#general chip grunt

[clare-875]

Distraction or Devotion (Zoro x Reader)

_____ Pairings: Roronoa Zoro x Female Reader Summary: You think your love is one-sided, but is it? Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Jealous Zoro, Soft Zoro, Alcohol A/N: Been obsessed with Zoro lately 😅 [One Piece Masterlist] _____

You were transfixed by him.

Roronoa Zoro.

He had found his way into your heart and had taken the undue liberty to consume all of its devotion. You didn't know how friendship had morphed so suddenly into the hopes of something more, but that was the predicament you found yourself in now.

What had started as general respect for the other had turned into sparing sessions, light bickering and laughter, drinking and confiding in the other. The days spent at sea spared you much time to get to know the green-haired swordsman, no matter how rigid he stood behind his walls. You chipped and chipped away at them until he let you in on small details, let you pull laughter from him and let you linger in his presence.

The bond you both shared was built on loyalty and an undying trust forged through time and trial. You knew to him, you were a rare individual: one he trusts, one he protects, a comrade and a friend. But to you, the more you chipped away at his walls, the more you got to know the man, stoic and strong and silent, the more he crashed through your own borders and delved straight into your heart.

To you, he was everything, but everything you were so sure you could not have.

"Oi, [y/n], you're zoning out again."

Your eyes snap upwards, and you are met with the sight of Zoro, his sharp eyes on you as he lifts an ungodly amount of weight back and forth over his head, mimicking the movements of his swords. Both of you were out on deck, the only crewmembers that lingered outdoors apart from Luffy, who was somewhere on the figurehead.

"I'm sorry, were you desperate for my attention?"

You tease as you go back to the duty of polishing his swords, a frequent task you found yourself undertaking, but one you did not take lightly. You knew how much Zoro treasured his swords, how much worth was forged upon their blades. They lay heavy in your hands: heavy with responsibility and the weight of Zoro's trust. You didn't know of anyone else he would allow to even breathe near his swords, let alone touch them.

The thought of that made your heart warm.

"Shouldn't you be focusing on your training?"

"Tch, whatever woman, I only said something cause you looked like you were about to fall asleep on the blade. Next time I'll just watch it happen."

You roll your eyes, but a smile lingers on your face as your eyes meet his. The sun had fallen, just mingling with the ocean as it delved deeper into the Earth, bringing forth warm lights that traced the muscles on Zoro's skin. His irises swim in the fervour of the lights, and you swear you see something deep within as he abruptly breaks away from your gaze, the pink on his cheeks surely from his workout and nothing more.

Nothing more, right?

There is more silence as Zoro shifts his focus to his weights once more, the rhythm of his training the only sound that touches the cooling air, until you decide to break the quiet.

"Hey, Zoro..."

You murmur, eyes locked on the blade carefully placed in your lap and the cloth that delicately traces it until you see your own unwavering reflection.

"Yeah?" Zoro grunts as he brings down the weights towards the deck.

"Have you ever thought about love before?"

There is abruptly the seizing of movement, but when your eyes travel upwards again to meet his, he merely looks at you incredulously.

"What kind of question is that?"

You grin at his expression, but continue on, nonchalantly, despite the way your heart pounds against your chest at your own boldness.

"Oh, come on, Zoro. You've never been tempted? I can't count on my hands the number of times women have literally fallen at your feet. Beautiful women, too good for you, of course, but nonetheless."

A beat of silence, and he answers.

"Nope, never thought about it."

His words are blunt, and he continues his training as though nothing was said. You can't deny the slight disappointment that filled you at his abrupt words. But you decide to push a bit more. You want to know more, more of what he thought about you. If you had a chance, if another claimed his heart, if his words were true.

"Really? What about Tashigi? She even knows her way around a sword, you know-"

"Nope."

"Perona? You guys literally spent two years together-"

"So? Still no."

"Hiyori? You two seemed all cosied up-"

"No."

You roll your eyes, unsure as to why your heart starts to feel heavy even as he rejects women you were so sure he could sweep off their feet. Maybe it was the lack of interest in the topic of relationships. Maybe it was the voice in the back of your mind mocking your hopes that he would turn around and say he would choose you instead.

"Nami, Robin??"

You ask, a teasing tone in your words despite the smile that strains on your cheeks.

"What? No way, they're crewmates-"

"You've actually never been tempted? They're literally all so perfect."

You sit in slight disbelief, analysing his expression, but his gaze does not falter, and he reveals nothing. If anything, you witness the tightening of his jaw as he moves to a silent rhythm. You wonder if you have pushed the topic too far.

"It's nothing against them, I have a responsibility and a goal. To become the world's strongest swordsman and to see Luffy become the pirate king. I don't have time for distractions."

His words are blunt to you as they are confirming. You allow the silence to consume the space between the two of you for a moment longer, and yet your heart twists unbearably.

He doesn't have time for distractions.

Of course, he doesn't.

You had witnessed more than anyone the way he trained from daybreak to sundown, every minute for the dream he held, and in support of Luffy's ambitions. What time could he spare for relationships, for women? He already had so much on his mind, so much responsibility on his back. And yet, a question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself.

"Not even time for me?"

You whisper, but Zoro misses your words, his eyes trained on his weights, the crease between his brows a show of his concentration, but the glint in his eyes, one that unravels frustration.

Why? Maybe this conversation was one he did not wish to partake in.

"Did you say something?"

Zoro's words touch the air once more, as sunlight travels his face until it lies static as he meets your gaze again.

"Nothing," you say, more dejected than anything else, despite knowing you should feel unsurprised. You watch as he continues his workout, the air solemn as you let out a quiet sigh, unsure why your heart feels so heavy despite a lack of rejection.

You supposed it was the lack of recognition that had done it.

In-tune crew members had already witnessed your gravitation towards the swordsman, but it was clear to you that your affections were not recognised, nor could they be considered anything beyond friendship by Zoro. Though stupidly relieved to know that he did not have a favourite among the women you listed, you felt stupid in your hopes that maybe, just maybe, you were his favourite.

That he recognised that the way you polish his swords as you do now wasn't out of mere generosity but deep-rooted admiration and care. The way you saved a seat for him beside you at dinner wasn't out of mere friendship but out of hope to get to know him more. The way you seek him out and spend hours by his side, even when there is nothing to be said, was from a yearning to be beside him for as long as he would let you be.

You loved him.

Roronoa Zoro.

Loved the way he would smirk when he teased you to the point where you were sure to combust. Loved the way he is so protective of crewmates in battles, his strength and loyalty unmatched. You loved the way he was so unwavering in his values, so predictable in the best of ways. Loved the way that he cared and was kind, no matter how hard he tried to keep up the tough-guy facade. You loved the quiet moments stolen with him, the way his eyes would soften in the presence of you and the presence of crewmates, the faint smile he bears when he has had too much to drink.

Loved the way he would listen quietly.

Loved the way he ruffled your hair.

Loved the way he searched for you after battles.

You loved him.

But as you watch his devotion to his swords, to Luffy and to his crew. Deep down, you had resigned yourself to knowing that you could never be anything more than a friend. No princess, swordswoman or model could turn his head. How could you?

What did you offer that they didn't?

Emotion fills you suddenly, but you force it away, scolding yourself and quickly finishing off the last of your task. Zoro releases his hold on his weights, stretching lightly as he readies another workout, but he is surprised as you stand and go to walk away.

"Hey, you okay?"

He asks, and you hate the way your heart lurches at his concern, the way you can feel his eyes burning into your back.

"Yeah, I just promised Sanji I'd help him for dinner, I'll see you later!"

Your words are as cheerful as you forced them to be, wandering towards the kitchen unseeingly. You don't see the way Zoro's brows furrow in his confusion, the twitching of his hands as though he wants to stop you and ask why you would indulge in the cook's company over his own. But he merely nods and continues his training.

You merely walk away.

.....

A week has passed, and you didn't know what you were doing.

Were you moving on? But from what exactly?

Exploring other opportunities? Maybe, but why?

You weren't rejected.

Didn't have the hammer beat down on your budding devotion to the swordsman. You were just provided an unspoken resignation by his words.

"I don't have time for distractions."

Like, ever? Was that long-term, short-term, or were you even a card in his hands that he would play?

You were confused and downtrodden, but you were also tired.

One-sided love.

So focused on possibilities and what-ifs, you had forgotten how exhausting it can be. How burdenous longing can be. How the dichotomy of your mind and of your heart can feel like you're being torn in two. Was that dramatic? Maybe a tad. But you now realise how long you have loved Zoro, the years you spent by his side. How can you teach yourself to let go, even a little bit, to seek distance so that if he does choose to reject you in the future, you are not utterly shattered?

You hate that you still hope.

Hope that because you had not named yourself, and because he had not rejected you, that you still had a chance, even if it was years down the line. You grit your teeth as you take a rough swing of your beverage, alcohol burning as you force it down your throat, trying to quieten your mind, trying to forget your feelings.

"Hey, slow down, it's not water, you know?"

And there it is, the provocative tone in his words. The glint of amusement in his sharp eyes as he catches your gaze. The swordsman laughs at your distasteful expression as he downs his second bottle of the night.

"I know that, but do you? You're downing that like it's nothing."

You ask incredulously, deadpanning at the way liquid disappears from bottles. He smirks, much more at ease next to you and with his sake, though he couldn't let you know that. Couldn't let you see how you have him so wrapped around your finger. Couldn't let you know that the smile you bear had him fighting to remain nonchalant, to remain strong in the face of temptation. The temptation in your lips, in your gaze, in you.

"I know, but I can handle it."

You roll your eyes at that.

He notices, but you turn away quickly, hiding your gaze in the dim light of the bar the two of you found yourselves in. Zoro can hear his Captain laughing with a stranger, can hear the love-lorn cook as he talks to Nami and Robin, can hear Brook chatting with the musicians in the bar, and yet he finds himself next to you. He always finds himself next to you. Always you he looks for after battles, always you he sits by when he naps, always you who lingers when he works out, always you he celebrates with, always you.

He wonders why you have been acting strangely this week.

Recently, it hadn't been you who lingered, or you he sits beside. You hadn't been saving the seats you usually do for him, with your bright eyes and wide smile. More often, you had been absent as he worked out, left wondering why the empty space you usually sat in was left cold and dull without you. More often had he taken notice of the unspoken things you do - reminding him of dinner, polishing his swords, filling the quiet in between - disappearing. He wondered if he had taken you for granted.

Even now, as he sits next to you, the closest he has been for days. You are quieter, more sullen, more lost in your mind. The heart in his chest that he didn't know could fluctuate in the face of another, missed you. God dammit, he missed you. And he didn't know what he had done wrong.

You take a glance to your side, only to see that Zoro was now lost in his head, drinking from bottles, with thoughts behind his eyes. You are about to ask what burdens him, but your pursuit is interrupted by that of another.

"Excuse me, love? Can I buy you a drink?"

Your gaze snaps upwards when you meet the eyes of a stranger who has approached your side without your notice. He hadn't been the first to approach you tonight; in fact, you were used to men approaching you with hope and admiration and lust twisting in their irises. It had been so easy before to brush them off in favour of Zoro's company, so easy to say no. But you find yourself considering the offer. Zoro is still distracted by a thought you cannot see, and this man was charming and attractive.

What harm was there really?

"Okay," you say, your words more unsure than you hoped they would be, but the man does not care nor seem to notice, all too pleased to have you on his arm. That is, until you feel a sharp tug on your other hand that lies limp to your side. Your gaze snaps to your left, and you are met with sharp eyes you have memorised all too well.

"Oi, where are you going?"

Zoro's voice is low, protective, his hand lingering on his swords. But his irises betray confusion, and was that hurt that lingered on the crescent edges? Zoro's insides twist uncomfortably at the sight of your hand on another man's arm.

You never indulged in the company of such men; why now?

"I'm just getting a drink, Zoro."

You say confusedly, missing the smirk on the man beside you, missing the tension in Zoro's jaw as he meets his cocky gaze. You feel Zoro's fingers twitch against your skin, his grip not painful but sure against your skin. He didn't want to let you go. But you were now confused.

Why was he acting this way?

But before you can say anything, Zoro lets you go silently, and the man next to you takes you to the bar for a drink.

.....

When you make your way to the Sunny, the sun has touched the horizon, leaking light onto the earth.

Your eyes were trained on the pavement, steps slow and deliberate, but your mind was churning. Along the way, you had seen crewmembers sprawled together on the streets and in bars, but paid them no mind, knowing it was merely a symbol of them having had a good night. Happy to see them indulge in an evening of laughter, drinks and food and each other. You hadn't expected to be out so long, but you found the need to wander a little.

The man who had taken you to the bar was okay at first, that is, until you saw the lust that travelled his features, move to his hands. He had mocked your crew and Zoro in his drunkenness. Had earned himself a good slap to the face and your swift absence, only for you to find that Zoro had left the bar already. You had only been gone for an hour at most, but following everything you had walked the length of the island several times, leading to the sun rising, signalling the beginning of another day.

You travel up the steps and onto the deck, expecting silence, expecting nothing. But you are surprised to see the swordsman, your mind had lingered all night on - had lingered years on - sat looking to the horizon with a pile of bottles scattered around him. Your heart picks up pace quickly, both in concern at the sight of him so adrift he does not notice you and of the devotion you still try to bury. Approaching hesitantly, you are met with the strong scent of alcohol, a sign that he has drunk too much, despite himself.

"Zoro?"

You murmur, nudging his shoulder gently, unsure of his reaction. He turns to you slowly, eyes masked in rare emotion, bottle clunking onto the deck from his grasp, spilling its contents. You furrow your brows, but his voice is low as he speaks to you, avoiding your gaze once more.

