldn’t seem to leave his head, and he didn’t want it to.

Coming from a big, loud, loving family, of course Rowan wanted to have kids. At the right time. Which definitely wasn’t now, but he could work with that. He could make things right.

“Look, I—“ Aelin ran a hand through her hair as she considered her words. “You were an ass. I was too. I’m still bummed that was how things went out, but we have to get our shit together for the kid, right? I don’t want to be one of those parents who can’t decide on anything without a judge.”

His eyebrows raised. Aelin said some shit about not letting him see the child, but he just assumed she was angry because of his outburst. Suing her for custody never crossed his mind.

“I’m sure we can work things out without lawyers.”

The way Aelin’s shoulders dropped was so visible he wondered how much she tortured herself with this insanity. One more proof that she didn’t seem to know him at all.

“And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Dorian,” she continued when Rowan was too stunned to answer, “I—“

“Look, Aelin, you don’t need to apologize. I don’t care about that anymore,” He lied. But he’d get there sometime. ”I think we should focus on the baby from now on.”

“Okay.” She slowly nodded, processing his words. “I agree.”

“That’s why we should get married.”

It was their best option. Right now, Rowan had his hand and an unborn kid he would see, in the best-case scenario, half of their life. By marrying Aelin, he would have great sex and frequent contact with his kid. Ideally, a marriage needs love. Well, Rowan definitely wasn’t in love with Aelin, but marrying her was all a man could ask for. Objectively. Under his circumstances, at least.

“Absolutely not!” Aelin blurted. Then paused for a beat, blinking with her mouth ajar. “Rowan, we’ve known each other for only a few months. Why would you think that?” She asked in a quieter tone this time, but her eyes were still widened, staring at him.

“I-“ Rowan crossed his arms and stared at the wall beside him for a second. He swallowed. “I don’t wanna be a part-time dad,” he croaked out.

Aelin’s eyes immediately softened, and she reached out to squeeze his hand.

“We can figure this out in a more… modern way. But that’s very chivalrous of you.” She had a small smile on. “Considering how we started.”

“Okay.” He sighed. “I guess we’ll do things the modern way.”

“It’s not like you actually wanted to marry me.” She snorted.

“Yeah, sure.”

Well, Rowan didn’t know what to add. He was ten days without his phone or laptop to research anything baby-related, which was driving him insane, so the only plan he made was the one about Aelin.

“So we’re finally on the same page about this?” She asked after a moment of silence.

Putting everything that happened aside so they could focus on the baby. They could do that.

˜˜

“What brings you here today?”

Maisie.

The desk sign read Dr. Yrene Towers, PhD, but the only person he could think of while reading it was Maisie.

Aelin looked at him. He didn’t say a thing. She cleared her throat.

“Hey, Yrene.” Aelin said in a small voice, and Rowan frowned at the usage of the doctor’s first name. Maybe they knew each other from Elide, or this is just how therapy goes. He shook it off as Aelin continued, “Our daughter has been making these drawings.”

The therapist took the phone and zoomed in the images of the same drawings Maisie’s teacher showed them.

“You do seem angry in these.”

“I know. And I don’t think my daughter has been doing me justice. I look a lot cuter in real life.” Aelin pasted on a smile and leaned back in the chair, but Rowan immediately recognized her false bravado.

“That sounds like a job for an art teacher.” Dr. Towers sent them an empathetic smile. “What can I help you two with?”

“We need to stop fighting,” Rowan blurted. He didn’t even want to be here, but since he was, he wanted to get this over with.

“Okay…” the therapist nodded and quickly typed something on her computer. “So you’re telling me you live in a high-conflict co-parenting situation, and want to stop fighting because of your daughter?”

They both confirmed.

“I think it’s great that you’re seeking therapy for that, and it really shows how much you care about your little girl, but I can’t make you stop fighting.” Rowan’s stomach dropped. He knew therapy would be fruitless. Dr. Towers continued, “What I can do instead is help you treat each other with kindness and respect even when you disagree on something.”

“That’s perfect.” Aelin nodded.

Rowan didn’t feel so sure.

Basically, the doctor had just told them they had no salvation. They’d fight to the day they die, it would just be less ugly. Rowan sighed. Well, he did promise Aelin he’d try her way of fixing things.

“I can work with that,” he offered when both women were looking at him.

“Now, why don’t you tell me a little about yourselves?”

The therapist wanted to know all problematic parts of their relationship, right? Rowan assumed he should be honest.

“I guess it all started when Aelin lied to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you going to deny that?” Rowan sighed, hating that they were wasting time reminiscing things from five, six years ago instead of solving their current issues.

“I have nothing to deny, because I didn’t lie.”

“Okaaay!” Dr. Towers interrupted. “I usually start with the communication techniques after the introductions are made, but I think we can use them now.” She turned to him. “Rowan… can I call you Rowan? Mr. Whitethorn? Captain?”

“Rowan’s fine.”

“Okay, Rowan.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Can you tell Aelin your version of what happened, but without adding your interpretation or blaming her? Just the raw string of events.”

He did as he was told, explaining how she hid her relationship from that night at Aviator’s Ball to the pregnancy reveal. Aelin didn’t object.

“You did that step great,” Yrene praised. “Now, how did that make you feel?”

“Like shit.”

“Well, that’s a valid response, but-” The therapist fumbled about in a drawer, but quickly took out a thick sheet of paper. “Can you try finding one emotion here that matches how you felt?”

The paper she gave him had Emotion Wheel written, and had so many feelings in so many colors, it almost made him dizzy. Rowan took his time to find one.

“I guess I felt… frustrated.” Rowan set his jaw. They agreed to do this feelings thing, so fuck it. “Jealous, too.”

Rowan couldn’t decipher the look in Aelin’s face, so he focused on the therapist.

“Thank you for sharing that,” Yrene encouraged. “Now the last step of this communication tool is to identify your needs and communicate them—“

“I’m sorry.” Aelin was fully turned to him, eyes earnest. “I was sure you wouldn’t sleep with me if you knew. Still am, actually. That’s why I didn’t tell you, and then things snowballed. But I didn’t mean to make you feel like shit.”

Rowan nodded, hoping he wasn’t blushing. Yes, he accepted doing therapy, but he hoped he wouldn’t need to talk about his sex life to a stranger.

After that, they stumbled through the past five years of their lives, disagreeing only a few times because they were doing that thing where they talked objectively. He didn’t know how many therapy sessions would take if Yrene wanted to disclose their feelings at each event, and Rowan hoped she wouldn’t try that.

Even if it was in polished, sugar coated words, forcing themselves to speak out loud every mistake they made was enough. Rowan didn’t want to delve into how he felt about that as well.

“Okay…” Yrene trailed while she worked on her notes. Rowan had never seen someone type so fast on a computer. “Another thing I like to do in the first session is to set goals.” Her gaze swept between the two of them. “Apart from improving communication skills, is there anything else you’d like to work on?”

“Healthy boundaries.”

Aelin’s reply was way too fast for his liking. Of course she’d request that.

“How do you feel about that, Rowan?” The therapist asked.

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” He looked deep into Aelin’s smoldering eyes, defiant blue and green clashing together.

“Well, of course you don’t, Rowan. I don’t call you six times a day to check if you’ve managed to kill our daughter yet.”

He gripped his armchair a little too tightly. Of course Aelin would get a simple thing and twist until he looked like the bad guy.

“Aelin, listen to me—“

“No, you listen to me!” Despite her words, Aelin turned to their therapist. “You know how I feel about his calls!”

“But does he?” Yrene asked.

“You talk to her about me?” Rowan interrupted.

Aelin laughed, but it didn’t sound joyful at all.

“You have no idea the amount of shit I take from you, do you?” She paused for a second, the gold in her eyes ready to burn him. “Yes, Rowan, I do talk about you to my therapist. I talk about you so much I’m almost sending you the fucking bill!”

“You take shit from me?”

“Yes! And I still manage to respect you as a parent, unlike—“

“Unlike what? When did I ever—“

“You don’t even try to hide that you think I’m a shit mother!” She shouted with all the strength in her lungs.

Rowan froze, completely speechless by Aelin’s last sentence.

He had never even hinted that she’s a bad mother. Because he doesn’t think that, in the first place.

Yrene cleared her throat. “I think we should all take a deep—“

“I dare you to tell me one time I made you think you’re a bad mother,” he challenged, voice low and tight.

“Oh, you want it in chronological order? Or ranked by the one who hurt the most?” Aelin sneered. “Because this very morning you called to remind me to brush Maisie’s teeth. I mean, I must be a terrible mother if you feel the need to do that.”