"How was he?"

You are taken aback, shocked that despite his inhibited state, that is what he suggests to you. Though you suppose that is what conclusion you would come to if Zoro disappeared with a woman, only to return to the Sunny in the daybreak.

"What's it to you?"

You ask lightly, watching the way his grip tightens on his own skin, sharp eyes on yours as he watches you closely. He is about to bite back until he watches you sigh and pick up the bottles that have been scattered and some shattered, cleaning the mess he has made. He meets your eyes that are on his, and he sees the concern you bear. His heart twists painfully against his chest as he pictures you with the man he left you with.

You.

You were meant to be his.

You were his angel, the one he protects, the one he looks to in quiet moments and laughs with in the confines of the other. He was meant to be the one you adored, the one who came first, the one you sought out. He was the one you were meant to nudge teasingly and drink with and celebrate wins and comfort losses with. He was the one you were meant to grace your presence with. Not some leechy stranger, not some unworthy man he can only now picture in your bed, in your arms, in your heart.

"I asked first." He says, voice quiet, tone low, eyes adrift again.

You smile half-heartedly at his stubbornness, but as you brush away bottles and put them away, you let the silence linger for a while. Once you are done you sit by his side, Zoro hates the way his heart spikes just by your warmth, you hate the way your heart does the same.

"He was an asshole."

You say, feeling Zoro's gaze meet the side of your face as your voice touches the air, but you do not turn yet, admiring the sun as it rises higher. "Wanted me in his bed long before our first drink, talked shit about me, talked shit about our crew..." You feel as Zoro tenses at your words, and that is when you meet his gaze, his eyes widening at your gentle smile, at your adoring eyes, at your proximity.

"... talked shit about you."

You grin as you see his eyebrows twitch, but you don't move, overindulgent in his presence. Yes, you might not be his, not now or ever, but you would take what you got, even if it was the show of his protectiveness from time to time. But to Zoro, he was fighting so hard not to allow his hands to travel to yours, to spill the words he constrained. You turn away quickly before you get too lost in his gaze, though he is already too far gone in yours.

"That was the last straw, you know," you grin teasingly at the sun, "had to give him a good slap to the face to bring him back to reality, then wandered around the island for a good few hours because somebody decided to leave early."

Zoro's gaze widens a fraction of a millimetre, but you do not catch it, yours still to the sky. You don't notice how his chest loses the tightness that had plagued him the whole night. The way he had used the alcohol he usually loved to force an escape from thoughts of you and the man he had regretfully left you with. He couldn't handle it, the thought, the sight of you with another. Couldn't handle another day where you continued to place distance between the two of you.

Then it comes to Zoro so clearly, after so long in despair.

He loved you.

He can't let you go.

There is a warmth on your hand, and it takes you a while to realise that it is Zoro's hand over yours, hesitant, hovering. Your eyes snap to his so fast, he is almost taken aback. He fights the blush on his cheeks as he lowers his calloused hands onto yours, pulling warmth to your own face.

"Zoro?" Your words are hesitant, but his are blunt and unwavering.

"Don't do that again, woman," he says, voice even, eyes far from yours. Two beats pass in silence until his voice reaches the air again, in turn, rendering you temporarily speechless.

"I think I like you."

There is no teasing in his words, no underlying joke. He is vulnerable under your gaze, touch faltering on skin, uncertainty clouding his mind. But to you, a wave of shock travels through your system, and you can't help but let out a yell of surprise.

"What?!"

Zoro winces as he squeezes his eyes shut, not used to the effects of too much alcohol.

"Damn woman, do you have to be so loud?"

You hurriedly silence, before returning to your spot next to him, mind buzzing. Is this a dream? Did you hear correctly? Have you gone and lost your mind? You quickly come to your senses, gathering thoughts that have scattered, until one question clouds your mind.

"But I thought- I thought you said you didn't have time for distractions?"

Zoro pauses, his mind travelling to the conversation the two of you had a week ago. A week ago, when you named women, he could never have considered that way. The frustration he felt when it sounded like you were writing yourself off the list of options, forcing people onto him when all he wanted was you. Was that why you put distance between the two of you? Was that the question that plagued your mind? Was that what you thought?

You hear him sigh, but he pulls you into his side, still a mixture of drunkenness dictating his movements.

"You're not a distraction, just another focus, a vulnerability maybe, that I choose to have," he smirks slightly at your surprise spilling into your stare. "But you're mine, or I want you to be."

Silence touches the air, but Zoro takes comfort in knowing that you have not moved from where you sat, have not moved from his touch, have not wilted under his vulnerable words. In a movement, he feels your hands touch his face, a shine to your gaze that has him blushing to his ears. A hammering against his chest like he has never known.

"I want to be yours."

And somehow, that was all he wanted to hear.

His lips touch yours, in a mix of warmth, of roughness and of the taste of too many drinks. But you feel his hands, strong, secure against your skin, pulling you closer. Your mind is a haze as he moves, still tipsy off of alcohol, still stumbling with nerves, but lost in the place you have wanted to be for so long. He growls low under his breath, his hands moving as though to erase the touch of any other. When you pull away, you are breathless, and so is he. You sit on his lap, and he holds you closer.

A moment of bliss travels the two of you, and yet a yawn comes through your system, exhausted emotionally, of the time spent last night wandering, of the thoughts that raged through your head. And yet now, next to him, you can't find the courage to drift asleep, afraid to wake to your bed and to harsh reality. Zoro seems to be having the same thoughts as you, but in the caress of soft hair, he murmurs against your skin.

"Sleep, woman. I'll be here when you wake up."

Your eyes meet his hesitantly, and though you know alcohol is still in his system, you don't think that is the reason why his eyes soften when he meets your gaze. No, you knew that look, it was familiar, shining with care and softness and that unspoken emotion you had seen all too much before. That unspoken emotion, now free of its speechlessness, is only for you to know. You nod to him, surprisingly comfortable, like everything was how it was supposed to be.

When sleep consumes you, it takes only a beat more for it to consume Zoro, too. Finally free of his burdenous thoughts, of regret, and of needing alcohol to erase his feelings. Zoro now indulges your warmth, the softness of your skin, the weight of you against his broad chest. As a smile lingers on his face, it is then he realises how often you pull the corners of his lips upwards, how often you bring him to a place of peace in a world clouded with anything but.

A distraction? How could you ever be?

He was utterly devoted to you.

And you were now his.

When both of you wake the next day, it is to the incoherent screaming of Sanji, the laughter of your Captain and the agape expressions of Chopper, Brook and Ussop. Nami, Franky and Jimbei look on, unsurprised and grinning. But Robin looks to the two of you asleep in the arms of the other knowingly.

"Finally..."

[bitterrfruit]

iron tide [1]

fisherman price x reader cw: noncon undressing/bathing, dubcon touching. 11k words. 18+ mdni the crew aboard a deep-sea crabbing vessel rescue a woman adrift in the north sea. you wake up on a boat surrounded by men you don't know, with no memory of where you came from. or: john price rescues you from certain death and decides that you belong to him [masterlist]

Jonathan had long forsaken his godliness; but if he were to deify anything, it would be the Sea. 

Great big blue, infinitely vast and infinitely deep. She was sweet when she was still, gentle, little ebbs like kisses against the barnacled hull — formidable when she was angry, titanic swells like mountains that crashed and shattered and sucked irreverent men down into the depths of her. 

She took as much as she gave, demanded sacrifices for her gifts. Stole his father when he was a boy, swept off the deck of his ship by a rancorous wave and cast out into the expanse before she inevitably swallowed him. But what she purloined she returned in abundance — a cornucopia of life; fish, lobsters, molluscs — and enough crabs for John to make his living for the better part of his life once he retired from the Navy. 

In more recent years, though, he had begun to lose faith in her, too. 

The seas were violent and only getting rougher, warmer when they needed to be cold to let the crabs get meatier, colder when they needed to be warm so they could replenish their numbers. 

A burgeoning resentment had rooted in his crew like a spreading cancer, minute at first but steadily swelling — every year they were paid a little less and damaged a little more, and who else was there to blame but their skipper? 

Wrong spot, wrong depth, wrong time of year; he seemed to keep getting it wrong, despite decades and decades of seafare. As though the Sea was punishing him, as though he had taken too much — only a matter of time before it was his turn to give. 

She made known her spite as he leaned over the paint-chipped railing of the deck-facing balcony, watching his crew haul in pot after pot from the raging ocean. Each cage more vacant than the last, the crabs smaller than he had come to expect from the once generous North Sea, soft brown shells where they should have been thick, ochre red, and thorny. Half of them too small to keep, so were begrudgingly tossed back into the deep.

The sun had set not ten minutes prior, hidden by black cloud and dense fog, the sea and sky smudged into a uniform shade of gloaming blue. The waves were tempestuous, whitecaps high and valleys low — the Iron Tide was a resilient girl, and she carved through the bulk of the swells, but even she could not avoid the plummets and climbs of an ocean this rough. He felt the mist of the cracking waves on his cheeks, the wind blistering cold and forcing him to squint. 

As the Captain he had outgrown the need to get his hands dirty, he could stay in the comfort of the wheelhouse if he wished — but he still liked to venture down to the deck to pull ropes and haul pots when he could, if only to show his crew how it was properly done. He liked to ensure his callouses stayed thick and his mettle hadn’t turned soft. 

“This’s a fucken’ suicide set, captain!” Roared Johnny from the deck, work-worn voice barely audible over the bellows of the waves on the hull. Lead deckhand with the attitude of a first mate. 

The first mate himself, Simon, had begun ascending the rusty steel stairs with an uncharacteristic urgency, the hood of his fluorescent orange jacket around his shoulders, kept there by the wind. 

“How many ‘ve we got?” John asked him, jaundiced, having to shout over the gale. 

“Thirty-two,” Simon said rigidly, “from twenty pots.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” John grunted, aggravated, smacking the rail with his palm. He cynically observed the next pot as it was hauled up, even emptier than the last one, and he made up his mind. “Alright, set ‘em back.”

“They’ve been soaking for twenty-four hours,” Simon disputed, but the pith of his irritation resided in the knowledge of how much labour had already been wasted. It was an inexorable fact, though — there was little point in retrieving them now, as empty as they were. 

“It’s a waste of time to haul them all,” John barked. “What have we got, seventy to go? Set them back.” 

Simon rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb, exasperated. “Alright.” 

He echoed the Captain’s command in a roar down the stairs, deckhands looking up to listen before they obeyed — John watched, disenchanted, as they began launching the string of pots over the side of the deck one by one, throwing loops of yellow nylon rope and the bright red marker buoys out to follow them. 

It was easy for John to fall into a sour mood, and after the abysmal stew Nikolai had thrown together for their supper, his fuse was cut even shorter. Seemed the Russian mechanic’s turn to cook always landed on the harshest nights, left everyone crotchety and indolent. 

He needed nicotine. 

He made his way back to the helm with a crease in his brow and his jaw in knots. The bolted windows spanning the length of the bridge were near impossible to see through, the battering of sea spray distorting the view of the dark ocean that extended unendingly past the bow. He glared out into the abyss for a beat, stoically watching the black waves, wondering what next the Sea would punish him with. 

A blink of red pierced through the mist. 

He almost ignored it, at first, rubbing his forehead as he twisted his spinning chair behind the helm — until it was there, again; a pin-prick of bright carmine, cutting through the blue sea fog and disappearing behind a wave. 

Frowning as he leaned into the radar screen, his eyes scoured over the bright blue disk and immediately caught on a tiny yellow blip. Due north, twenty degrees west. It was faint, flickering every odd moment, and he stared at it vigilantly — a spot he would normally dismiss as sea clutter, if not for the blinking light he thought he saw on the horizon. 

He reeled down the window by the seat and stuck his head out into the winds, squinting through the spray — at the top of a crest shone the little red light, blinking at half-second intervals, clear as day. 

The realisation rinsed him colder than seawater. 

A lifeboat. 

He snatched the intercom radio from its hook by the wheel and held it to his lips. 

“All hands—” He barked, “Secure the deck. Got a lifeboat up ahead. Prepare for rescue.” 

Simon’s crackling voice quickly came back through the radio, from the call point on the deck. “D’you say a lifeboat?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

“Roger.” 

John could hear the yelling on deck from the wheelhouse, all that fervour frothing up at the prospect of an emergency; a new challenge. He immediately spun the wheel to adjust the rudder, steering the boat in the direction of the blip on the radar. Gently pushed the throttle to catch up and felt the roaring engine quake through the boat, the sharp bow of his ship cut through the swells like a fist through a wall. 

“See it,” Simon called through the intercom. 

“What’ve we got?” 

“Life raft.” 

He tugged the throttle lever back to halt the boat on approach, aligning the vessel so that the lifeboat was portside, knuckles white on the wheel. He set the engine to hold station before marching out to the deck, bracing for the wind as he hurried across the steel balcony and down the ladder, knurled steel stairs clanging loudly with every thud of his boots. 

“Any survivors onboard?” John shouted, joining his crew where they peered over the railing, as another wave cascaded over the gunwale, greenwater flooding the deck before gushing out of the scuppers. 

There it was, neon orange and climbing up a steep swell. Hardly a lifeboat — an inflatable raft, little red light blinking atop a rounded corner. From the deck he could tell it was ancient, the bright skin of the raft peeling and blistering, exposing the ballooning black rubber within that kept it afloat. Modern regulations demanded modern lifeboats — fully enclosed boats with their own motors, search and rescue transponders equipped. He struggled to imagine the kind of vessel the raft had even come from; certainly not a cruise ship, or any legally operating fishing or passenger boat. 