“Oh, you’re hurt?” Rowan sneered. “You want to talk to me about being hurt? This is all your fault! I never, ever wanted to co-parent Maisie. You forced me to do this, and it’s fucking torture! If I have to go through this, the very least you could do is answer your phone and tell me if Maisie is letting you brush her teeth!”

“Okay!” Yrene cut in before Aelin could escalate that. “Why don’t we take a few deep breaths? In through the nose… hold on…. now out through the mouth… okay, you’re doing great. Once again…”

They both followed the therapist’s breathing exercise. Rowan could feel the boiling in his blood diminish every long breath, but it was still a small relief to his anger.

“Now, Rowan.” Yrene focused her gaze on him. “It’s really good that you’re opening up, this office is always a safe space for you to do that. It’s common to have concerns about your co-parent’s parenting style, but there are healthier ways to—“

“That’s not the case.” Rowan suppressed a groan. When did the conversation even get here? “I trust Aelin. I wouldn’t let my daughter stay with her if I didn’t.”

“How reassuring.”

Rowan ground his teeth together, trying to not let Aelin’s snark affect him.

“I just feel better if I know what’s going on.”

”Do you mind talking a little more about that, Rowan?” Yrene’s face looked open, understanding.

Rowan sagged in his chair for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. The therapist looked like she already knew where he was going. Maybe she has mischievous, defiant little girls at home too.

“I always wake up thinking about Maisie.” He turned to Aelin, his voice was a lot calmer this time. ”And today I wondered if the cereal you gave her for breakfast is that one she loves that’s worse than sugar cubes. Then I wondered how you’re handling her teeth situation because she doesn’t like brushing her own teeth, but she needs to learn.” Rowan closed his eyes, ran a hand through his head and sighed. “Then I wondered if she had a tantrum, if you brushed her teeth for her, if she agreed to brush it herself. If she didn’t brush her teeth, will any of her classmates bully her for having bad breath? How would the teacher handle that?“

Rowan eyed the two women carefully studying him. Isn’t this obvious? This is how every parent’s mind works.

“So I decided to ask how brushing teeth went, otherwise next thing I know, I’m messing up my student’s reps because I’m pondering how many cavities I can afford to treat.”

Their therapist was nodding as she typed something on her computer. Aelin was looking so weirdly at him. It was a rare look, the one she wore now. It wasn’t anger, but didn’t look like pity as well. It made him want to take it all back.

“It seems like you’re constantly concerned over your kid.” He nodded, agreeing with the therapist. It isn’t a bad thing, it’s just a side effect of caring. She continued, “I think you’d benefit a lot from individual sessions, Rowan.”

“I’ll think about that.”

Yrene seemed satisfied with his answer, and he wondered if she knew he wouldn’t think about that. The amount of therapy he was currently getting was more than enough. In fact, he already felt drained from so much emotion talk. But then something clicked, and it made Rowan question his therapist’s methods even further.

“How come I’m the only one who needs more therapy? What about Aelin?”

The two women exchanged a look, and Aelin looked like she wanted the earth to swallow her whole. She took a deep breath and turned to him.

“I’m already doing individual sessions,” Aelin said as quietly as her cheeks were red.

Rowan froze for a moment with his mouth ajar, letting the words sink in.

“You’re in therapy!?”

“Well, it seems like you’re in it too!” She snapped, her index finger pointing around the office in a circle.

“No, this is different.” His mouth opened and closed. He still couldn’t believe Aelin hid this from him. “You should’ve told me that! Why didn’t you tell me—“

“Because I report to you about Maisie, not myself!”

“Still! Since when do you do therapy? What’s wrong with you?”

Yrene opened her mouth, but Rowan beat her to it.

“Respectfully. I’m respectfully asking what’s wrong with you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she spit out with crossed arms, but her burning red cheeks betrayed her stance. “I first started right after my parents died, then stopped. Started again in high school. I just start, stay until I get discharged, then come back when I feel like it. A lot of people do that, Rowan. It’s actually a good thing.”

Rowan didn’t say a word, he just stared, hoping he wasn’t gaping too much, trying to grasp all this new information.

Aelin is in therapy.

He didn’t even know she was struggling.

She had to be, right? No matter how she played it down, people don’t seek a therapist just because. Especially with how much it costs.

Was he the least attentive, sloppiest co-parent in the world?

Rowan tried to remember the last time he asked Aelin how she was before demanding something about Maisie, but nothing came to mind.

Perhaps that’s why she hates him so much.

Aelin and Rowan stayed there, just staring at each other, a mix of emotion floating between their eyes. Yrene cleared her throat when silence stretched for too long.

“Our time’s almost up. I think there’s a lot of space for progress here, if you’re willing to give it a try.”

If their session made the doctor feel positive, Rowan didn’t want to know what kind of shit that woman sees on a daily basis.

“We are.” Aelin’s answer came fast. Rowan nodded in confirmation.

“Very good.” Yrene gave them a small smile. “From now on, when you interact between sessions, I want you to try communicating how you feel about things, especially the ones you disagree with. And taking a pause before reacting if you feel like shouting, that’s an important one. Can you give it a try?”

They both agreed.

Do the feelings thing. Pause when he gets pissed off. It’d be an adjustment, but if other people could do it, Rowan was capable as well.

“Good.” Yrene typed something and focused back on them. “Do you mind if I give you one more homework?”

“Sure…” Rowan trailed, realizing that therapy was starting to look a lot harder than just attending weekly sessions.

“I think it’ll be good for you two to have quality time together.”

“What.” Was the only thing that came out of Aelin’s mouth. Rowan was stiff as a board.

Their proximity was the whole reason they ended up here. Spending more time with each other sounds like another disaster waiting to happen.

“You see, having fun together is like a savings account in a family. When something bad happens, it softens the blow. It’ll also be good for Maisie, so she can see her parents getting along.”

“How much quality time are we talking about?” Aelin asked, frowning.

“Could be as little as one hour a week. But it’s important that you try and be kind to each other, even it feels forced, so we can start new patterns.”

Rowan chewed the inside of his cheek, mulling this.

By spending time together, they could practice these communication skills. They could also change the narrative in Maisie’s head, making her think her parents get along even though they don’t. It was actually genius. No wonder Dr. Towers has a PhD.

“We can do that.” Rowan could barely believe his own words, but that’s how desperate he was.

When his gaze swept toward Aelin, she looked as determined as he felt.

A/N: Whenever someone says writers post fanfic for free, remember the amount of time I used in my very expensive therapy sessions to discuss and gather tips for this fic!! I have no regrets, though 🤣

My tag list is a little glitchy, but you can also use my side blog to get notifications -> @backtobl4ck-fics

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ambrossart · 7 months

Text

PAPER MEN

— CHAPTER 31

SUMMARY: All Evelyn Tozier wanted to do was make Derry High School a safer place for her kid brother. Well, somewhere between kissing Patrick Hockstetter and telling the principal to go f*** himself, things got a little off track. Now she’s stuck in the middle of a bizarre love triangle with two of Derry’s most troubled teens while her little brother and his friends hunt down a creepy, child-eating circus clown. This year, summer can’t come fast enough.

PAIRINGS: Henry Bowers x Tozier!Sister; Patrick Hockstetter x Tozier!Sister

WARNINGS: violence, profanity, sexual content, bullying, sexual assault, physical abuse, emotional abuse, all kinds of abuse, trauma, mental illness, implied/referenced self-harm, child death, angst, lots of angst, recreational drug use, underage drinking, underage sex, love triangles, toxic relationships, slow burn, slow build

WORD COUNT: 11k

PAPER MEN MASTERPOST | FANFICTION MASTERLIST

“She’s not worth it.”

Why did Henry say that? Why, after everything they had been through together, did he…?

The question came to him as a whisper, speaking from a place far away. A place he could no longer reach. A place he could no longer see. Before. It was speaking to him from Before: before he told Evelyn she was dressed like a whore, before he saw Patrick’s hand crawl underneath her skirt (and she didn’t push his hand away), before Henry stormed up to her, yelled at her, grabbed her so hard he left a bruise, before he got drunk and passed out after the bonfire, before Manda Bosch followed him into the woods, pinned him up against the tree, and asked in that sultry voice, Has anyone kissed you yet?

Yes.

Yes, Henry could finally answer that now. Evelyn had kissed him. He had kissed her.

Before.

Before his suspension, before the trunk, before the stolen shirts, before he had to suffer through that long, lonely, miserable summer, sitting alone in his room, alone on his porch, listening to the phone ring day after day but being too scared to answer it, too scared, too damn scared.

Before he ripped his arm away and fucked everything up.

(MAYBE I’M JUST NOT INTERESTED, EVELYN. EVER THINK OF THAT?)

Before. Henry desperately wanted to go back to Before. Back to Evelyn’s bedroom. Back to that soft floral quilt that always smelled like her body wash. Lying on it while she worked quietly at her desk. Staring at all the postcards on her wall. Boston, San Francisco, Austin, Tallahassee. Imagining he was somewhere else. Anywhere else. Imagining Evelyn was there with him. Happy. Peaceful. Safe.

Henry would have given anything to go back to that, but he couldn’t. He was trapped in this house—this empty, haunted house—and it was never going to let him go. Even if he kicked and screamed, even if he hammered his fists, the front door would always be

closed.

The classroom door was closed; yes, Henry remembered now. Mrs. Lafferty’s door was closed. He had gone back to talk to Evelyn, to tell her that he hadn’t meant what he said, not any of it, and that he didn’t care about what happened in the lunchroom. He didn’t give a shit about Patrick Hockstetter and his roaming hand. He didn’t care that Evelyn didn’t push him away. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. If she meant what she wrote on those four single-spaced pages, then Henry didn’t need to hear anything else. Those words were enough. Forever, they would be enough.

But the door was closed when he arrived, and Henry seemed to shrink before it, back to a four-year-old boy nervously sucking his thumb. He had wet the bed and now stood outside his parents’ bedroom, feeling dirty and ashamed, listening to the metal springs creak to the steady rhythm of their sexmaking. A closed door meant go away, Henry. If you open this door, someone had better be bleeding—or there would be blood; oh yes sir, there would be blood.

Henry stood there for an unknown period of time, that old familiar terror thumping in his veins. A closed door meant adult business was in session. Go away, Henry, go away.

He opened the door and didn’t understand what he was seeing. The room felt hazy, dreamlike, his astonishment painting everything a surreal shade. Adult business was in session. Martin Davers was in the classroom and he had Evelyn bent over the desk just like he talked about doing… before. Hadn’t he talked about that before? Bend the little bitch over a desk. It’ll loosen her up a little. Yes, Martin had said that, he had, but that couldn’t have been happening now. Patrick had stopped him. He had stopped him when Henry could not. Patrick had dumped a bottle of beer on Martin’s lap while Henry sat there doing nothing—nothing except drinking, thinking, and hating, drinking, thinking, and hating, his temper flaring, muscles tightening with such useless anger, the same useless anger that was burning inside him now. A raging inferno that provided no warmth. What good are you, Henry? Do something, move, move!

And suddenly Evelyn’s eyes were on him, staring with an expression of slow, dazed panic. What are you doing here? her frightened eyes said. Go back to bed, Henry. Go back to bed!

Bed? Henry answered, horrified. Then he blinked his eyes and remembered.

He was six. He was six and standing in his pajamas. A crash had woken him in the night, and when he came downstairs, he found his parents arguing in the kitchen. Daddy had Mommy caught by her wrist and he was screaming at her: Who’d you get all prettied up for? Who? Who? And Mommy was crying in a red dress with a white-button front. She was sobbing and shaking her head. Nobody, nobody! Stop it, Oz, you’re hurting me! Her hands were wet and sudsy with dish soap. The kitchen faucet was still running. She had been cleaning up the dinner dishes while she waited for Daddy to come home. He strolled in after eleven, his eyes red and glassy, a half-empty beer bottle clutched in his hand. He came in expecting a hot meal, found an empty table, saw that red dress, and hurled the bottle straight at the wall. Smash! Glass shattered and roused Henry from a dreamless sleep. The smell of beer floated into the air like a fine mist. You’re drunk, Mommy kept saying. Just go to bed, Oz, you’re drunk! Then Daddy raised his hand to strike her. Mommy winced beneath it, anticipating a well-acquainted pain. She gasped as his hand fell not on her cheek, but on the front buttons of her dress. His hand came down hard, squeezed, and ripped her bust wide open. The white buttons went flying, bouncing, rolling. One skittered past Henry’s left foot. This is what you wanted, right? Yeah, I’ll give you what you want, you bitch; oh yeah, I’ll give you plenty.

But that wasn’t what she wanted, Henry thought with his six-year-old mind. That wasn’t what she wanted at all. His mother hadn’t dressed up for anyone that night. She just wanted to feel pretty again. To have a reason to smile when she looked in the mirror again.

Henry remembered. Now he remembered.

He had been sitting on the bathroom counter while she got ready that evening. Curling her hair. Powdering her face. Painting her lips. Dabbing concealer over the yellowing bruise under her left eye. It was just a stupid accident, she had told the funny nurse during her son’s most recent checkup. I must bruise easy. The nurse hadn’t believed her, not by half, but that was a problem for another day, so his mother concealed that, too. She swept it off her shoulder and slipped into her favorite red dress, a dress that had been hanging in her closet for the last six years because her husband didn’t take her out to dinner anymore. I can’t believe it still fits, she said, her voice bright with girlish excitement. Then she smiled at her son, turned around, stooped down, and lifted her hair so he could fasten the gold clasp of her necklace. Henry felt so much love for her back then. It lived in his heart every day.

(You’re such a good boy, she said, and kissed his cheek. Be my date tonight, okay?)

Even ten years later, as Henry saw Evelyn Tozier bent over the school desk, as he saw Martin Davers tear her yellow skirt with the same unconscionable rage that his father had inflicted upon his mother, he supposed part of him still loved her. But that love was blighted now, poisoned with hatred, the same bitter hatred that was currently pulsing, pulsing, pulsing through his veins. It made everything so perfectly clear. That red dress. Those scattering white buttons. It wasn’t what she wanted, but it was what she deserved, wasn’t it?

His mother was a whore. She was a whore and she lied and she left him. She said she was going to the store to buy some chicken stock for dinner. Another special dinner date just for the two of them. She kissed Henry’s cheek, told him to be a good boy and wait for her, and Henry never saw her again. He waited; like a good boy, he waited.

Minutes turned into hours. Anxiety turned into fear. Fear into hatred. Because when Daddy came home that night, when he saw that dinnerless table, Henry was the one he found sitting in the kitchen, waiting like the good little boy he was. And that’s when Henry knew he hated her. Even when Daddy whipped his beer bottle at him, even when the glass shards jumped up and cut his face, Henry knew he hated her. Henry got the belt twice that night. Once for him. Twice for her. He took both whuppings and hated her for both of them. And as Henry lay in bed that night, aching all over, bleeding all over, he realized that his daddy had been right all along.

My mother was a whore. All women are whores, Evelyn, and so are you. I thought you cared about me. I thought you loved me. I thought you meant every word you wrote on those four single-spaced pages, so why, Evelyn, why?

(Nobody else will know)

Why did you say that? Because you’re embarrassed of me? Ashamed of me? You don’t want your friends to know what we did? What we almost did?

But I couldn’t do it. Yeah, I couldn’t do it, and I bet that was really fucking disappointing for you, wasn’t it? I couldn’t give you what you wanted, Evelyn, so now you’re trying to get it from someone else, from anyone else… anyone that’ll give it to you. Well now you’ll get what want, Evelyn. Martin will give you exactly what you want; oh yeah, he’ll give you plenty.

“She’s not worth it.”

Now Henry remembered why he said that. He pictured Evelyn’s face, his mother’s face, and he remembered everything. A yellow dress. A red dress. Buttons flying. Skirts tearing. You’ll get what you deserve, you bitch; oh yeah, you’ll get plenty.

The anger was still inside him, throbbing dully in his temples, turning his whole world a stormy, screaming red. He wandered through it like a child lost in a nightmare: out of the school; down Pasture Road; through Bassey Park; across the Kissing Bridge, where two years ago Henry decided that he never wanted to find Evelyn’s initials carved, not unless they were carved next to his; past the Derry Public Library, where Henry had taken Evelyn’s first kiss (because it felt wrong for anyone else to have it); down Kansas Street, the same street Henry had walked ten years ago, his muscles aching, his head pounding with the same sad, empty rage… and suddenly he found himself standing in Memorial Park again. He was six. He was sixteen. He had such a terrible headache. Succumbing to it, Henry sat down on the curb, put his head in his hands, and heard

“Did you get a brain freeze, too?”

a soft voice, Evelyn’s voice, speaking to him from Before, long before: the morning after his mother left.

It had been a warm summer day, sunny, breezy. Henry was sitting on the curb (just like he was doing now) when he felt someone sit down next to him. It was a girl, younger than he was, smaller than he was, dressed in a pink shirt with yellow flowers on the front. Her lips were stained a deep and absurd purple, but Henry hadn’t cared enough to ask why.

“Go away,” he said, but she didn’t. She just sat there staring at him with this dumb, fascinated expression, her head tossed to one side, purple lips slightly parted, as if struck by sudden bewilderment. Henry glared back at her uncomfortably, feeling vulnerable and exposed. He didn’t like those brown eyes of hers, so large and curious. They seemed to be searching for something, something Henry kept hidden deep inside him… and they found it; somehow, they found it.