“Only one,” Alex answered, yelling over the roar of the ocean. 

Nik let out a grunt, dismissing it all with a sweep of his hand. “That woman is dead.” 

John squinted at the raft, and quickly determined that Nikolai wasn’t unreasonable for thinking so.

The woman aboard the raft lay face down in the orange bed, bare-footed, nothing on but a saturated ivory dress that clung to her skin like glue. Sodden hair webbed across her back, tresses floating in the inch of water that filled the basin of the boat. 

Even if she were a corpse already, though, he wasn’t going to let the Sea digest her unchallenged. 

“Alright,” he declared, chewing on his plan before he uttered it. “I’ll strap on the lifeline, jump in and grab her, then you lot can reel me back in.” 

The disputes were quick to gush from his crew, all cursing and shaking heads. 

“Get fucked,” Alex scoffed, appaled, “skipper jumping overboard? What world are you living in?”

“You gonna do it, then, Keller?” John retorted, lips in a line. 

“I can,” Soap yelled, already shucking off his heavy jacket. Daredevil that he was.

John gritted his teeth. Wasn’t sold on the risk of losing his lead deckhand; but as he considered it, he would never be prepared to risk losing any of them. 

“You sure?” 

“Ah’m the best swimmer,” he boasted through a grin, now down to his thermals, shoulders raised in the cold and rubbing his hands together. 

“Good man,” John nodded approvingly, and the crew quickly went to work strapping him in — hooked the harness over his shoulders and secured it in the front, fed the end of the long blue rope into the winch so he could be retrieved after the catch. 

Came the thudding of boots on the deck, running towards the commotion; “Fuck’s going on? Why’s the engine idle?”

Kyle, the ship’s engineer, finally emerging from the engine room with a smudge of gear oil on his cheek. Must have had his earbuds in when the Captain issued the all hands directive. 

John let out a huff, not prepared to give a long justification to the designated safety officer, conscientious as he was.

“Oh shit—” Gaz chirped, discovering on his own the gravity of the situation, as he glanced over the railing and spotted the raft. “Is she alive?”

“We’re about t’find out,” Soap said keenly, bouncing on the balls of his feet to warm himself up. 

“You’re jumping in?” Gaz balked, “That’s — you’re fuckin’ mental.”

John let out a sharp huff. He didn’t disagree, but he thought it counterproductive to express any reluctance. “Got a better idea, lad?” 

Gaz sighed anxiously as he clutched the guardrail, head hanging from his shoulders. He knew as well as John that this was the only option — it was that, or leave the woman adrift in the ocean to die, if she weren’t already. 

John held fast to his pragmatism, but his morals were unyielding. Nobody gets left behind. 

Men took turns giving Johnny good luck pats on the back as he climbed over the railing. He hung off the other side like a monkey with his fist around the bar, looking down into the furious ocean and taking an anticipatory breath. 

The crew watched raptly and let loose a strident cheer as he launched off, diving into the waves with knife-pointed arms and sinking out of sight. Nik remained steadfast by the hydraulic winch, ready to set it off at any indication of either success or failure. 

Soap reemerged from the water with a visible gasp ten-odd metres out, breaking through the white foam and powering ahead in a freestyle stroke. He reached the raft quickly, and climbed aboard like a wet dog, hauling himself up over the ballooning sides and almost pulling it under the water with him. He kneeled beside the woman once he was in, pulling her by the shoulder to assess her — he gave no indication to the crew as to her status before he hoisted her up and held her tight to his chest, arms hooked under hers so that she wore him like a backpack.

He pushed himself back into the water with an eager holler; “Got ‘er!”

Nik immediately pulled the lever on the winch and it zipped loudly as it began spinning, winding up the rope and hauling Johnny through the swelling sea. The crane arm of the davit extended far enough beyond the gunwale that he didn’t slam into the hull on his ascent, and he clung to the limp woman for dear life — John and his deckhands leaned as far over the railing as they could without toppling overboard, hooking the rope that suspended the swimmer and heaving he and his cargo onboard. 

Soap coughed out a splatter of seawater as he gingerly lay the woman on her back, before rolling over and wiping down his face, dripping wet.

“Found yerself a mermaid, cap,” he sputtered, sniffing and shivering violently as he pushed himself to stand. 

“Nicely fuckin’ done, Soap,” Alex lauded, smacking him on the back and earning a screech from the Scotsman. 

“‘S too cold,” he bit, grabbing at his genitals through his sodden thermals. “Ma fucken’ balls are gone.” 

“Go in and get dry,” the Captain barked, as he hurriedly crouched beside the woman, sweeping locks of drenched hair from where it stuck to her face. 

“Jesus,” Gaz muttered concernedly. 

Her skin was bitterly cold, but soft on her cheeks; some indication that resuscitation might have been possible, that her skin wasn’t as stiff and waxy as corpse skin would have been. Eyes were lightly shut, her thick lashes clumped together by seawater. He used a gentle thumb to lift up an eyelid, and her pupils were nice and black — blown out, but not clouded over. Laces of capillaries meshed through her white scleras. Blood still bright red.

“How’s she looking?” Alex asked, crouching beside John, pessimism in his throat. 

“She’s frigid,” John said grimly.

“Could be hypothermic,” Gaz said from behind him, worry leaden in every word. “That water is barely higher than zero.” 

“Mh,” John grunted in agreement, hastily pressing the palps of his fingers under her jaw into a spongy jugular, held there for a few seconds — no pulse. “We’ll worry about warmin’ her up once we get her breathing.” 

He leaned back and interlaced his fingers, laying his hands knuckles down between her breasts. Pushed his weight into her sternum with a hard shove and her ribs sunk underneath him, bouncing back up when he released the pressure. Repeat. Over, and over, grunting with each desperate compression.

The heaving bodies of five men caging her kept the bulk of the angry waves from dousing her, the spray crashed over John’s back and dripped from him, beads landing on her body. Solemn silence hung heavy between them, as though fearful that expressing any hope would condemn her to certain death. Simon clutched John’s shoulder, grip encouraging. 

He counted his compressions until he reached thirty, before he urgently keeled forward and pressed his mouth to her cold lips, pinching her nose and lifting her chin — pumped air from his lungs into hers with a forceful breath, then another, then another. Her chest rose as it filled up with his air, sunk again as he let it seep out from behind her teeth. 

Returned to compressions. Push. Push. Push. He pressed so hard into her sternum that her ribs threatened to snap under the weight of him, but they were rubbery enough to withstand it. 

Continued the next round until he reached twenty-one — when water began to rise up her throat, sloshing about in her open mouth and trickling out of its corners. He urgently halted his compressions to flip her onto her side and tip out the brine, hammering into the midline of her back with an open palm. 

“C’mon, love,” John growled, teeth gritting. “Cough it up for me.” 

As though she had heard him, a gurgle eked from her throat, torso retching as an eruption of water gushed out of her mouth and sprayed over the deck. A few weak coughs followed the first, and she shuddered — the men roared in shock and celebration as John returned her to her back. 

Her eyes fluttered open for less than a second, shrinking pupils fixed on John for a heartbeat — wet, glittering under the beaming of the deck lights, carving straight through him and taking root in the marrow of his skull. Vacant and yet swollen, the glow of life anew, as though glaring right into the heavens — and with a little sigh, they feathered shut again. 

He held a hand to her cheek, gave her head a soft shake; prepared to continue the chest compressions, but as he curled forward and held his ear to her lips, he felt her breathing, shaky and weak against the cartilage shell. 

“She breathin’?” Simon asked bluntly, laden with apprehension. 

“Yeah,” John huffed, relief potent as liquor flooded hot into his chest and made his temples throb. 

“Good shit, cap’n,” Alex commended, releasing a puff of pent air, just as relieved as the lot of them. 

John nodded dismissively, hands on his knees, before he pushed himself to stand. He stood over the girl and hoisted her up with his hands under her arms, before delicately draping her over his shoulder.

“Gaz, help me with her, will you?” He grunted, before marching toward the stairs up to the superstructure. “You three — fun’s over. Get back to setting the pots. I’ll send Soap back out once he’s in his dries.”

“Aye aye,” Alex said facetiously, shaking out his hands as he and the others returned to the stack they had just tied down. 

“What’s the plan?” Kyle asked stiffly, in quick pursuit as John steamed up the stairs. 

“Gotta get her warm,” John said. 

“Yeah—” he agreed with a hesitant tone, “what d’you want me for?”

John’s eyes rolled into his skull. “You did a couple years of health science, didn’t you?” 

“One year,” Kyle corrected. 

John could have said that he wanted Gaz specifically because he was the ship’s assigned safety officer, or because he was the only man aboard with a university degree. But, in truth, he wanted him simply for the fact he was the least likely of all of his crewmen to make stripping the girl into something needlessly lascivious. 

He carted her to the head in steady stride, passing Johnny through the narrow corridor as he dried himself off with a towel around his neck. 

“She’s alive?” He asked hopefully. 

“Uh-huh,” John rumbled. 

Soap triple-smacked the veneer panel of the wall with a flat hand in excitement, all but bouncing off the ceiling with it. “Halle-fucken’-lujah! Need help warmin’ her up?” 

“No. Get your skins on and head back out to deck, Johnny, y’got more pots to drop.” 

Johnny groaned like a teenager, but he went off as he was told.

The head was small — enough room for a toilet, a shower, and a three-inch wide sink, not quite the floorspace to lay her down gracefully. John tore back the curtain and propped her up against the wall of the shower, nestling her into the corner so her head leaned against the perpendicular wall. 

No sense in wasting time. He clinically peeled the sodden fabric of her white dress up her thighs, lifting her limp leg to tug the skirt out from under her. 

“Christ—” Gaz grumbled, disquieted, he turned away. 

“Will y’hold her arms up for me?” John monotonously requested, uninterested in the boy’s reservations. 

Gaz sighed as he obeyed the order, taking her cold hands by the wrists and holding them above her head. John hiked up her dress without reservation, revealing the saturated bra and underwear she wore underneath, as he lifted it her arms up above her head. 

“This’s fucked up,” Gaz mumbled. 

“What is.” 

“Taking her clothes off,” he said, reluctance poignant. 

“You’d rather we let her freeze to death, eh?” John bit, not even dignifying the engineer’s aversion by turning to look at him. 

He tugged her flaccid body towards him, and her head fell against his shoulder — he reached under her arm into the space between her back and the shower wall, unclasping her bra with a single hand. 

“No,” Kyle acquiesced. “Do we really need to take off her underwear, though?”

“She’s not gonna get warm in wet knickers, is she,” John grumbled, frustration blossoming, releasing it in a sharp sigh. “Y’need to grow up, Garrick. Go and grab my jersey and a towel from the laundry, then.”

“Okay. Sure, yeah,” he agreed, marching out of the head like he might trip over in his haste. 

John bit down on nothing as he pulled the straps of the girl’s bra down her arms, adding it to the pile atop her drenched dress. Didn’t help that she was a lovely thing — pudding-soft curves, pretty little face — might lend an explanation to the young engineer’s discomfort, couldn’t reconcile the attraction he felt to a near-dead woman while she was incognisant of her nudity. 

John did not care, he had no qualms. 

A pragmatist, through and through. He felt no shame for admiring her as he leaned her back against the laminate wall, nipples grey-purple and hard as pebbles by virtue of her palpable hypothermia. Soft lips were slack, not as blue as they had been when she was fished out of the ocean, now that her blood was pumping again. 

He wasted no time ogling her, though, he was no reprobate. His only priority was getting her warm and awake. And that happened to involve hooking his fingers into the waistband of her knickers, saturated in seawater and cleaving fast to her skin. 

He hooked an arm around her to lift her from the shower floor, used the other hand to tug her underwear over the swell of her bottom before he set her back down to reel them down her thighs. 

Pretty cunt, too. Unshaven, how he liked them. 

He reached up for the shower head, held it in a fist as he switched on the water. Already nice and warm, preheated by the engine-powered calorifiers. He held the stream of warm water over her chest, watching as it cascaded over her breasts and flooded between her thighs. Didn’t care if he got himself wet in so doing. Checked her pulse every odd moment with the pad of a finger on her wrist, ensured her chest continued to rise and fall. 

Rubbed his free hand over her skin to scrub off all the salt; started modestly with her arms, shoulders, back — but was unhesitant in rinsing and scrubbing her armpits, down her belly, between her legs. Didn’t touch her pussy, though, even John felt that was a step too far. He simply rinsed it. Let the water run over her mons and channel down the cleft of her unaided. 

He tilted her head back and ran the warm stream over her hairline, careful not to let too much water pour down her face. He combed thick fingers through the tresses, scrunching her hair into a ball to wring out the brine before rinsing it out again. 

As he carded his fingers through her scalp, though, he felt a lump; just above her hairline, concealed by the locks. A squishy protrusion from the skull, with a frayed ridge through the centre of it. Only then did he see the diluted blood in the water that puddled at the bottom of the shower, originating from the ends of her saturated hair. 

Add that to the list of ailments, he thought. Poor wee girl. They’d need to tend to that. 

Kyle finally returned with a cautious knock on the door, a single knuckle. 

“D’you fall overboard, Garrick?” John murmured — he had been gone far longer than it should have taken to find the items he requested. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t figure out which fleece was yours.” 

John said nothing. 

“She warming up yet?” Gaz asked tightly, likely not even looking in the direction of the shower, now that she was entirely nude. 

The girl’s skin was now plush and pink under the heat of the water, and felt warm to the touch under the back of John’s hand; so with a satisfied nod he shut off the water and hooked the showerhead back into its fastening. 