He saw her hand coming toward him next, reaching, preparing to take it, and he smacked her hand away as hard as he could. It all happened so fast. Lightning fast. Henry never even had a chance to think about it. His fist made a loud, meaty whap! It was a very satisfying sound—the sound of power, the sound of respect, the sound of ill-mannered children finally being put back in their place.

But then those eyes, oh those curious brown eyes widened with such surprised hurt. The sight of them made Henry’s screaming red world bleed away. Guilt cut through him. His left hand uncurled and fell limp at his side. He had hit her too hard, much too hard, and now her hand was turning red, much too red. She cradled it against her chest and bore her pain in silence, just as his mother had.

“Sorry,” she said afterward. Her voice was soft and timid.

What are you saying sorry for? Henry thought, dumbfounded, while his culpable hand lay open beside him. He hadn’t meant to hit her so hard… or maybe he had. Henry just didn’t know.

They sat in tense, guilt-ridden silence for a moment. Then Henry caught her staring at him again, studying him.

“You have a cut on your face,” she said. “Does it hurt?”

“Huh?” Henry touched his hand to the apple of his cheek and felt the ghostly twinge of last night’s wound. His cut had started to bleed again, but only a little. “Oh… no.”

“Well, it looks like it hurts.” She looked down, observed her injured hand, and flexed it a few times: opening it, closing it, wiggling all of her fingers. She seemed satisfied, but Henry wasn’t. He really shouldn’t have hit her so hard.

“You should put a Band-Aid on that cut,” she said, “or else it could get infected.”

“Infected?”

“Mmhmm, and that would be bad… like really bad. You might need an amputation.”

“Am-pyuh-tay-shun?” The word was large and ominous. “What’s that?”

“It’s when the doctor cuts off part of your body. My friend Vic told me about it once. It sounds really scary.”

“They would cut off my face?”

“I guess so.”

Henry tried to imagine that, but he couldn’t.

“I think you’re lying,” he said. “You’re trying to trick me.”

“I’m not lying. I never lie.”

“Everyone lies.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“That’s a lie right there.”

Glaring at him, the girl opened her mouth to argue, snapped it closed without a word, and then forced a big huff of hot air through her nostrils. “Well, you should get one anyway.”

“Get what?”

“A Band-Aid. Just in case.”

Henry frowned. “I don’t have any Band-Aids.”

“You don’t? Hmm… well, doesn’t your mom have some?”

Henry’s frown deepened. It hurt too much to think about his mom right now. “I guess she does… or she did… but I don’t know where she keeps them.”

“Oh…” The girl pursed her lips tightly, seeming at a loss. “My mom keeps ours under the sink in her bathroom. She has a whole case of ‘em. I’m not supposed to go in there ‘cause there’s really dangerous stuff under the sink, chemicals and stuff, but…” She went quiet for a minute, lost in deep thought. Then she hopped to her feet. “Okay, I’ll be back.”

Back?

That word made Henry’s whole body tense up. He thought of his mother’s kitchen pantry, of that empty shelf where the chicken stock was supposed to sit, and he drew his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “If you wanna go, just go. You don’t have to make up a lie.”

“What? I’m not lying. I’m gonna go get you a Band-Aid. Then I’ll come right back.” She turned around, took a few steps, and stopped. “Hey, you’re not gonna leave, are you?”

“Huh?”

“If I come back and you’re not here, I’m gonna be really mad.”

Henry couldn’t imagine this girl being mad, not even a little bit.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said anyway.

“Pinky swear?”

“What?”

“Pinky swear!” She came to him with her right pinky out. Henry let her hook it around his. He felt like he had no other choice. “Now you better not be lying,” she said, “or else your pinky will fall off.”

“What?”

She giggled. “Just kidding! My dad says that all the time. It probably won’t happen, but you better keep your promise anyway, just in case.” She released his pinky and stepped back again, her warmth lingering on his skin. “I’ll be back in, uhh, five minutes, okay? Wait right here.”

She took off running and was gone. Henry sat on the curb and waited. Five minutes came, then went. Ten minutes came, then went. With each passing second, Henry felt his disappointment building, burning, rekindling his briefly forgotten hatred.

Everyone lies. Why did he think she would be any different?

Henry considered leaving himself. A couple of times he almost did, but then he looked down at his pinky, remembered his promise, and sat back down. Henry waited for twenty minutes that day, sure that she was never coming back, scared that she was never coming back, and finally he heard her cheerful voice ringing in the distance:

“Mission accomplished!”

She was running and panting and lugging a giant plastic case along by its handle. She had gone to get a Band-Aid and came back with her mother’s first aid kit.

“Why’d you bring the whole thing?” Henry asked, marveling at her.

“I didn’t know what size to get.”

Turns out, the girl wasn’t a liar, after all. She just had no concept of time.

She sat down beside him, caught her breath, popped open the case, and started pulling out Band-Aids and comparing them against the size of Henry’s cut. “Too big… too big… way too big… hmm…” She held up a tiny yellow Band-Aid and kept it there for a moment, her brown eyes taking on a prideful shine. “This one. This one’s perfect.” While unwrapping it, she said, “These are my special Band-Aids, but you can have one. I don’t mind.”

She pressed the Band-Aid to his cheek. It almost felt like a kiss.

“There,” she said. “You should be okay now.”

Henry felt his face get hot, but not unpleasantly so. “They won’t cut my face off?”

“I hope not.” The girl smiled at him, a sunny, perfect smile, and Henry’s face got hotter still. “I’m Evelyn, but you can call me Evie if you want. Most people do.”

“Okay.”

Evelyn giggled. Her laugh was as sweet and disarming as she was. “You’re supposed to say your name now.”

“Oh…” Henry reached down to dust off some of the dirt from his sneakers. Hers were white, pretty, and had been doodled all over with colored markers. “It’s Henry. My name’s Henry.”

She said Henry was a very nice name, that it suited him perfectly, but Henry had never thought so, not until he heard her say it.

Evelyn.

(You know I’ve got a little girl about your age)

So her name was Evelyn, but you can call me Evie if you want. Most people do. But he wouldn’t. No, if most people called her Evie, then Henry didn’t want to. He wanted to call her something different. Something special. Something that made her think of him. Only him. Henry didn’t know where this feeling came from, but he knew it couldn’t be ignored.

“Hey, Evie!” someone shouted from far away.

Henry looked across the street and saw two boys standing on the other side. One was small and scrawny, with dirty blond hair, a shade lighter than Henry’s own. The other boy was taller, with darker hair, and he didn’t look like he wanted to be there at all. Evelyn’s face lit up as soon as she saw them. Meanwhile, Henry sat in her shadow, feeling cold and alone. He didn’t like these two boys, whoever they were. He wanted them to go away.

“Jimmy,” Evelyn said, “you’re back!”

“Uh-huh!” The small boy—Jimmy—answered. “We’re heading over to the playground now if you wanna come.”

Evelyn gasped excitedly. “I can come? Really? You’re not fooling?”

The tall boy answered with an annoyed groan: “No, Evelyn, we’re not fooling you. Now hurry up before we change our minds.”

The small boy said something then, something Henry couldn’t quite hear, but whatever it was, it made the tall boy go quiet, shuffle back a step, and stare down at the ground. Henry didn’t like this tall boy, not at all, yet he couldn’t understand why. Was it his attitude? His tone? Or was it the way Evelyn looked at him, the way she perked up as soon as she heard his voice?

The answer didn’t matter anymore. Evelyn was already on her feet.

“This is my time to shine!” she said to herself. “Don’t mess this up, Evie, don’t mess this up!”

And now that cold feeling was back again. She was leaving. She was leaving with those two boys and Henry would never see her again. I don’t care, Henry decided. He wasn’t planning on sticking around anyway.

But then he heard Evelyn’s voice again and felt her bright smile warming his face.

“You wanna come to the playground with us? Vic can be a little mean sometimes, but Jimmy’s really nice. We can play on the jungle gym and the merry-go-round and swing on the swings. I like to swing real high and then jump off—shoom!—but I fall sometimes. Last week, I hurt my knee. See?” She showed Henry the scabbed-over scrape on her right knee. Henry thought she needed to be more careful. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, but my mom said I’m not allowed to jump off the swings anymore. She said I might break something, and that would be bad… Anyway, wanna come? It’ll be a lotta fun.”

Henry shook his head. He didn’t want to go to the playground, not if those boys were going, too.

“Oh…” She pouted a little. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at school then. I’m starting kindergarten tomorrow. I’m a little scared, but mostly excited. What grade are you in?”