He reached backward with a gesturing hand, and Gaz handed him the crisp towel he had brought from the laundry without a word. 

“Looks like she got hit in the head,” John commented, as he draped the towel over the girl's front, rubbing her down to get her dry. Arms, shoulders, armpits, thighs, feet. He was thorough. 

“Shit,” Gaz said morosely, half-hearted. Soft young man, soft in a way John was almost envious of. Sometimes he wondered if he had grown too rough around the edges, too abrasive for his own good. “What the fuck happened to ‘er?” 

“Not a clue,” John said. “Nothing good.” 

“That life raft was — that was non-standard,” Gaz pondered aloud. 

“Thought the same thing,” John replied, as he scrunched her hair in the towel, twisting it up to wring out the water. He was careful with the top of her head — dabbing her scalp gently, leaving dark red smears in the blue fibres. 

“Ferry capsized, maybe?” 

“We would’ve heard about a ship capsizing nearby,” John said. “‘Specially a passenger vessel. They’d have blasted the distress call out in every direction.” 

“Mh,” Gaz agreed. 

“She had no shoes on,” John remarked, tone sombre. “No gear, no jacket.” 

“Running away from something?” asked Gaz, picking up what John might have been suggesting. 

“Maybe,” John said, before hanging the towel around her back and hauling her up from the floor with an arm around her ribs. 

He hung her floppy arms over his shoulder, kept her body tight to him, the towel just long enough to conceal her buttocks from Gaz, sensitive lad. He kept her up with a forearm under her rear, bounced her to adjust. She was impossibly easy to lift; John could have carried her one-handed, if he were less concerned about avoiding brandishing her nudity around the ship. 

Gaz followed him out of the head, towards the galley. 

“She had no belongings with her, eh?” Gaz asked, “no wallet, nothing?” 

“No.” 

Kyle let out a long sigh, worry oozing from his every pore. “Don’t wanna imagine how long she was drifting for.” 

John nodded, as he sat her down on the bench seat of the dining table, the thin vinyl cushion squeaking underneath her. He dumped the towel, and grabbed his jersey from Gaz — one of his heavy Patagonia fleeces, fabric thick, plush like sheepskin, dark navy with a zip collar. He pulled it over her head, fed her arms through the long sleeves and adjusted it down her torso. It was long enough that it reached her mid-thighs, hands two-thirds of the way through the sleeves — big enough to conceal everything, and cozy enough to keep her warm. He pulled her hair out from inside the collar and lay it to one side over her shoulder. 

“Grab me the first aid kit,” John ordered dryly, as he leaned her against the seat, holding her head upright with a hand at the back of her skull. 

He fingered through her locks of damp hair, looking closely for the contusion that he felt ballooning out of her scalp — found it, eventually, dark purple and swollen, sticky burgundy blood coagulating around the open wound and gluing bits of hair together. 

“Think she fell?” Gaz asked, as he returned with the red polyester pouch after rummaging through the galley cabinets, unzipping and unfurling it. 

“S’there betadine in there?” John asked, before he had acknowledged the engineer’s question. “Hard to say, it looks rough.” 

Kyle handed him the little brown dropper of iodine solution, popping off the cap for him. “You don’t think someone hit her.” 

John’s jaw tightened. “If they did, they hit her bloody hard.” 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Gaz grumbled, upset, watching with his arms crossed as John tipped over the little bottle. He squeezed out several rust-brown drops, they landed squarely in the wound in her scalp, emulsifying with the tissue. “This’s all — just wrong.” 

“Least she’s alive,” John murmured, through a huff, as he put down the betadine. No use in attempting to bandage it, the laceration was small enough that it would heal on its own if left unbothered. 

“Wonder where her home is,” Gaz mused, tone dismal. 

“We’ll ‘ave to see what the bird says when she wakes up,” John said, laying the girl down on her side, tucking up her knees. 

“What if she doesn’t?” 

“She will,” John asserted as he stood, rapping an appreciative hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, will you? I need to get back to the bridge.” 

“Okay,” Gaz nodded tightly. 

“And get her a blanket,” John ordered on his way to the ladder. “Call me if anything changes, yeah?” 

“Will do, Captain.” 

You tasted salt on your tongue.

It was dark, and your body was so heavy — your neurons fired off to raise an arm, and all they mustered was the twitch of a finger. Skin felt warm and viscid, lacquered in a tepid layer of tar as though fully submerged in gooey black pitch, too thick to move around in.

Your eyes perceived nothing but deep, liquid burgundy, and the sparking of white-and-red stars that encroached on the borders of your vision, writhing and swirling in the abyss of your blindness. 

Still, salt on your tongue. 

It was foul, overpowering, all consuming — that brackish grit in every corner of your mouth, between your teeth, crystallising in the back of your throat. It filled your nose, stung where it adhered to the delicate mucosa of your nostrils, every breath hurt to take in. 

You could feel it in your lungs, too. Shards of salt embedded in your bronchioles, saline glutted alveoli, trachea plugged with viscous brine. 

Your diaphragm spasmed beyond your control, body seizing as you erupted into a coughing fit — wet and phlegmy, salty fluid gurgling in your chest and hucking out of your mouth with every ragged splutter, you almost choked on it as you heaved in as much air as your lungs could imbibe. 

Your eyes shot open, then, vision so blurry that you had to wrench them closed a few times before the membrane over your corneas began to dissipate. 

A rubbery cushion under the side of your head, fuzzy fabric enveloping your arms and chest, something scratchy and heavy over your legs. Warm, sore — you ached everywhere, every joint stiff, every muscle burning, every organ twisting and floundering inside you. 

Dizziness wracked through your head, brain swimming free within your skull, spinning around in circles and bouncing against the walls of its cavity as though you were being tipped forward and backward and forward again. 

Nausea swelled up quickly, filled you up to the ears and made your stomach cramp and contort — bile rose up your throat and burned on its way up, you leaned over the surface you lay on and let it spill out from your teeth. Hardly any vomit, merely an oozing stream of chartreuse bile that dripped in strings from the corner of your mouth. 

You heard a voice, a man’s voice, at first too disoriented to understand it. 

“Shit — oh my god, you’re—”

A hoarse groan escaped your chest in response, not a noise you made on purpose, as you tried to roll onto your back. 

“Are you okay?” He asked urgently, and suddenly you noticed a pair of knees under a table beside you, only as they shifted when the person stood. “Hey — you’re okay, you’re—”

You moaned again, squinting under the bright light above you, vision distorted by vertigo and brine. Tongue too fat to form any words yet. 

“You’re okay, let me — let me get you some water.” 

You heard the hurried thuds of boots away from you, and you rubbed your eyes with the heels of your palms, finally able to see properly once you opened your eyes again. Shakily pulled yourself upright with a hand on the table, muscles quivering so violently that they could barely hold you up — but fired adrenaline began to kick in, thumping out from your chest and buzzing in your fingertips as you glanced around the room, utterly alien to you. 

“Where…” you croaked, soaking in your surroundings. Panelled walls of honey oak, an ugly veneered table in front of you, you sat on its bench seat. A small circular window sat above the table, bolted around its borders, and a single light bulb hung from the ceiling. 

The room smelled like dish soap and body odour, fetid with the scent of an unwashed sponge and a hovering note of fish carcass. A small kitchen, as you turned your head around to check behind you — the man towered over a sink, you heard the hiss of running water. 

“Where am I?” You finally asked, finding your words, but your voice was as frayed as if you had swallowed glass.

The man turned then, and you did not recognise him. Not at all. A complete stranger, with a furrow in his brow, and an awkward smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

You bolted up from the seat then, tossing aside the blanket that rested on your knees, fight-or-flight reigniting your muscles and setting your heart into overdrive — your head spun with it, and your balance was completely off kilter, you had to continually readjust your feet to keep yourself upright. 

“Hey — hey, easy,” he said edgily, voice soft. 

“Who the fuck are you?” You barked, immediately defensive, you tried to keep your eyes pinned to him while you made note of your peripheral surroundings. 

“I’m — I’m sorry, I didn’t — I’m Gaz. Kyle. I’m Kyle.” 

You scowled at him, panting, hackles raised high as you shuffled away from the table. “I don’t know anyone called Kyle,” you hissed. “Or anyone called Gaz.” 

“We haven’t met before,” he said, body twisting to face you as you inched around him. 

He put down the glass of water he held in his hand, and that only further enkindled your terror. Now his hands were free. He could tackle you, if he wanted to. Tall man that he was, muscular under his black jersey, his big doe-eyes did nothing to soften you to him. 

“We found you in the water,” he tried to explain, “we thought you were dead. But we rescued you.” 

“The fuck do you mean, found me?” You spat, now approaching the kitchen, your eyes scoured around for something to grab. 

He could detect your scheming, inched closer to you on quiet feet, attempting to flank you. 

So you dashed — bolted towards the small cooktop, where a magnetic strip mounted on the wall held an array of kitchen knives. 

“Fuck—” He cursed, through teeth, failing to grab you in time before you snatched one by the handle, and held the blade in front of you with both hands. 

You jabbed it at him as you backed out of his reach, arms so shaky you almost dropped it — but you kept it tight, holding onto it with vicious devotion, as though dropping it would be your death sentence. 

He held up his hands, not in surrender, but as if he were attempting to settle a wild animal. “Okay, love, take it easy.” 

“Stay away from me,” you shouted, trembling, backing away cautiously. 

“Captain!” The man roared worriedly toward the ceiling, and you flinched. “Look, love, I’m not going to—”

“Fuck you,” you bit, before you spun on a heel and flew towards an archway. 

“Shit.” He cursed as you escaped, but he had not yet pursued you. 

You scurried down the narrow corridor, bare feet aching with every step, knife extended in front of you and prepared to slash at anything that got in your way. You were wobbling all over the place, as though the ground beneath you was rocking back and forth; you toppled into the wall on your right, yelping as you tried to get yourself upright again. 

You reached a great big industrial door, painted blue and with a tiny circular porthole too high for you to see through. It had a wheel in the centre of it, connected to a series of bars that spanned it from top to bottom. Not a door you had ever seen before, but you inexplicably knew to twist the wheel — left, first go, and the bars shrunk away from the top and bottom, the steel door unsealing with a clank. 

Now you heard the thuds of running boots, fast, growing louder, closer — you shouldered open the heavy door and leapt over the lip at the bottom, immediately blasted with an ice-cold wind that made you shrivel up and almost retreat back inside. 

The sky was stark black, and you were blinded by floodlights. You stumbled towards the railing, hanging onto it for dear life as you almost slipped over on the frigid metal grating under your feet — it felt like barbed wire on your soles, and you whimpered with every step. 

Your fierce desperation to escape trumped any pain, though, you burned hot as a boiler, thundering adrenaline keeping you aflame. You spun your head around to determine where you were; a pitch-dark abyss surrounded you on all sides — no sky, no ground, no lights on the horizon, nothing. You peered over the balustrade and realised then that you were on a ship, now seeing the building-tall waves that cascaded over the floor below, bedizened in ropes and grates and metal cages and buoys, populated with a few people in neon jackets. 

“Hey—” Came a bark from behind you, and you shrieked — immediately scurrying towards a steep staircase, pole-narrow, almost toppling down it as you bounced to every second step. 

The floor of the deck consisted of slippery water-logged wood, and the soles of your feet struggled to find any grip as you sprinted across it. You weren’t even sure where you were running, just away, from the man who had followed you — but it became quickly clear you had no escape, and the orange-jacketed men on the deck had turned their heads to spot you.

“Oh, fuck—” One barked. 

Another erupted in bewildered laughter; “She breathes, alright!” 

“Oi — girl—” Called one. 

“C’mere, hen!” Shouted another, Scottish. “We don’t bite!” 

You sobbed as you ran, ravaged by a fear so potent it made your heart shrivel up like a raisin — you were sprayed by a crashing wave, blinded by the salt, and your feet slipped out from under you. Collided into the hard ground with a slam, a bounce, you skidded across the wood and your knife tumbled out of your grip, sliding out of reach. 

Only as you flopped around on the greasy floor did you realise your nudity under the sweater you were wearing, bare thighs slick with cold sea water, ass bitten by the arctic wind. You scrambled to get yourself back up, crawling on your hands and knees towards your only weapon — until a thick arm hooked under your belly, swiftly hoisting you up from the ground with yank, and you squealed. 

“Easy, now, woman—” Gritted the man, the hoarse growl of an old dog, and he held you flat to his chest. “In such a hurry to go back overboard, eh?” 

You wailed, attempted to buck yourself free from him while your feet dangled off the floor, but he only secured his grip with another mammoth arm. The other men on the deck approached hastily, concern and confusion etched in their cold-ruddy faces, looking between each other as though waiting for somebody to decide what to do with you. 

“Let me go,” you sobbed, paltry voice broken by hiccups, you spluttered and cried and kicked when you could muster it. “Please, please—”

“Put her down, Nik, for fuck’s sake.” Came the roar of another man, approaching from further away, an authoritative fury that your captor swiftly obeyed. 

You landed on your bare feet onto the wet floor with a squelch, and a sob, but he kept a firm grip of your shoulder to prevent you from fleeing. You wouldn’t have, though — now, it was clear to you — there was nowhere to run. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Yelled the evident commander, “All of you? Christ, look, you’ve scared the shit out of her.” 

You saw him, then, as he stood in front of you — towering, heaving, you felt the vibrations of his heavy feet on the deck with each step. Broad shoulders cloaked in a rugged navy jacket, the hood pooled around his neck, a pair of roomy yellow overalls strapped over the waterproof layer. A black knitted beanie sat on the top of his head, folded just above his furrowed brows. His lips were in a snarl under his dense beard while he addressed the other men, but they softened into a neutral line when he looked at you. 

There was something familiar about him, not that you could place it; a face you might have seen in a dream, or crossing the street once. A face you could imagine with a glowing light beaming from behind it, as though the moon eclipsing a sun. You had no memory to tie to it, and yet, it settled you slightly. 

“Y’alright, love,” he said, voice honey-warm and thick with gravel, he held a hand in your direction and gestured to follow him. “Come back in, will you? Too cold for you out here, eh?” 

You sipped a shaky breath, shivering in the bitter wind, glancing at the men surrounding you from under your brow. Returning to the man that gestured for you, you gave him a feeble nod, and waddled in his direction. 

“Tha’s it, c’mon,” he said gently, hovering a hand at the small of your back. He turned over his shoulder to shout at the others; “You lot have more pots to set, don’t you? Get back to fuckin’ work.” 

He guided you gingerly towards the stairs, close behind you to ensure you didn’t slip over on the way up. Opened the weathertight door to let you in, but walked in front of you down the same corridor you had escaped through. You held your arms tight around yourself, left soggy footprints along the vinyl floor. 

“Got yourself all wet again,” he said, an edge of irritation in his tone. 

“D’you get her?” Came a call from the kitchen you had awoken in, and the man — Kyle — appeared at the end of the hallway. You froze. 

“Go finish your work, Gaz, y’still got an hour on the clock.” He ordered flatly, and Kyle looked at you past him. 

“Yes, Captain,” he grunted disdainfully, shouldering past the man in front of you, and squeezing around you where you pressed yourself into the wall. “Hope you’re feeling okay,” he mumbled sheepishly, before disappearing down a flight of stairs. 

The captain looked back at you, flicked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “C’mon, let's get you dry.” 

The kitchen was much smaller than you remembered it being not a few minutes prior — cozy, much warmer than outside but still not quite warm.

“Siddown,” he said from the kitchen, not as forceful as a command but just as compulsory. You gingerly sat yourself on the same bench you had woken up on, watching him carefully, lips sealed. 

He approached you with a tall cup of water, held by the rim with the tips of his fingers. “Drink it.”

You took the cup timidly, but once it was in your grip you did not hesitate; tipped it into your mouth and skulled it down desperately, a dribble escaping the corner of your mouth. You had no idea how thirsty you were until fresh water touched your lips — fresh, not salty — you panted like a dog when the cup was empty, half-quenched. 

He took it from you, filled it back up at the sink before bringing it back, and you drank the second cupful just as quickly. 

“Better?” He asked, and you nodded, wiped your mouth with your hand. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly. 

You watched as he grabbed a light blue towel from the tabletop, and for a moment you thought he might hand it to you — instead he crouched in front of you, and took your leg by the ankle. 

You immediately chirped and attempted to tug your foot free on reflex, but his grip was firm; entire hand wrapped tight around your ankle, he gave you a tut. 

“Settle down,” he snipped, resting the sole of your foot on his collarbone. “I’m only dryin’ you off.” 

Said with such certainty that you began to doubt your instinct that it was inappropriate for him to put his hands on you — tempered by the feeling that he knew what he was doing, that he was only taking care of you. 

He looked at you impatiently until your tensed muscles eased, before he nodded in satisfaction. He hooked your foot over his shoulder so that your ankle rested on his trapezius, before he bunched the towel up in a fist and ran it up the length of your leg. 

You leaned on your arms behind you, heart in your throat, beating so fast that you could hear it buzzing in your ears. 

He was focused, wiping the seawater and muck off your skin, up and down your thighs, down the underside of your leg. 

“Took a tumble, did you?” He asked plainly, dabbing a fresh graze on your knee with the towel, making you flinch with the sting. 

“Yeah,” you said meekly; you were sure it would bruise eventually, but it was largely painless for the time being. 

He tutted you, but continued, wiped down your calf and dried off your foot last; he was fastidious about it, pushed the fibers of the towel between your toes, engulfed your foot in the cotton, scrubbed it along the sole of your foot and your toes curled with the tickle.

He set that leg down once he was done with it, and wordlessly demanded the other with a curl of his fingers. 

Confounding yourself, you did as you were told, and offered him your other leg; he repeated the procedure, resting your foot on his shoulder and scrubbing your leg with the crunchy towel, unabashedly wiping up to the top of your thigh, between your legs, under your knees. 

It didn’t escape your notice that you were naked underneath the jersey, and if he were to look a little higher his eyes would be square with your pussy. The thought made you tighten, and he gave you a disapproving glance when he felt it — but he finished with the other foot, and set your leg free again. 

“Thank you,” you muttered, tight-lipped, dizzy with confusion. 

“D’you want a new jersey?” He asked as he stood, swiping a hand over the sleeve shoulder, where seaspray had beaded on the outside of the fleece. 

“I’m okay,” you said timidly, tucking your legs together. 

He nodded, dropping the towel back on the table. “Alright, pet,” he said. “Let’s get you a cuppa, yeah?” 

You were quiet, but he busied himself in the tiny kitchen anyway — followed the rumbling of a water boiler and the slosh of hot water, the opening and closing of cabinets and drawers, the tinking of a spoon in a teacup.

“Hope you take it with milk and sugar,” he said. “You’re getting it whether you like it or not.” 

“That’s fine,” you croaked. 

“Good girl,” he said, as he returned with a brown glass mug and set it down on the table in front of you. “Gotta get some sugar in you. You remember the last time you ate?”

You shook your head. 

“Mh, well, let’s get you fed.” 

“I’m not — I’m not hungry right now,” you said hesitantly, and when a divot pulled in his brows, you clarified; “don’t think I can keep much down yet.” 

He nodded. “No problem, love,” he answered, with a pacifying grin. “How’s the head?”

“Where am I?” You asked pointedly, cutting to the chase, unwilling to take a sip of your tea out of lingering suspicion. 

He sat down across from you, landing in the bench seat with a grunt, interlocking his fingers on the surface of the table. His glare was scrutinising, albeit gentle, as though checking rather than inspecting. 

“You’re aboard the Iron Tide,” he said candidly. “We’re fishing for crabs in the North Sea.” 

“Iron Tide?” 

“That’s the name of the ship, love,” he answered, a little patronising. “I’m her skipper, I’m Jonathan. You met Gaz, he’s our engineer — he gave you a fright, I bet, but he’s a good lad.” 

You nodded edgily, looking askance at him. “Okay… but, how did I get here?” 

He smiled sombrely at that, crow’s feet pinching in the corners of his tired eyes. An oceanic blue, you noticed, little round seas reflecting the light that bounced off the table beneath him. 

“Was hopin’ you could tell me that, pet,” he gibed, nodding at your mug. “Drink your tea.” 

You took a sip, as you were told. Just cooled enough to sip with a slurp, blanketing your salty tongue, warm and saccharine, hot as it went down your throat. Earl grey. The taste made you feel tucked in, as though a blanket were over your legs, a pillow behind your head — but the murky memory was as fleeting as it was vague. You swallowed it with a sigh, and he looked pleased. 

“So?” 

“So what?” You asked, with a frown. 

“How’d you end up on the high seas, hm?” 

“I—” You cut yourself off, as you stared into the steaming surface of your tawny-coloured tea. 

Words danced at the tip of your tongue, amorphous and flavourless, nothing you could place. Notions that, if you were to reach for them, would drift away, or turn to smoke. 

You didn’t have an answer. 

“I don’t know,” you said, voice shaky, glancing at him with worry knitting in your brows as though he might be able to remind you. 

“You don’t remember?” He asked carefully. 

A piteous heat swelled beneath your eyes, tears welling from their ducts and pooling in your eyes, your vision went blurry with it. You shook your head. 

“S’alright, pet,” he said, fixing a hand to your wrist across the table. “It’ll come back to you. Do you remember anything at all? If you were on a boat, what country you’re from?” 

Again you shook your head, sniffling, you wiped an errant tear with the soft sleeve of the oversized fleece you have no memory of putting on. “No.” 

Concern cracked through his stoic expression, and it only made you more upset.

“Do you know your name, love?” 

You vacuumed in a slow and trembling breath, eyes bouncing between your hands, as if they might hold the answer. You could think of names — Jessica, Lucy, Nina, Anna, Rebecca — but they were only that, random names floating about in the air around you, and you could not pin any of them as your own with any certainty. 

“No,” you eked, followed swiftly by a sob, despite your effort to swallow it. 

He exhaled, long and beleaguered, stroking the back of your hand with his colossal thumb. Hands as big as saucers, calloused and molten hot to the touch. Made your hand look like a pixie’s underneath it.  

“Don’t fret, eh?” He said, failing to comfort you. “Y’got plenty of time to remember. Just finish your tea.” 

“What do you mean?” You asked weakly, plenty of time comment making you uneasy. “Aren’t you going to take me to — back to land?” 

He smiled, bemused, as he released your wrist with a pat and leaned back against the bench seat, hanging an arm insouciantly over the back. 

“Not heading all the way back to port yet, love,” he said frankly. “We only left a couple days ago. Got a lot more crabs to catch.” 

“I’m — I have to stay on this boat until you’re done fishing?” You asked, fighting back the tears that threatened another cascade. 

He tilted his head. “This’s my job. If I don’t get crabs, I don’t get paid. Neither do the other lads, ‘n they won’t be letting that happen.” 

You pouted, lip quivering and face scrunching, and he let out a huff. 

“Look, sweetheart, what would I even do with you if I took you back now?” He asked, tone rigid. “Y’got no ID, no passport, no papers, nothing on you but that bloody frock. We don’t even know what country you belong to. You’d get snatched up by the authorities and tossed around immigration services until your head is on backwards.” 

You sniffled, wiped your cheek with your sleeve. You had no argument, and even if you had the energy to muster one, you had no knowledge of how such a system worked, or where you would possibly go if they allowed you free movement. You’re sure you’d have a house somewhere, a family, someone out there must be looking for you…

The thought made you cry again, head falling from your shoulders and landing in your hands, you sobbed unremittingly into the dense fleece. 

Jonathan sighed at that, evidently growing impatient, but he pushed himself to stand — he was suddenly next to you, planting himself on the bench with his thigh against yours, and he draped an arm around your shoulder. 

“S’alright,” he crooned, voice as deep and rumbling as an engine, and you found yourself curling into him on instinct. Tucked up under his arm, head on his chest, a warm hand rested on the side of your head and smoothed down your hair. “We’ll sort it out.” 

“I don’t even kn-know where my home is,” you blubbered into him, muffled by his jacket, still speckled with beads of sea mist. “Or if — if I’ve got a family, or a husband—”

“Y’look a little young for one o’ those,” he remarked, with a chortle. 

“What if I don’t remember anything? Ever?” You cried, and he stroked the shell of your ear with his calloused thumb, fingers woven in your hair. 

“None o’ that,” he grumbled, you couldn’t determine if he was rocking you or if it was simply the motions of the boat tipping over the waves. “No wallowing on my ship. Keep your chin up, and you’ll be fine.” 

You whimpered, but nodded, and he petted your head like a cat. 

“We got another nine or ten days at sea,” he said, comforting hand retreating from you, resting on his lap. Kept his heavy arm coiled around you, though, and you were daftly grateful for it. He patted you on the far shoulder with a stiff hand. “You’re a tough girl, yeah?”

“I dunno,” you sniffled, sitting yourself upright and reeling away from him. He released you, then, arms crossing over his chest instead. 

“Well you survived God knows how long floating around in the North Sea, pet, I’d call that pretty tough.”

You attempted to compose yourself, sucking deep a breath and wiping down your face with your sleeves. Hoped that whoever’s fleece it was didn’t care about tears and snot being smeared over the cuffs. 

“Is there somewhere for me to sleep?” You asked cautiously, in an attempt to come to terms with reality — nine or ten nights of sleeping on a fishing boat. It made you sick to think about. 

He curled his lips as he thought for a moment. “You can sleep in my bed,” he said. “Skipper’s cabin is a lot nicer than the crew berths, I’ll tell you that.”

You blinked at him, uncertain — it was unsettlingly vague whether that meant he was offering you the bed to yourself. 

“Or you can ask one of the lads to share a bunk with them, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

You shook your head hastily, and he cracked a grin. “No, thank you, skipper’s cabin sounds good, please.”

“Alrighty,” he concurred, with a nod, the deal done. “Sleepy already, eh?”

You nodded sheepishly — for the most part, you just wanted to be alone, somewhere quiet and enclosed, out of sight. But you were utterly drained, left ravaged by receding adrenaline, body battered and bruised. Curling up in a bed sounded luxurious, and heaven only knows how long it had been since you slept in one. 

“Y’only been awake for twenty minutes,” he joked. “And you’ve hardly touched your tea.”

He flicked his head towards the mug, and his imperious expression made clear that he wanted you to finish it. 

So, if only appease him, you clutched the mug and tipped it into your mouth, sucking down the now luke-warm tea in five hefty gulps. Licked your lips when you were done, and dumped the mug back on the table. 

“Happy?” 

He smiled wide, let out a haughty chuckle. “Nicely done,” he said. “Alright, then, let’s get you tucked in.”

He pushed himself to stand with a grunt, finally freeing you from behind the table, and you followed him. 

“Y’sure you don’t want a bite?” 

You shook your head. “Maybe in the morning, if that’s okay.” 

He laughed as he made his way toward an upward staircase. “Morning’s fine, but I’m not having you starve yourself.”

“I won’t.”