“First grade,” Henry answered. His kindergarten teacher, Miss Kissel, had recommended he stay in kindergarten for another year (he wasn’t learning his letters fast enough), but his father didn’t think that was necessary. Now Henry wished he had been kept back. It would’ve been nice to see Evelyn at school every day.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Evelyn said, sounding equally disappointed. “Well, maybe I’ll see you at recess… maybe… but you’ll probably be playing with your other friends then. You’ll probably ignore me. Boys always get meaner when they’re with their other friends. It’s not really fair, but—”

“I don’t have any friends,” Henry told her, “but you probably won’t see me anyway.”

“Huh? Why not?”

“Because I’m running away today.”

Evelyn’s eyes widened. “Running away?” She clasped her hands over her mouth and stared at him in disbelief. It was as if Henry had just uttered the mother of all curse words. Shock and sadness swam in her eyes. In a heartbroken voice, she asked, “Why would you wanna run away?”

Her friends were calling out to her now: “Evie! Evie! Are you coming or not?”

“I’m coming!” Evelyn yelled back. “Don’t go without me, I’m coming!” She looked at her friends, then down at Henry, and her face darkened with conflicted pain. “I wanna go, but…”

In the end, she didn’t. She told her friends to go play without her.

“C’mon,” she said to Henry, “I wanna show you something,” and she took him to her special spot, which would eventually become their special spot, situated outside the Derry city limits.

“You said you wanted to get outta Derry, right? Well, here ya go! You’re officially outta Derry. Pretty neat, huh?”

It was just a rock on the side of the road, a giant rock surrounded by dirt, grass, and trees, yet it was the only place Henry could breathe freely, think clearly. Henry always wondered why that was. Maybe it was the location or maybe it was simply the company he kept. He and Evelyn stayed on that rock for the rest of the day, huddled together, sometimes talking (well, her talking, Henry listening), sometimes just sitting quietly and enjoying the silence. Afterward, as the sun began to set, she turned to him with the saddest smile Henry had ever seen.

“I have to go home now,” she said, “but you can stay if you want… or leave; I guess you can do that too, if you still want to.”

Henry had every intention of running away that day. In hindsight, he probably should have.

But how could he leave when Evelyn was still stuck in Derry?

She’s not worth it, Henry thought presently, soberly, his anger finally receding into a woeful grey calm. In front of him, cars whooshed past in blurs of black, blue, red, and white. It was almost six now, Henry figured. Evelyn was probably on her way home.

Did I really say that to her? Did I? Did I?

Yes. Yes, he did.

This realization made his stomach wrench with such sickening guilt. He hadn’t meant to say that. She had to know he had never meant to say that.

(not out loud, anyway)

Another wave of guilt crashed over him. Bearing it, Henry lifted his head and felt a tear escape his eye. Just one. One was all he could manage. It slipped out, stopped halfway down his face, and dried there against the wind. No more tears came after that. It had been a long time since Henry allowed himself to have a proper cry. He didn’t trust himself anymore. The last time had seriously fucked things up for him.

I guess that’s my fault, too.

Henry didn’t know why he sought out Evelyn that day, why that one beating broke him more than any of the others. His dad found out he was failing math, geography, and English, and Henry would have to attend summer school if he wanted to stay on track. His dad said summer school wasn’t an option. Butch couldn’t afford to be down a man during the farm’s busiest season. Henry refused. He didn’t want to repeat the ninth grade, fall behind, and watch his friends go on without him—and he wouldn’t. Butch, saying nothing, struck him with his open palm and sent him sprawling across the kitchen floor. Then he ripped off his belt and hit him a dozen more times. At least. Henry stopped counting after a while. See, it didn’t matter how many times that belt came down, how hard it came down; all Henry could think about was Evelyn moving on without him, graduating without him, getting out of Derry, going off to college, getting married, raising a family, all while Henry was stuck right here. In this house. In this hell. Alone.

Maybe that was what broke him. Maybe that was why he so desperately needed to see her that day.

And when Evelyn brought him into her house, into her room, into her bed, when Henry sat upon her soft floral quilt and saw all the postcards on her wall—depicting places Henry would probably never see himself—something inside him shattered. He started sobbing uncontrollably, releasing a near decade’s worth of pent-up emotions. He thought of his mother, of the last kiss she ever gave him. He thought of her empty bed and her closet full of clothes. All her makeup. Her hairbrush. Her jewelry. Everything exactly as she left it. He thought of the broken picture frame on top of his dresser. He had torn out her photo years ago but kept the frame. It was still there, right next to the blue gel pen Evelyn had given him earlier that year. Henry never used it because he didn’t want the ink to run out, because he knew one day that pen would be the only thing he had left of her, and that made him cry even harder. Grief suffocated him. Reality slipped away from him. His mind skidded sideways and suddenly he was back in his house, in his kitchen, bawling under the table like a baby, like a scared little baby waiting for his mommy to come home. Except she was never coming home.

Why didn’t she come back for me? Why? Why?! I didn’t do anything wrong!!

That’s when he heard Evelyn’s voice and felt her warm weight next to him, friendly, womanly, perhaps even a little motherly… yeah, there was no denying that. Ten years ago, Henry’s mother walked out of his life. The next day, Evelyn entered it. She was five. She was fifteen. She was sitting right beside him, always beside him. It didn’t matter where Henry was, what he said, what he did, Evelyn was always there: as his friend, his mother, his lover, whatever Henry needed her to be—everything he needed her to be.

I think I’m putting too much on you, he realized then as he looked at her, her face awash with sympathy and sorrow, brown eyes absorbing his pain. How much more can you take before you break, I wonder. A lot? A little? Can you handle just a little more?

It was almost sadistic, the way he treated her, but Henry didn’t care. He couldn’t care. He ached so deeply and she was the only one who could make his pain go away. It was hard not to get a little greedy. Was it fair? Probably not, but then again life wasn’t fair, was it? Henry didn’t ask to be born into an abusive household. Didn��t ask for his mother to abandon him. Didn’t ask for Evelyn to wander over, sit down next to him, and smile that perfect smile. She just appeared. She appeared when Henry needed her most, almost like she was made for him. Why shouldn’t he use her as often as he pleased? However he pleased? Why shouldn’t he take and take and take until there’s nothing left? Henry hated himself for thinking this. Still he clung to her anyway. Selfishly. Desperately. He almost cried when he felt her hand on his skin, warm, soft, and just as she was about to pull away, he grabbed her hand and held it tighter against him, wanting her warmth, wanting her love, wanting everything she had.

Evelyn sucked in a silent breath and held it in her chest. An embarrassed flush had crept up her cheeks, but she did not withdraw her hand (of course she wouldn’t because she was perfect, because she was made for him). Her eyes softened and sought his earnestly, innocently. They told Henry he could take as much as he wanted, whatever he wanted… all she asked was for a little something in return.

Henry knew what she wanted. He had seen it in her eyes ten years ago.

Take it, he thought, surrendering to her. It’s broken and worthless now, but you can have it if you want. It’s probably all rotten inside, but you can have it if you want. I won’t fight you anymore; I won’t, I won’t, I promise. Just don’t blame me if it kills you in the end. I never asked for any of this.

She leaned forward and their lips met in a gentle kiss. It was soft, sweet, and stolen from him far too soon.

“Sorry,” Evelyn said, wincing as she pulled away. Her brown eyes were filled with guilt.

What are you saying sorry for…? Henry wondered dazedly, entranced, her candy-like taste lingering on his tongue. I’m the one you should be blaming right now, hating right now… I never should have kissed you.

That, like so many other things, had been a purely selfish act. Henry hadn’t taken Evelyn’s first kiss. He stole it. He stole it because he couldn’t stomach the thought of anyone… no, be honest… not anyone… someone… someone Henry had resented from the beginning… someone he begrudged and befriended all the same.

Victor. Victor Criss. He may have dyed his hair a different color, but he was still the same smug bastard that Henry remembered. He may have claimed that he and Evelyn weren’t friends anymore (sure, Vic, sure), but he still stared at her when he thought no one was watching, when he thought Henry wasn’t watching.

No offense, Vic, but you’re a real shitty liar. I may not be a math whiz like you, but even I know how to put two and two together.

Evelyn was always talking about him. Even when he ignored her, she was always talking about him. Her little friend Vic. Vic was cool. Vic was smart. Vic had POTENTIAL. He didn’t belong with guys like Henry, who was failing most of his classes, or Belch, who was almost failing his classes. Vic was smart, annoyingly smart. He would probably get into a good college, get a good job, marry a good girl, and move far away from Derry. Because Vic came from a good home with good parents who loved him. Sure, his dad may have worked too much and his mom may have tried too hard, but they both loved him. And Vic still had the nerve to complain? Who did he think he was fooling? Belch’s dad died before he was born, Henry’s mom abandoned him and his dad beat him almost every night, and they were supposed to feel sorry for Victor Criss and his perfect life? Vic had everything and he took it all for granted. He took school for granted, he took his parents for granted, and he took Evelyn for granted. He didn’t deserve her first kiss.