As you climbed to the top of the stairs you reached the bridge — a large control station with many screens, all showing different radars and panels and numbers. The wheel was there, too, a spinning chair with a sweater thrown over the back of it tucked in front of it. Sea spray made pattering rain-like noises on the thick windows, but very little light came in from them. The air was thick with cigar smoke and terpenic air freshener, the everpresent ghost of saltwater lingering in between. 

“Just through here,” he instructed, and you followed him around to the other side, through a door, and down a shorter staircase. 

There you were met with a bedroom; it was intimate, stuffed full of bags and boxes and papers. A fold-out desk jutted out from an warm-wood wall, covered in maps weighed down by protractors and a drawing compass. Coats hung over hooks, boots lined up by the door. 

A cot bolted to the wall, perhaps a king single, unmade — a thick duvet with a red-and-navy plaid blanket tossed overtop, heavy wool that you could ascertain would be itchy without needing to touch it. A single pillow in a navy pillowcase, cream-coloured fitted sheet likely toned off-white due to age or overuse. 

It was rich with musk in there, the single porthole window not able to be opened, and the heady scent made you dizzy. You imagined it was only a marginally diluted version of the same scent you’d get pressing your nose into his armpit. It was only tempered by traces of toothpaste and cigarettes, and the potent smell of Imperial Leather bar soap. Daft that you remembered that, and little else. 

“Not a five-star hotel, eh?” He gibed, nudging you with his elbow. You didn’t have a response, at first, and he chided you; “Don’t be a sourpuss. No room for being fussy here, love.”

“No — this is perfect, thank you, I’ll sleep anywhere.” 

He smiled and crossed his arms, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Alright, well, you get yourself comfortable then,” he said. “Loo’s just through there, if you need it. Use my toothbrush if you like, just give it a wash after, eh?”

You almost grimaced at the thought of sharing his toothbrush, but the lingering bile and salt in your mouth had you looking forward to the taste of toothpaste. 

“Need anything else, pet?” He asked, still gruff. “Paracetamol? I can get you something else to sleep in—”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you insisted, perhaps too plainly eager to get him out of the room. 

“Alright, love,” he said. “G’night, then. I’ll just be up there, still got some steering to do.”

“Okay.”

With a firm nod, he turned around and headed out of the cabin, shutting the door behind him. 

You let out a pent breath once you were alone, potent exhaustion suddenly crashing into you like a train. You stumbled into the tiny ensuite — a small toilet and a sink, the shower head jutting out from the wall above the commode — rinsed his frayed toothbrush under the tap and globbed on some colgate. 

Brushing your teeth made you feel marginally human again, and you spent a good five minutes scrubbing out every crevice of your mouth. You washed it afterwards, like he said, and stuck it to the wall with the suction cup on the back of it. 

There was no mirror, and you found yourself glad of it. You couldn’t yet confront the fact that you did not remember what you looked like, an existential dread that simmered in your belly, but too tired to churn up. 

Only then, as you glanced at his bar of soap (it was Imperial Leather, as you had guessed), did you realise how clean you felt — you wondered if he had washed you, and now you were certain that he had changed you. The thought made you shiver, and you tried not to think about it. 

His bed was squeaky underneath you, and the mattress so soft that you sunk deep into it; the weight of him permanently embedded in the springs, you settled into the divot like a cat, curled up towards the wall. It was bitterly cold in the cabin, much like the rest of the ship, so you tugged the blankets up your cheek, rubbing your icy feet together to warm them up. 

The sheets reeked of him, of man and musk, the pillow smelt of scalp and salt. It was unusually comforting. Such a human smell, and as you tucked yourself under his layers of blankets it swirled around in the front of your head and made you dozy. 

Sleep called to you, dark and ebbing, and you slipped willingly beneath the surface. 

You were roused, only slightly, at the sound of a door handle. 

Not alert enough to open your eyes, you still floated deep in slumber, soft and warm. Your consciousness ascended close enough to the shallows to acknowledge the opening of a door, the footsteps across a hollow floor, but the sounds conveyed no meaning to you. 

Sleep pulled you downward but you floated languidly back up at each noise; the fizz of running water, the scrubbing of brushing teeth, the spit of toothpaste.  

A zip being undone, velcro being ripped open, boot laces being untied. The clunk of a shutting door, a cough, a grunt, and you finally broke the surface. 

Now entirely awake, you remained completely still — not out of fear, you didn’t think — perhaps in the hope that he would leave you alone to keep sleeping, absolutely not ready to get up yet. He made no effort to be quiet, as he dumped his boots by the door, rummaged around in his belongings for a moment, coughed again. 

You kept your nose close to the wall, eyes barely open. He flicked off a light switch and the room was abruptly drowned in darkness. 

The blanket was lifted from you, then, and you flinched — with the cold air nipping at your skin, you realised your long jersey had been hiked up in your sleep, and your bare bottom half was starkly exposed. 

You froze, curled up, tongue in your teeth; until a sudden weight plummeted into the mattress, bouncing you up before sinking deep behind you, causing you to slide into the dip.  

With a grunt and a huff the blanket was pulled back up over you, scratchy wool brushing your cheeks. A titanic arm hooked over your stomach, and you squeaked — he paid no mind, yanking you backwards until your back was flush with his chest, ass nestled into his lower belly, his thighs tucked up behind yours. 

You held your breath, skittish, not yet daring to move; he let out a deep sigh into the back of your head, warm breath seeping through your hair and into your skull. 

His entire body was a furnace, burning hot, and you felt yourself melting into him whether you liked it or not. A mammoth hot water bottle, wrapped around and behind you, keeping you soothingly warm. 

His hand ventured nowhere untoward, arm only hanging listlessly over the divot of your waist, forearm tucked into your chest. He felt clothed against you, sweatpants and a thermal on. 

There was something wrong about it — something off, a survival instinct that buzzed around you, humming like a mosquito, a ringing in your ear, annoying and persistent. 

But his pyretic warmth made you lightheaded, so comfortable tucked into him that it felt like you were already dreaming. 

With a heavy blink, and a deflating breath, you sunk deep into him and let slumber swallow you whole once again. 

[rebelfell]

a public affair┃e.m.

eddie munson x fem!reader

wanted to try out this idea for an amoral/unscrupulous reader and this is what came of it. I know that’s not everyone’s bag, so feel free to just keep on trucking ✌🏻thanks, anyway!

18+, MDNI┃ 2.9k

cw: cheating (with a twist, but you didn’t hear that from me), piv sex (public-ish), and some general meanness.

smut starts directly under the cut.

It was all so familiar.

The far corner of the Hawkins High parking lot, desolate and abandoned with school having let out over an hour ago. The bench seat in Eddie’s van squeaking as you slipped onto his lap and your knees found their home on either side of his hips. His hands gripping your waist roughly, sliding them back to squeeze the globes of your bare ass as he stretched them apart.

You hummed pleasurably at the feeling of cool air hitting your soaking pussy, your hand dipping into his undone jeans to free his hot length and swipe his tip through your folds. His head fell back, dark curls cascading over the back of the seat.

Chest heaving, muscles twitching as you kissed the tattoos along his collar bone, his breath only stuttered more as you aligned his cock with your entrance and sank down on it slowly.

“Oh, fuck,” Eddie gasped, head jerking up to look at you, hand coming up to cradle the side of your face. “Jesus Christ, you feel so fucking good...”

“I know,” you smirked at him, eyes darkening as you began in a slow, almost mercilessly so, grind down on him—every drag of his skin against your walls another stoke to a burgeoning flame.

The sensation of him filling you was as exquisite as ever. It even sounded the same as when you and he were in school and doing this in between classes, during lunch, at the end of the long day—whenever you could sneak away to steal a few sacredly sacreligious moments.

Heavy breathing, grunts and gasps and moans, the squish of your swollen clit grinding against the unruly thatch of wiry hair at the base of his cock, quickly being coated in your slick. 

Even the girl whose back he was going behind to be with you instead was the same.

She was older now, same as you and him. Selflessly volunteering her precious time to help with the Tiger’s cheerleading squad. Eddie was here to pick her up and you had spotted him leaning against the hood of his van, lit cigarette dangling out of his mouth, legs crossed at the ankles, the spitting image of his younger self during any one of his multiple Senior years.

And much like you were all those years ago, you were drawn together like a pair of self-destructive magnets. It didn’t take so much as a quiet ‘hey’ from you as you walked up to have him falling all over himself to yank open the side door, pulling you inside. You had barely gotten started and already the windows were fogging up, dewy beads of sweat glistening on your skin.

Eddie’s hands squeezed tighter, molding your yielding flesh, grabbing handful after handful of you, unable to get enough. Your eyes drifted over the van’s interior, cataloging the evidence of her. Soft white sweater draped across the passenger seat. A green scrunchie on the floor, lost amongst the candy wrappers, empty chip bags and other discarded rubbish. A tube of sticky, pink lip gloss in the cup holder—the antithesis of the dark red, venomous lipstick you always wore.

Red that was now smeared across your chin as he pushed two of his fingers in your mouth. 

You sucked on his long digits, taking them down to the knuckle until you gagged. Eddie watched, captivated by the tip of your tongue flicking and swirling over his chunky silver rings, the metallic taste reminding you of the times you bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

That was just how you were. All bark, all bite.

When you were together—really together—it never worked. If there was no excitement, no thrill, nothing at stake…you got bored. Restless. All your excess energy wound up funneled into your frustrations you took out on one another, leaving you fighting more often than fucking.

Besides, you always wanted him more when you couldn’t have him. He was never more enticing.

You didn’t like making him a cheater and he didn’t like cheating—it wasn’t his nature. But if this was the only way he could be with you, then that was just how it had to be. Part of you liked taking something from her, but Eddie was yours.

Even when he was with someone else.

He drew his fingers from between your lips and traced a line over your chin, the side of your neck, in between your breasts, down the length of your torso until they settled between your legs. His spit slick digits began to circle your clit as you worked up to a bounce, ass cheeks slapping his thighs, the fat of them rippling with the force.

“Jesus, fuck—yeah, that’s it, right there—”

You moaned loudly at the feeling of his fingers circling in time with his thrusts in that expert way only he has been able to master. Your end rushed towards you like a freight train and you dug your nails as hard as you could into the meat of his shoulders as you came all over his lap.

A low, satisfied sigh released from deep in your chest as your pleasure crests and ebbs, leaving you shivering with aftershocks as he watched you raptly. Mouth hanging fully open, he squeezed at your waist tight enough to leave ten tender little ovals where the tips of his fingers gripped you.

Between your legs, you swore you could feel every pulse of every vein in his cock as he tried desperately not to come. You slowed back down, returning to your borderline diabolical pace.  

Eddie literally whimpered with every slow slide and tight squeeze around him. Pitiful.

“Think she’ll taste me on your cock later?” you asked him, voice dropping to a sinister growl.

Eddie’s hips stuttered, caught off guard by the question. His rounded eyes darted between your fiery gaze and the mess soaking his coarse hair, strings of it stretching between your centers like slick and shiny spiderwebs, your folds leaving a creamy ring at the base of his length. 

“Wh-huh?” He blinked back up at you, hazy and incoherent, lost in watching your bodies move.

“No, maybe not,” you answered yourself with a sneer. “I’ll bet she doesn’t even suck your cock, does she? Little Miss Perfect probably never had to get on her knees for a guy in her life.”

Eddie’s jaw ticked, and the sight sent a jolt of electricity running up your spine. You leaned in closer, pinning him down with your stare, daring him to tell you you were wrong. Which he didn’t.

“But I know you eat her pussy like a good little boy,” you chuckled. “Make her come all over that handsome face…you think she can tell you wish it was me? How I make you beg to do it?”

His face burned at the way you were talking, head swirling with the image of you pressing a high heel into his chest to keep him at the foot of the bed, stopping him from crawling forward to wrap your legs around his head. He tried to look away, but you pinched his chin in between your thumb and index, tipping his face to keep him looking straight ahead, at you in the eye.

Eddie whimpered again, his teeth digging into his bottom lip until the plush pink skin glowed white. His pupils are blown, his heart pounding so hard in his chest it’s like you can see it trying to jump out of his ribcage. You’ve stopped moving now, just letting him rut into you like some kind of mindless beast. Surrendering to his basest instincts, thinking only take, take, take—

He started to thrust harder, faster, lifting his ass off the seat and gripping your waist to slam you down to meet every one. The movements grew sloppy and uneven, his jaw going slack and his eyes scrunching shut, his brows drawn into a tight pinch and his plush pink lips trembling.

And you would never admit this, but it’s the most gorgeous he’s ever looked in his life.

He goes limp as he comes, as if his bones had turned to soup, and slumped back into the seat. “Oh, sh-shit,” he groaned, gasping for breath like he just sprinted from the cops. “That was…”

You smirked at his stunned, dumbfounded face and nodded. “Yeah, really,” you chuckled.

With a soft grunt, you sat up to let his spent cock slip out of you, but Eddie wrapped his arm around your back to hold you in place. Your pussy walls throbbed around him in time with your heart, beating furiously even though it should be tapering back off to normal by now.

Your eyes fell to his chest and the guitar pick that dangled on his necklace. A second one hangs on the ball chain next to the red and black one he’s worn every day of his life since he was thirteen. He’s never said it’s for you, but it’s difficult to imagine who else the colors could represent. 

Sickly bright neon green swirled with murky gray—almost black. Toxic. Hazardous.

His free hand comes up to brush his knuckles along the back of your cheek, and then he rubs the pad of his thumb under your lips to wipe the lipstick he smeared on your chin. The whole time, his eyes are fixated on your face. Wide and round in that openly, painfully besotted way of his.

He inhaled sharply as you swallowed, fighting the urge to squirm on his lap as he breathed out.