But it was still his. Even if Vic didn’t want it, it was still his, and nothing Henry did would ever change that. Evelyn may have cared for him, perhaps, in some way, even loved him, but in the end her thoughts always wandered back to Victor. He was the one she wanted. Over everyone else, he was the one she wanted. Henry couldn’t stand that. He couldn’t bear the thought of Victor, who already had everything, taking Evelyn away from him.

So he kissed her. He saw Evelyn walking down the street, followed her to the library, waited for her to come out, and he pushed her against the wall and kissed her. He kissed her before Victor Criss could. He kissed her to remove all traces of him from her heart.

And it worked. For the first time in years, Evelyn’s eyes were focused on him and only him. They sparkled beautifully, glowing with the same emotion Henry had seen when he first met her. To think, it only took one little kiss to make that flame spark up again. Why if Henry had known that, he would have kissed her a long time ago.

(So why did he tell her it didn’t mean anything? Was it out of guilt, or was it… something else?)

You’re gonna hate me if you ever find out the truth, Ev. I know you love me now, but one day you’re gonna hate me. I’m not the one you’re supposed to be with, yet here you are… crying over me, caring for me, blaming yourself for kissing me even though you desperately wanna do it again. It’s my fault you feel this way, Ev. Your heart’s too easily swayed and I really never should have kissed you.

But, as his lying whore of a mother would say, that was a problem for another day, wasn’t it? Today, Evelyn loved him; today, she was willing to do anything for him; and Henry needed her. Selfishly, savagely, he needed her.

He grabbed her face and kissed her again. It wasn’t soft, wasn’t sweet. It was hard, rough, and demanding. You’re mine, his kiss said. Don’t even try to refuse me.

Henry could taste the surprise on her lips. “Wait,” she said, and gently pushed him away. “This isn’t right, Henry. You’re not right.”

No, this wasn’t right and no, Henry wasn’t thinking clearly—in fact, he wasn’t thinking at all. He was just feeling, feeling everything all at once, and the pressure was starting to crush him. He hated his mom. He missed his mom. He loved Evelyn. He needed Evelyn. He didn’t want her to leave.

He kissed her again, softer this time, the way he knew she wanted to be kissed, the way Victor probably would have kissed her if he had ever been given the chance. Evelyn responded immediately, all her previous hesitance melting away. This wasn’t right; Henry wasn’t right; but she kissed him, touched him, held him, undressed him, and let him push her down onto the bed.

You really need to guard your heart better, Ev. You make it too easy for guys like me.

He took off her clothes and kissed her skin. Everywhere his lips touched was warm and soft. Evelyn watched him wordlessly, her body flushed with heat, eyes glazed with affection and desire, reflecting him, only him. It didn’t matter who she was meant to be with, who she wanted to be with. Henry had kissed her, he’d claimed her, and now she was gonna stay with him whether she liked it or not.

Forget about all those postcards on your wall, Evelyn, because you’re not going anywhere. I won’t let you. Even if I have to pin you down, even if I have to tie you up, you’re staying right here with me. But it won’t be all bad, Evelyn. It wasn’t all bad with my dad, either. Some days were nice, perfect. Some days I could really feel how much he loved my mom. He never meant to hurt her, Evelyn, and I won’t mean to hurt you, either. But I will. I know I will. I’m gonna hit you like he did, and you’ll forgive me like she did, and you’ll dab concealer under your eye and smile and pretend that everything’s fine. You’ll lie because you love me, and one day you’ll hate me, but that’s a problem for another day, and right now I just don’t wanna be alone!

A tear rolled down Henry’s face, catching him by surprise, and landed on Evelyn’s skin. In its surface, Henry saw his entire future laid out in front of him.

You’re gonna leave me. No matter what I do, you’re always gonna end up leaving me… just like she did.

(Be a good boy and wait, okay? Mommy will be back soon.)

This thought pierced his heart like a syringe filled with ice-cold water. Terror shot through him, chilling him to the bone and making his whole body lock up with fear. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see. Darkness had closed in and ringed his vision like a tunnel. At the end of it, he saw a scaly, monstrous hand stretching toward him, reaching for him, trying to take what was his. No! Henry recoiled from it with a hysterical shriek. The room spun and he hit the floor hard, saw his and Evelyn’s clothes scattered all around him: wrinkled, ruined, just like her floral quilt. What’s going on? Henry thought deliriously, his inner voice sounding much too young to be his own. The room was different. Everything was different. Evelyn was sitting up now, clutching the blankets to her chest, her bra strap hanging off her bare shoulder. Her worried lips mouthed, “What’s wrong, Henry?” but he could barely hear her over his pounding heart. Something was wrong. Something had changed. That happy, peaceful, safe feeling wasn’t there anymore. Now the room felt cold, dark, and dangerous. Henry sat in the middle of it, trembling, naked and afraid. “What are you trying to do to me?” he snapped, furious now, his tone sharp and accusing. Evelyn’s face paled with bewildered fright. “What? I’m not…” but Henry refused to hear any more. He clawed his clothes off the floor and yanked them on while stumbling out. The door slammed behind him. A second later it whipped open and Evelyn came tumbling down the stairs after him. Her cheeks were streaked with hot, guilty tears. Her voice kept cracking as she called out to him, begging him to stop, begging him to calm down, please, Henry, please, just tell me what’s wrong! He felt her hand on his arm and he ripped it away.

“MAYBE I’M JUST NOT INTERESTED, EVELYN—”

(?WHY?)

“—EVER THINK OF THAT?”

(??WHY DID I SAY THAT??)

The force of memory left Henry clutching his head in agony. This one didn’t leave as easily as the ones before it. It dug its claws in deep and refused to let go, taunting him, tormenting him, driving him crazy. All the while, his cruel words echoed down the long corridor in his mind, down and back, down and back, over and over. Why did he say that to her? Why? Why?! He had pulled it out of thin air and screamed it right in her face.

She’s not worth it. I said that. I did.

It was all bullshit, of course. Evelyn should have sensed that immediately and slapped him for saying such a horrible thing. Called him a liar, called him a coward, because that’s exactly what he was. But Evelyn didn’t do anything. She just stood there and swallowed his rage, every last venomous drop, and let it sink deep into her heart. Her final expression was hollow and self-hating. It haunted Henry all summer.

He hadn’t meant to say that. She had to know he had never meant to say that. Henry was just feeling overwhelmed and scared and he wanted her to go away.

… but she wouldn’t really go away, right?

… right?

There was no answer, only the wind.

Henry felt unwelcome as he walked down Summer Street, his steps heavy, fists disarmed and hanging limp at his sides.

This feeling of unwelcomeness was not entirely new to him. This was one of those nice middle-class neighborhoods, after all—quiet, peaceful, safe—where everyone’s lawns were green and well-groomed, where nosy old biddies sipped iced tea and lemonade and gossiped together on their front porches. Did you see what Susan Stoutman was wearing to church last Sunday? Her husband bought her a brand new set of gold earrings—real gold, too. Seems to me like he’s apologizing for something, but you didn’t hear that from me. And did you see their new car? Where’d they get that kinda money? It was one of those neighborhoods where middle-aged men listened to the radio while they drank beer and tinkered away in their garages, where young couples jogged together every morning and walked their dogs every night, where small children rode their tricycles right in the middle of the street without any fear of getting hit by a speeding car. There was no speeding in this neighborhood, of course. Everyone drove a modest twenty-five. There was no noise past ten o’clock. No arguments. No crime (except for what happened to that sweet little Dursey girl, of course; that had been a real tragedy). In this neighborhood, people looked out for one another. They probably got together for backyard barbecues in the summer and shoveled each other’s driveways in the winter. Need some sugar? Just ask your neighbor! It was enough to make you sick, honestly…

No, Henry Bowers didn't belong here, with his ripped jeans and bruised knuckles, his occasional black eye (a kid named Charlie Hewitt had sucker-punched him on the playground once; Henry got him back real good and it never happened again). Everyone probably assumed he was there to vandalize property or to steal something.

"Eh relax, you old bitch," he grumbled to the woman who was glaring at him from her front porch. "Nobody's interested in your dusty-ass shit."

(He hoped she wouldn't call the cops, though. Henry didn’t want his presence here getting back to his old man. No, he didn’t want that at all.)

On an ordinary day, Henry might have barked at her like a rabid dog, cursed at her, threatened her, doubled back after dark and thrown a rock through one of her windows, but today he just ducked his head and carried on. He was too tired for any of that. His head hurt and his body ached miserably. He just wanted to see Evelyn.