“You’re…so beautiful.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it, not by a long shot. But it’s been a long time since he said it like that. Too soft, too adoring. It’s like something out of a fucking fairytale and that’s wrong on so many levels. Because you aren’t the beautiful princess in this scenario, you’re the evil queen. 

The one who can’t stop taking bites of the apple you poisoned.

“Shut up,” you muttered. Eyes rolling. Turning from him so he can’t see the fresh sheen of tears.

It’s meant to be teasing. Flippant. But your throat is too tight and it comes out too bitter, making his face flicker with hurt he buries just as quickly as it emerged. He knew it was too much. Too far.

And this time when you pulled away, he let you.

You adjusted your skirt that had been rucked up to the middle of your torso, making no moves to look around for the underwear you’d shed in such a hurry. Because would it really be the worst thing in the world if you just…left them behind?

Didn’t you deserve a breadcrumb of your own?

As if he could read the fiendish thoughts running through your head, Eddie pointedly cleared his throat and you turned to see him holding out his hand with your panties dangling off his finger. 

With a chiding smile and a thanks purred under your breath, you took them back.

“You seeing her tonight, then?” you asked, re-buttoning your blouse while Eddie tucked himself back inside his jeans. He blew out a long puff of air, watching his own hands fastening his belt.

“I’m supposed to,” he said quietly, “but I think I could be convinced otherwise.”

You pushed up on your knees, slithering towards him with a devious smile spreading your lips.

“Since when do you need convincing?”

Eddie just shrugged. He leaned in, letting his lips hover near yours but never quite allowing them to meet. You surged forward and he pulled back just in time, leaving you chasing his mouth.

“I could always use a little more,” he told you with a leading smirk, flashing one of his canines.

You scoffed at that and gripped him by his shirt collar, yanking him in for a punishing kiss.

Eddie lit a fresh cigarette, a slight tremor still running through his hand as he tried to keep it steady. With a sudden rush of shame, he noticed the red smudges on the skin around his rings and hastily tried to rub them off just as the double doors leading out of the gymnasium opened.

“Sorry, we went over,” she told him, eyes flashing apologetically, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

“Nah,” Eddie said, holding up his barley-smoked cigarette, “only about this long.”

She chuckled lightly and twisted her fingers behind her back. It’s all still a bit awkward as she approaches, unsure exactly how she’s supposed to be around him now. As usual, he put her right at ease, smiling as he asked how practice went and started heading for the van.

“Thank you for still picking me up,” she said, glancing up at him shyly as they strode across the white lines in the parking lot. “My car should be out of the shop by the end of this week.”

Eddie simply shrugged and slipped his arm around her shoulder on the off-chance you were still watching. Smiling like that capital-B capital-T Big Talk they had last week never even happened.

As far as you were concerned, it hadn’t.

“It’s no prob,” he said. “Just ‘cos we didn’t work out, I wasn’t gonna leave you in the lurch.”

She nodded back, shrugging her shoulders under the weight of his arm just as he reached for the passenger side door and pulled it open.

“You’re a real prince, Eddie,” she told him gently, “And someday, someone is gonna see that.”

Eddie just nodded tightly, offering her his hand.

Maybe she was right. Maybe he was a prince. One who only wanted to run away with the evil queen.

Across the lot, you seethed at them through your windshield, watching as he held out his hand to help her climb gracefully into her seat. In your hand, the cigarette you’d lit and forgotten smoldered as ash dangled off its end.

You jerked violently as it fell to hit your thigh and sparks scattered as you slapped it away. Hissing sharply at the pain you stubbed it out, ducking your head down as his van sped by.

You didn’t know why you bothered hiding.

if you liked it, I’m glad and love to hear what you think. If it’s not for you no harm, no foul 🥰 Thank you for reading.

Love you, mean it ⛸️

[zepskies]

TASTE

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Vampire!Reader

Summary: It’s a devastating hunger. He finds you, at his own risk.

AN: Surprise! Here’s a short drabble for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! (Moodboard created by Liane!) 💜🖤❤️

Word Count: 900

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, spiciness, set circa season 6, little twist ending…

A tease, a whisper of heated breath, a soft streak of cherry red lipstick drawing a lazy path to his ear; your lips brush against his jawline.

“Dean.”

His breath hitches. Perhaps it’s a reaction to the way you say his name, a sultry beckoning and a plea all at once, like a heady sip of Merlot somehow scarring down the throat.

Perhaps it’s the way you’ve caught him. He clears his throat.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, sweetheart,” he intones.

You can hear every uptick beat of his heart while his big hands find an achingly familiar stronghold on your parted thighs. You’ve always admired the strength in his hands, and the way he can move you even without their talents—with just his lips, his voice, his eyes.

He’s found you in this hovel. Deep down, you knew he would eventually. You have him trapped beneath you on this dingy couch, your long nails biting into chipped leather instead of his skin. You’re the one who’s stronger now. And no matter how many warnings blare like a fiery lashing in your mind, you can’t help yourself. You want him more than ever.

It’s a devastating hunger.

For every cell that no longer bleeds red inside you, there’s a demand for more. You crave his taste, now in more ways than one. It scares you. This scares you, more than you’ve ever been scared of anything—even though you’re the one who’s in control, grabbing his face with a slender hand. Your fingertips press into his jaw, digging firmly enough into his stubble-covered cheeks to have the jade of his eyes solely on you.

Your eyes are different now. Darker, sharper, a phantom haze of violet and crushed roses. You see the way he takes in your face, trying to find something recognizable in you besides your body.

“You shouldn’t have,” you finally reply, though there’s hesitation in your voice. Conflict. Pain. Need. A small vulnerability, slight tremble. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

And yet, that deep pit of empty, vicious craving deep in your core compels you to move, to take what you need.

“I think we both know I can handle it,” Dean says. His grin is cocky and familiar in its teasing, but his eyes hold the weight of more. He can’t just let you go. His grip tightens on your thighs to deliberately shift you against him, guiding your clothed pussy against the generous, straining bulge in his jeans. You feel the warmth of him already. You utter a soft moan, your brows knitting together.

Fuck. It’s only been days, but you’ve missed him.

Just a taste.

A threat of a kiss against his lips devolves into hungry devouring. A grunt and a groan loosen from the back of his throat. His fingers delve into your hair and slip around the strands, the same way you suck his tongue into your mouth.

Your hand slips around his back to pull him closer. Your nails rake down his spine, gripping the red flannel of his shirt. He hisses at the red lines likely carving across his skin, but his eyes open to you. They’re wild, alive in a way you can’t be.

The scent of his blood is earthy, rich, tantalizing—too much to set aside. What your flesh wants is secondary to the kind of lust that courses through you, black ink of nightshade in your veins.

Your fangs descend on reflex.

Your head moves fast, but your heart manages to win out the slightest bit; your sharp teeth nearly break the skin of his shoulder instead of tearing at his jugular, the way your instincts demand. A visceral cry for blood is trapped painfully in your throat. Your heart tears even more when you realize that you’ve failed. You couldn’t keep yourself away. You couldn’t stop yourself from—

Dean’s grip tightens in your hair, but he doesn’t bother to try and pull you back.

He just jabs the needle into your neck.

A full dose of dark crimson liquid seeps into your sluggish veins, making you gasp in pure shock. Though, you really should’ve known. Dead Man’s Blood.

Your limbs quickly fall beyond your control, and you slump against his shoulder. Your eyes begin to close, no matter how hard you fight to flutter them open. You can still hear his heart beating wildly, even as he holds you.

“Thought you were gonna take a chunk outta me, huh?” he remarks, with a flash of his wry smile. “Well, it’s been tried.”

Still, there’s more tenderness in his calloused hand when he sweeps your hair away from your cheek. He looks down at you with a note of devastation, apology, regret…but also determination. It furrows his brows and presses his lips into a line.

He sits up with you gathered in his arms, and he swiftly carries you out of this terrible old shed. It was the only place you could find in the city to hide yourself, to keep you away from living, breathing, movable feasts.

“It’s okay, baby. We found the cure,” he says. His voice is firm, reassuring, if holding the remnants of grit. “We’re gonna fix this. Just hold on…”

Your eyes have closed against your will, but his voice manages to move your heart that one inch. Hope.

Just hold on…

AN: Finally something short from me, right? 😂 Though it's actually the first time I've written a vampire reader. Felt like that's where the moodboard was leading me. 👌🏽

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[bumblesimagines]

For Life

Request: Yes or No

Summary: The Wolverine was unmatched in the fighting ring, until a new face arrived and turned his life upside down.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical X-Men Warnings, lots of blood mentions, violence/fighting, both fluff and angst, Logan being as whipped as he was for Jean with (Y/N), age gap cause Logan is super fucking old lmao, more so snippets/a concept over a full fledged fic.