A bit further up the road, a perky real estate agent was leading a pair of prospective buyers (Roger and Delores Peterson, newlyweds and expecting parents, from Lewiston) into the Dursey house. “Now this house,” she said on her way in, “is a three-bed, two-and-a-half-bath colonial. Perfect for a growing family. It’s a real bargain for the price. The current owners are very motivated to sell.”

Oh yes, Henry thought morbidly, I bet finding your kid butchered is one helluva motivator.

Honestly, he was glad to see them go. Henry had no love for Gary Dursey, who had once dragged out his lawn chair and parked it on the edge of his driveway when he saw Henry smoking on the Toziers’ front porch. A bold move coming from a guy who was still in his underwear at four-thirty in the afternoon (Gary was between jobs back then, and very insecure about it). He spied Henry from his living room window, came outside, and threatened to call the cops if he didn’t leave. Henry, while lighting up another cigarette, told the guy to mind his own business. He was waiting for Evelyn. She was expecting him.

“We’ll see if she’s expecting you,” Gary Dursey said, and then he went to fetch his chair. “Oh yeah, we’ll see real soon, pal. I’ve known Evelyn since she was a baby. She would never associate with a little punk like you.”

Little punk, Henry thought, scoffing. I’ll show you a little punk. Maybe I should take the air out of your tires before I leave. How does that sound, you nosy prick?

Evelyn showed up a while later—late—exhausted from a long day of school and after-school tutoring. Henry had, once again, forgotten what day it was, but since when was it his job to keep track of her schedule?

Gary Dursey called her over, pointed at Henry, and said, “Do you know this kid, Evie?”

“Unfortunately, I do,” Evelyn replied, acting annoyed while secretly fighting back a smile. “He’s a classmate of mine, Mr. Dursey. We’re working on an assignment together.”

“I see,” Gary said reluctantly. “Well, with him as your partner, I’m afraid you’ll be stuck doing most of the work.”

Evelyn offered a gentle laugh. “Yeah, you’re probably right about that. Anyway thanks, Mr. Dursey. Enjoy the rest of your day.” She bid him farewell, dashed across the street, walked up to Henry, and said with a playful twinkle in her eye, “You really like making my life difficult, don’t you?”

“Well it’s your fault for making me wait so long.”

“Oh, don’t be a brat. I got here as soon as I could. Now are you coming or not?”

She hurried past him and the memory rippled away before Henry could catch up to her. Now he sat on the porch, alone, staring at the empty Dursey house with a strange sense of loss and loneliness. They were gone. All of them were gone. Gary, his wife, their two school-aged children, and…

the youngest one, Gracie, yeah she was gone, too.

Henry often saw her playing outside on the front lawn, sometimes with her siblings but usually alone. Eventually, she would skip over with one of her toys, show it to him, talk his ear off about it, and then run off again. Sometimes she stayed a bit longer, though. Henry didn’t mind when she did that.

My dad says smoking's bad for you. He says you're gonna get cancer and die.

Well, kid, your dad's an asshole.

You said a bad word.

Yes, I did.

Gracie Dursey, yeah that kid was a regular motormouth, not so unlike Evelyn was when she was that age.

You like Evie a lot, huh?

What makes you think that?

‘Cause you're always here. You’re here a lot. Like, a lot a lot. You look lonely out here by yourself. I thought you could use some company, even though you're a stranger. My mom says I'm not uppose to talk to strangers, but you can't be bad if Evie likes you. She likes you a lot. Her face gets really red when she talks about you. She thinks you should stop smoking, too. She doesn't want you to die.

Gracie’s mother had warned her not to talk to strangers, but she did anyway, didn’t she? Maybe she just couldn’t help herself.

Gracie went missing in late November—a few days after Thanksgiving, actually. Three days later, a group of kids found her body in the trainyard… what was left of her body, anyway. It took responders several days to find and bag all of the remains. Oscar Bowers was the first officer to arrive at the scene. His partner got sick when he saw the little girl’s foot, tucked neatly inside a baby pink sneaker, lying all by itself on the tracks. The shoelaces were clumsily tied with a bunny ear knot. Gracie was still learning to tie them herself.

Evelyn took Gracie's death really hard. After the funeral, she called Henry’s house in the middle of the night, deeply distraught and desperate to see him. Henry had never heard her sound so vulnerable. She said she couldn’t stand looking at that house anymore. She needed to get away. Please. It was the “please” that got him moving. Henry hung up the phone and rushed out to meet her at almost two in the morning. They sat on their rock, which by then was too small for both of them to sit on comfortably, and Evelyn wept ceaselessly into the night. She said it was her fault that Gracie died. If she had just taken her rollerskating, none of this would have happened. Henry, not knowing what to do, just sat there listening to her. I never tried to comfort her.

Evelyn, of course, had let him off the hook for that. She said his presence alone was comforting enough. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. Henry needed to do better. From now on, he swore, he would do better.

His heart jumped when he saw Maggie Tozier's minivan make the turn onto Summer Street. Evelyn was coming. Finally, she was coming. Anxiety and fear churned in his stomach now. Was she okay? Would they be okay? Henry wanted to believe that everything would be fine, that Evelyn would eventually forgive him like she always did, but he couldn't ignore the dread that gnawed at him. The ground didn't feel stable anymore. He felt like a trap door was about to open up underneath him and send him tumbling straight into darkness. What if she refused to listen to him? What if she told him to go away and never speak to her again? What if—?

The van pulled into the driveway and stopped. Henry’s breath stopped with it. He could see Evelyn’s silhouette in the passenger seat, shrunken and frail.

Did he hurt her? Henry thought suddenly. I’ll kill him if he did!

Her head was turned toward her mother’s larger silhouette. They were talking, probably about him, and Maggie was stroking Evelyn’s face. Henry could imagine what they were saying: Do you want me to tell him to leave, sweetie? Just say the word and I will. He hoped Maggie wouldn’t send him away. That might have killed him.

The door swung open. Maggie Tozier climbed out and stepped into the early evening sun. As soon as Henry saw her, a dizzying sense of nostalgia swept over him. He suddenly remembered sitting up high on the examination table, hearing paper rustle and crinkle underneath him. He was feeling nervous and a little scared. His mother looked scared, too. She didn’t like this place. Henry didn’t like it either. They were waiting in the hospital exam room, a room that stank of hand soap and disinfectant, where little boys got poked and probed and helpless young mothers got pecked savagely with questions. How’s your son eating? How’s he sleeping? Is he still wetting the bed at night? Say, where did he get all those bruises?

Baby blue walls were stenciled with flowers, butterflies, and Winnie-the-Pooh characters. In the far corner, a small table was cluttered with toys, so many toys. Henry wanted to play with them.

You can play with them once we’re done, okay?

A nurse was standing in front of him. She had a stethoscope around her neck and a smile on her face. When Henry glared at her, she glared right back. Then she started to laugh.

Wow, how scary! He’s got that glare down pat, doesn’t he? My, my… Did I offend you? Ah, right… you’re probably too old for baby toys, huh? My mistake.

Her smile was friendly and full of good humor.

I’m gonna give you your shot now, okay? You’re gonna feel a tiny pinch, but I think a tough guy like you can handle it… Ready? You sure? Here we go!

Her eyes were a warm, golden brown.

You know I’ve got a little girl about your age. Her name’s Evelyn. If you haven’t seen her, you’ve probably heard her. She’s a bit of a chatterbox.

Now they were cold with contempt, and Henry felt himself cower beneath them.

That had been ten years ago, ten long years, but Henry remembered it like it was yesterday. Did Maggie remember him, too? Did she remember how scared he had been? How he’d glared at her when she tried to make him laugh?

(Oh? What’s this I see? Is that a tiny smile hiding in there?)

Did she remember how he’d taken his booster shot without shedding a single tear? How she’d put a Band-Aid on his arm, gave him a sweet, and praised him for being such a brave little boy before sending him off to play with all the toys?

(Have at ‘em, tough guy. Your mom and I are gonna chat for a bit.)

Did Maggie remember any of that? Did she? Did she—?

Henry flinched as her shadow fell on him, black and heavy with hate. It passed by without a sound.

You were right, he wanted to tell her. I did hear Evelyn before I saw her. I heard her, saw her, and I fell in love with her right away. That probably wasn’t what you wanted, though.

Henry turned his attention back to the van and waited. Behind him, Maggie Tozier took out her house keys and unlocked the front door. Before going inside, she stole one last glance at Henry, remembering the boy he used to be, seeing the man he had become, and her heart twinged with unexpected guilt.

Goddammit, Lynn, she thought, why couldn't you have taken him with you?

She went inside and closed the door.

Across the street in the Dursey house, Roger Peterson felt like he had finally caught a break.

He moseyed down the stairs with a smile on his face, his mind delightfully elsewhere and quickly drifting further away. Six months from now, he would be walking down these stairs in his bedrobe and slippers. Roger had never been a morning person, but he would become one in this house. Yes, he was sure he would. He would rise with the morning sun, brew a fresh pot of coffee in his kitchen, his kitchen, and enjoy a cup while standing outside on the front porch—a real porch made of wood, not some narrow slab of piss-stained concrete (how anyone could consider that a porch Roger would never know). He would sip his coffee, breathe in the fresh smell of dewy morning grass, and wave to all his neighbors as they too began their day. Hey, Don, lovely morning, isn't it? Didja happen to catch the Red Sox game last night? Hoy boy was that a knucklebiter… Hey, Cliff, say hi to the missus for me, will ya? Oh yeah, Delores is doing fine, just fine. She really loves it here. We both do. His lawn, his porch, his home. Yeah, that sounded pretty darn swell, didn’t it?

He found his wife standing beneath the arch of the living room window, her expression dazed and distant, arms wrapped protectively over their unborn child. She had, it occurred to Roger now, been doing that ever since she entered the house, and for seemingly no reason at all. Concerning, but not exactly unusual. Pregnancy had a strange effect on Delores. It made her very… sensitive, for lack of a better word, but then again Delores had always been a little sensitive.

Back when they were kids goofing off at a swanky Colorado hotel called the Overlook (Delores worked as a maid there and Roger was a humble bellboy), Delores demonstrated a special intuition regarding their manager’s whereabouts. Somehow, she always knew the perfect time to peel off for a smoke break, the perfect time to play the diligent worker, the perfect time to grab Roger’s hand and sneak into one of the guest rooms for a little romp in the sheets. They never got caught, not once. To Stuart Ullman, they were both exemplary employees… until they weren’t, of course, but that was a separate matter.

Delores cheekily called it her women’s intuition, but Roger suspected it was more than that, much more. Whatever it was, it grew tenfold during the early stages of her pregnancy, for better or for worse. In her first trimester, they won $50,000 from a handful of lottery scratchers, but Roger would have gladly given all that money back if it meant his wife could get a decent night’s sleep. For the first three months, Delores suffered from these terribly vivid nightmares that left her damn near catatonic, eyelids fluttering, hands clenching, bleeding, murmuring senselessly about RVs at a campground… and a strange woman wearing a hat. Roger, whose unborn son would grow up, thrive remarkably, and vanish during a school camping trip in 2001, eased his wife’s fears with humor, the only way he knew how. Well, good thing we’re not the outdoorsy types, huh, kiddo?

Even so, Roger had thought, a change of scenery would do them both a lot of good.

He slipped his arm around his wife’s shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. "This place sure is something, isn't it?"

"Yes," Delores said colorlessly, "something."

She was staring out the window and watching

(a little girl riding around on a pink tricycle, round and round)

all the beautiful flowers sway gently in the breeze. It was such a lovely little garden. She wasn’t sure if she would know how to properly maintain it. Delores had a black thumb when it came to plants. Everything she touched ended up

(in pieces on the train tracks)

(a baby pink sneaker splattered with blood)

dead.

(the little girl was dead!)

Delores pressed her hand to her mouth, holding in a scream. For just a moment her mind had filled with an image so real it seemed to be happening in front of her. A little girl riding her tricycle. A shadow looming over her. Talking to her. Smiling at her. Taking her hand and leading her away… into the woods, onto the train tracks. Dead. Cold. Oh, Delores felt so horribly cold all of a sudden, and her unborn child was kicking and squirming inside her. Distress. Fear. A siren blaring in alarm. It was too much, way too much. She wrenched away from the window, breathless and pale, and buried her face into her husband’s chest.

“Feeling sick again?”

“Yes, very.” She stepped back and steadied herself, taking slow, deep breaths until the image finally cleared from her mind. “We can’t live here, Roger.”

“No?”

“No.”

Delores said nothing else. She didn’t need to. By now, Roger knew better than to question his wife’s twinkling intuition.

Twelve years ago, she had gotten herself fired from the Overlook for frightening half the staff and a few of the guests. She had gone into Room 217 to change the towels and came out two minutes later, sobbing and shrieking in terror. Mrs. Massey... in the bathtub! I saw her, I saw her! She was grinning at me! Mrs. Massey was one of the Overlook's most frequent guests. She had checked out the day before, her body discreetly taken away and loaded onto a plane headed for New York. Delores couldn’t have seen her, not in the tub, not anywhere in the hotel, but she swore on her life that she had. You believe me, don’t you, Roger? Word quickly got around to Ullman and he fired Delores right on the spot. A hysterical woman crying about ghosts was hardly a good look for his esteemed hotel. He handed Delores her walking papers and sent her home in a yellow cab. Roger, without an ounce of hesitation, climbed in after her.

If you go, I go.

That probably sounded incredibly romantic, and Roger suspected that was partly why she so readily agreed to marry him, but romance had nothing to do with it. Roger didn’t quit because he loved her (back then, their relationship had been a fun workplace fling, nothing more). He quit because he trusted her. And if Delores thought there was something wrong with the Overlook, then Roger didn’t need to hear anything else. So he chucked his nametag out the window and flipped his furious manager the bird. So long, Ullman, so long. It was just a summer job, anyway. They were engaged and living in Maine at the time of the Overlook’s destruction. When Roger read the newspaper headline, he couldn’t help but feel like he cheated death a little bit. That's why he trusted her now.

"Well, that's too bad," Roger said, and allowed himself one last look around. In his mind, he already had all his furniture picked out. Hopefully it would fit into the next place just as well.

He called the real estate agent over.

“Well?” she said. “Thoughts?”

“I think we’re gonna keep looking,” he told her. “Thanks anyway, though. It’s a real nice house.”

He put it behind him, nevertheless, and carefully helped his wife into the car. As Roger slid into the driver’s side, his mind suddenly flashed back to that yellow cab (If you go, I go), her frightened face, the long and silent ride home. Thinking of this, he reached across the seat and found his wife’s hand, just as he had before.

“Who was it this time?” he asked. “Another kid?”

“Yes… a little girl.”

“Oh shit,” Roger said. Maybe that house wasn't so great, after all. Maybe Derry wasn't so great, after all. “That’s a lot of dead kids for one town, isn’t it? Must be something in the water or something.” He went to put the key into the ignition. Delores stopped him with her hand.

“What made you say that just now?”

“Say what?”

“There must be something in the water. Why did you say that?”

“Umm, because it’s a common expression? Why, do you think there’s something wrong with the water here?”

“No, nothing like that, it’s just…” Delores withdrew her hand and settled back into her seat. “There’s a weird smell hanging around here—a rotten, sludgy smell. The whole town stinks of it. It reminds me of a sewer or something. You really don’t smell anything?”

“Me? No…” but Roger took another quick whiff just to be sure. “No, I don’t smell a thing.”

“Well, it’s making me sick. Can we go home now, please?”

“You don’t wanna stop somewhere for dinner?”

“No… No, I don't wanna stay in this town for another minute.”

Because it was more than a bad smell. A bad smell she could dismiss as another annoying pregnancy symptom, just like her sudden revulsion to meat. But it wasn't just the smell. There was something else smothering the air in Derry—this overwhelming feeling of sadness and loss, of guilt and grief, hurt and hate, and death, so much death. Poisonings. Stabbings. Shootings. Lynchings. Explosions. Children being starved, being beaten, being smothered in their cribs. It was all here, in the air, in the water, scorched into the soil like a brand. How could anyone stand to live in such a place?

But people did live here. Delores could hardly believe it. Somehow the citizens of Derry lived, thrived, and happily went about their day, unaware of the poison they were breathing, unaware of the danger that lurked below, far below. Yes, Delores could feel that, too. The source of the smell. The source of all the town’s suffering and death. Down in the darkness under Derry was a great unspeakable terror, nameless, shapeless. It had been sleeping undisturbed for years, but now it was awake and ready to…

(feed)

A tremor of panic rolled through her. Delores fastened her seat belt and urged her husband to start the car. “Take us home, Roger. Now. Please.” If we don't leave now, we may never leave… and this is no place for children.

Yet there were children, many children. Across the street, a boy and a girl were sitting on opposite sides of the driveway. Teenagers wrapped up in their silly teenage problems. The boy was sitting on the bottom step of the porch, his eyes focused, restless, his face tight with worry. The girl was curled up in the front seat of her mother’s minivan, thinking

(You have to do it, Evie)

that she might have to hurt someone she cared about, someone she loved.

Delores’s heart went out to her. Poor girl, she thought as they pulled away. She’ll soon realize that none of this matters.

_______________

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