divider by cafekitsune!

~~~

Wolverines generally avoid humans in the wild but are known to be particularly aggressive and even dangerous when cornered or provoked, prompting them to put those sharp canines and claws to work. Wolverines are known for their incredible strength and stamina, but mostly for their infamous ferocity. Despite their reputation as ill-tempered loners, wolverines are known to be social with others and will form lifelong relationships with their mates.

It'd been a cold evening in Laughlin City and most of the bar's patrons had shuffled into the establishment with their faces nearly hidden behind hoods and scarves as they scrambled to get out of the snow and chilling winds. The occasional gust of wind blowing in whenever the door opened left patrons simultaneously groaning in complaint but the heater emitting warm air kept their grumbling and huffing to a minimum. The nipping cold had soured many moods, and Logan could see many men itching to forget about the cold with an adrenaline-pumping fight. He was just eager to make an easy buck.

He braced an arm against one of the cage's support beams and watched with a hint of a smirk as his latest opponent staggered out of the cage, his buddies narrowly catching him before he could plummet onto the hardwood floor and further batter his face. The locals eyed him with a certain disdain, certain suspicion, but he put up good enough entertainment for them to tolerate him. He sniffed, hardly phased by the punches he'd taken during the fight, and nodded to the referee. 

"Does anyone else dare-" 

"I'll have a go." 

Logan immediately craned his head to eye the voice's owner, foreign and new to Laughlin City. He'd been participating in cage fights long enough to begin memorizing the locals, and the fresh face staring back at him was an utter stranger. Passing by Laughlin City, Logan assumed, but he lacked the particular smell of gas, car air freshener, and look of exhaustion to be a trucker like most of the patrons taking up seats around them. He observed him, taking in every inch of his new opponent as he rounded the cage. He seemed young, but then again, so did Logan. 

"Name's (Y/N)." He said, staring Logan in the eyes as he shed his jacket and shirt. Someone nearby took both articles of clothing for him, likely eager to see what he'd do, or how he'd go down. Logan had managed to break two noses and chip a few teeth already, one could only wonder what he'd do next. "Nice to meet you, Wolverine."

Logan simply grunted and pushed himself off the support beam, rolling his neck and curling his fingers into tight fists. (Y/N) grinned at him, almost arrogantly, but not with the usual cockiness of a man who thought himself the toughest guy in Alberta. He appeared... too calm for Logan's liking, but once the referee stepped out of the cage and closed the door, he decided to focus on beating his face in instead. 

They circled each other first, eyes raking over the other from head to toe in search of a weakness to exploit, of a twitch that'd give away their next move. Logan could hear the muttering of the crowd, the impatient tap of fingers and boots, and the intensity in their stares. His eyes flickered away briefly, and he immediately cursed his mistake when (Y/N) lunged. Despite a part of him urging him to dodge or block, he remained still, expecting (Y/N)'s knuckles to break upon impact but instead, his fist connected effectively with Logan's jaw and he nearly stumbled onto the floor.

Managing to catch himself as scattered gasps echoed from the crowd, Logan grazed his fingers over his aching jaw and raised his head to look at the man. Mutant. No human had ever taken a swing at him without immediately spraining or breaking something, let alone been able to make his head turn with a punch. The corner of his lips twitched up into a smirk and the crowd erupted into cheers, primarily egging (Y/N) on to beat him to a pulp; Logan wanted to see him try.

The ache in his jaw faded swiftly, just in time for Logan to take a swing at (Y/N) and see how much he could tank. (Y/N) dodged his quick swings efficiently, taking steps back each time before he caught Logan's forearm and swiftly spun, his back pressing to Logan's chest before Logan was promptly hauled over his body. He collided with the floor, the cage trembling as if an earthquake had struck, and Logan doubted it'd be able to take the weight of his body a second time without damage. (Y/N) flashed another little grin down at him but instead of taking advantage of his momentary shock, he took a step back and allowed him to get up. 

A professionally trained mutant, Logan deduced when he got to his feet, intriguing. And worrisome. He hardly needed a group of mutants on his ass begging him to join them. 

"You ready to give up your title of champion, big guy?" (Y/N) questioned with a hint of a mocking coo, his words rowdying up the same crowd who'd turn on him if they learned of his mutant abilities, although Logan guessed they likely already suspected and merely wanted to see him hurt for a change. Challenging in his tone but his eyes studied Logan with a degree of curiosity he typically never saw in others.

"We're just gettin' started, bud."

"Even better."

Everything afterward felt like a whirlwind of punching, kicking, dodging, and blocking; Logan's favorite sort of dance, and one that'd hopefully end with some cash in his pocket and a well-deserved cigar. He managed to maneuver (Y/N) around, his arm coiling around his neck to put him in a headlock most wouldn't survive. (Y/N) pressed back against him, forcing them to stumble backward until Logan's back collided with the cage's wall that miraculously managed to stay put without giving out on them both. Logan released a guttural groan when (Y/N)'s short blunt nails dug into his skin, leaving bright red marks behind with specks of blood that only made him tighten his hold.

"Anything goes, right?" (Y/N) wheezed, his palm pressing against Logan's arm, a chill shooting down Logan's spine when it slowly moved on its own and gave him enough space to catch his breath without the pressure on his throat. 

"The hell-"

Straightening his knees and tossing his head back into Logan's face, Logan cursed and released him fully to bring a hand to his nose. He covered it, waiting for it to heal without catching the eye of the people around but (Y/N) gave him no time to recover. He spun on his heel and took another swing at him, bringing his knee up into Logan's stomach when he doubled over and then slamming the bottom of his boot into the side of his face. His head slammed against a support beam and he groaned, the aches and pains healing rapidly but before he could stand up, he realized his body refused to follow his wishes. 

"Giving up yet, big guy?" (Y/N) asked with a tilt of his head, eyes glinting with newfound warning. "We'll be here all night at this rate."

Logan swallowed, a hint of panic surging forward at his inability to move and the mystery surrounding the powers being used against him. Some sort of mental ability, he guessed, but whatever it was he disliked it tenfold. Logan grinded his teeth in frustration and begrudgingly nodded. "Fine," He grunted and sighed in relief when (Y/N) released whatever hold he had on him, allowing his body to relax and slump.

While, yes, losing a fight was a bruise to his pride, Logan found himself more intrigued by the fellow mutant, if not more cautious. With the sky darkening outside, Logan retreated from the cage to collect his belongings and ordered some beer while he watched (Y/N) at the other end of the bar. Once the bartender placed the beer down, he scooped it up in his hand and rounded the bar toward him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the men who clapped (Y/N) on the shoulder as if he'd done everyone a service. He waited, though, for everyone to be out of earshot. 

"How'd you do it?" Logan questioned quietly, chugging back some beer and smacking his lips as it flowed down his throat. (Y/N) fiddled with the zipper of his jacket, sparing him an amused glance and an arched brow. "The whole- the whole body thing. What is it? Some sort of telekinesis?"

"How about you walk me to my motel and I'll tell you all about it?" (Y/N) grinned again, eyes crinkling despite the way they'd been going at each other moments prior, and he turned toward the exit with a beckoning nod. Reaching into his pocket, Logan jingled the keys to his old, busted RV and watched his grin widen.

Out in the cold night, semi-trucks passed them by on the icy roads beside the snow-tipped bar. (Y/N) tugged his hoodie over his head, keeping it on when he sat in the passenger seat and relished the light heat that filled the RV once Logan turned it on. Logan glanced at him, eyeing his light attire once more but keeping his questions to himself despite curiosity knawing at him insistently. He kept his eyes on the road, careful to avoid going at a speed that'd have them sliding into the forest around them. 

"It's not telekinesis." (Y/N) muttered, reaching out and fiddling with the radio dials until he found a decent station. "I.. I controlled your blood. It's not as, uh, clean and pretty as telepathy or telekinesis but it's pretty useful in most cases. I can sense when someone's sick, too, or even help with cuts and infections. I'd make a pretty decent surgeon, honestly." He gave a small chuckle.

Logan snorted, though some unease settled in the pit of his stomach. "Yeah? How'd you figure out you had it?" Logan glanced at him again and immediately noticed the way his features fell. 

"It's not a pretty story." He sighed softly, his head tilting to watch the trees and snow pass them by in a mixed blur. "Let's just say, some of my blood got out of my body and I panicked.. and it started levitating... anyways, enough about me, big guy. What's your thing? It can't just be that super-healing thing, right?" 

Pursing his lips, Logan clutched the wheel with one hand and curled the other one into a fist. From the corner of his eye, he watched his claws slide out and then swallowed when (Y/N)'s features brightened. Gentle fingers wrapped around his hand and Logan retracted the claws, an unfamiliar feeling swirling in his stomach as he felt (Y/N) run his fingertips over his skin, tracing his knuckles and then the veins along the back of his hand. It'd been a while since he last left a gentle touch, and a quiet part in the back of his mind almost considered him unworthy of it. 

"My name's Logan." He grunted softly, the typical tension he always carried fading with each delicate caress.

"Well, Logan," (Y/N) lifted his head with a cheeky smile on his face, his thumb pressing into one of the veins and drawing Logan's eyes toward him. "You mind keeping me company tonight? Or do you have someone you have to get back to?"

"No," Logan's lips tugged upward. "I've got time." 

The motel was as rundown as Logan expected, dimly lit hallways occasionally plunging into darkness when the light flickered above them, and the curiosity surged forward again, prodding him to question where the mutant had come from or why he'd chosen Laughlin City of all places to stay in. But (Y/N) gave him no time to dwell further on it, the back of his foot kicking the door shut behind them before his hands grasped the collar of Logan's coat and pulled him in. 

There was a dangerous addictiveness and allure to (Y/N), from the way he effortlessly danced the line between sweet and rough: a kiss full of tongues and teeth and nips but smoothed over by gentle fingers massaging the muscle of his biceps when Logan slid his coat off, only for those same fingers to slip through his brown strands and tug. It triggered something within Logan, a growl emitting from his throat as broad hands grasped at the other's hips and drew a breathless laugh from (Y/N). 

As much as he enjoyed considering himself a lone wolf, the brief connection with others during one-night stands always reminded him he was still partly human, even when others considered him a savage brute. He savored it, savored when he had (Y/N) on his lap, his chest rising and falling with heaves and lips parted to release low grunts and groans. He savored the feeling of (Y/N)'s arms wrapped around his shoulders loosely, his breath fanning against his ear and allowing Logan to hear every noise he exhaled. He savored the ability to dig his fingers into soft flesh without worry, or sink his teeth into (Y/N)'s collarbone and feel the mark heal beneath his lips. He mostly savored the addictive warmth encircling him and the pleasure that made his thighs tremble. 

His arms tightened around (Y/N), pressing him close to his chest, and captured his lips to swallow another whine. For the first time in who knows how long, he found himself hoping he'd see more of (Y/N) around. 

But after a few days, the mutant disappeared from Alberta, and a week later Logan took a girl by the name of Rogue under his wing. 

"You may see another familiar face here." 

Logan turned his attention away from the mutant children, trying to ignore the way his heart warmed at the sight of them living happy lives without the threat of danger from those who despised them for simply existing. He searched the outer yard for any sign of Marie, but he assumed she was likely still getting acclimated to her new home at the school, and finally peered down at Charles questioningly. Charles smiled knowingly and motioned off to the side. 

"While I prefer having (Y/N) here for his safety, he enjoys venturing out to help others. I hear you two became acquainted while he was away." Charles spoke, and without thinking twice, Logan's head snapped in the direction he'd pointed in, his heart leaping into his throat at the sight of (Y/N) walking toward him with that godforsaken grin that'd plagued Logan's thoughts and dreams for weeks. "(Y/N) has called this school home for many years, and he often helps with the more severe injuries. I'll allow you two a moment to... catch up." 

(Y/N) nodded to Charles as they walked past each other before stopping in front of Logan and crossing his arms over his chest, his head tilting playfully to the side and eyes drinking him in. "It's nice seeing you again, Logan." He stepped closer, eyes lifting to meet his once more. "Here I was thinking about taking a drive back to Alberta. Guess you must've read my mind." 

"Pretty sure that's Charles's thing," Logan replied, pressing this thumb into (Y/N)'s chin and curling the rest of his fingers under it. He had to, otherwise he would've convinced himself he was imagining things, that the mutant who'd managed to make him laugh and smile was still miles away someplace else. "What were you doin' in Alberta?"

"I heard rumors and whispers about a man down in Laughlin City and thought I'd see what all the fuss was about. I would've asked you to come back with me but.. that didn't seem like the type of pillow talk you'd appreciate." He explained softly, leaning into Logan's touch and closing his eyes briefly when Logan pressed his palm fully against his cheek, still caught in the fleeting worry he'd wake up and find himself on the side of the icy road with Marie nowhere in sight. "You're here now, though." His eyes opened. "Are you staying?" 

"I don't-"

"Oh, come on," (Y/N) scoffed lightly, warmly, and moved in even closer. "It's nice here, Logan. I can finish showing you around and we'll find something for you to do. The food's good, the rooms are nice, and it's... freshening to hear the laughter of kids finally being happy. You'd make a helluva teacher, I bet. Everyone's favorite." His genuine tone shifted into a teasing one, laughing softly when Logan rolled his eyes. 

Lifting his brows, Logan smirked and brought him close, itching to close the distance despite a heated voice in his head telling him he didn't deserve the warmth and acceptance. "We can start and end the tour in the dorms-"

"Only if you promise to stay." (Y/N) cooed, tilting his head away to dodge a kiss but he allowed himself to be tugged into an embrace. His arms curled around Logan's shoulders, lips drawing back into a wide smile before he planted a kiss on the corner of Logan's lips. "If you stay, we can finish what we started... and see where it goes." 

Logan leaned back, his brows twitching down into a furrow but (Y/N)'s grip around his shoulders tightened, forcing him to stay and not flee from his words. He swallowed, conflicted in the way his brain and heart battled. Half of him screamed at him to leave, to go before he could mess everything up but another part desperately clung to the idea of staying and finally having a place to call home, finally having a person to call home. 

He noted the flicker of uncertainty in (Y/N)'s features following his silence, felt him beginning to draw back from the embrace. Logan secured his arms around him and allowed a ghost of a smile to slip. "Yeah," He murmured, weakly at first. "I'd like that."

Truthfully, Logan hadn't been fully listening to what Scott- or well, what Cyclops had spoken about in the briefing about their latest mission. He'd heard the usual 'group of anti-mutants' and promptly tuned out afterward in favor of soaking in how (Y/N) looked in the dark suit, though noted somewhat glumly how it didn't allow him to wear the engagement ring. His staring hadn't gone unnoticed given the amused glances Jean stole and the exasperated exhale from Cyclops before they were dropped near the location of the warehouse. 

"Good luck, Lo." (Y/N) whispered to him, planting a kiss on his cheek and dragging his fingers over Logan's beard with a mischievous glint in his pretty (E/C) eyes.

They'd separated pretty soon after, splitting up to cover more ground given the amount of people working with the group. It hadn't taken long at all for the fighting to begin, and despite Cyclops pushing for them to use as little force as possible, Logan couldn't help bruising and cutting a few people up. He managed to knock out a gunman when he heard the distinctive clap of thunder. Amusement had him cracking a grin followed by pity toward whichever fool dared face against Storm, but then he heard her shriek:

"(Y/N)!" 

Too high-pitched, loud, and full of horror for Logan to brush aside as a warning call. His footsteps thundered throughout the halls as he moved, shoving and swinging his claws at anyone who stood in his way until he stumbled upon the sight, eyes immediately finding (Y/N) on his knees with Storm beside him. Logan beelined toward them, dropping into a crouch and promptly feeling a wave of nausea pass over him at the sight of (Y/N) blood-stained hands grasping desperately at his throat. 

"They-" Storm swallowed thickly, her chest rising and falling with panic. "They shot him. He- He can't heal with the bullet-" 

"Darlin'," Logan exhaled shakily, pulling him swiftly into his arms and attempting to keep his composure despite the wheezy exhales and gurgles filling his ears. Blood spread across his throat, blobs of it levitating only to lose their perfectly round form and fall onto the floor with splatters each time (Y/N) grimaced. "I know it hurts but you have to focus on gettin' the bullet out. Baby, hey, focus."

(Y/N) stared up at him, wide eyes filling with tears and shoulders shaking with his hiccups and trembles. The red tint of blood on his lips filled Logan with a familiar sense of dread, his arms holding him tighter so (Y/N) wouldn't feel him trembling as well. He watched the blood oozing out of the wound rise, oddly shaped and raised while he worked on shoving the lodged bullet out of his throat before he choked to death on the very thing he could control. He wheezed and coughed occasionally, droplets of blood flinging onto Logan's cheek and coloring his beard but he paid it no mind.

Storm fiddled with her earpiece, stuttering out explanations to Jean and Cyclops and urging them to move quicker. Logan thumbed away the tears that slipped down his (S/C) skin, forcing himself to give encouraging nods and smiles despite the hurricane threatening to break within his chest.

(Y/N) tilted his chin up toward him and Logan swooped in eagerly, kissing him despite the blood that danced on his tongue afterward. He heard the familiar clatter of metal falling onto the floor and leaned back, eyes flickering around frantically until he spotted the bloody bullet rolling around beside them. 

"Hey, hey, you did it. You-"

Storm exhaled shakily. "Logan."

Logan's head snapped back toward (Y/N)'s face, first noticing the dullness in his eyes and then the way blood continued freely oozing from the wound. He stared at him, his mind struggling to comprehend the limpness in (Y/N)'s body and the stillness of his chest, the world around him slowly coming to a standstill. Storm's sniffling cries and the frantic questions from Jean and Cyclops as they finally arrived became distant, unable to focus on anything but (Y/N). 

"Hey..." Logan exhaled, cupping his cheek as his brows furrowed into a tight-knit. "Hey, hey, hey, you- you can't do this." He furiously blinked away the tears that glazed over his vision, rubbing his thumb into (Y/N)'s cheek and waiting for him to nuzzle into his touch as he always did, but it never came. "You can't do this. You can't-" Logan cradled his body against his chest, burying his face into his collarbone as he'd done dozens of times before. (Y/N) remained unresponsive, his arms falling limply at his sides from Logan's movements. 

"You can't do this to me. You promised you'd never leave."

[charliemwrites]

Part 5 of Nikto’s Commandments

Content: Mentions of Past Torture/Injury, Declarations of Love, Codependency, Protective Behavior

Nikto is familiar with torture. So, so intimately familiar with it. When he knew nothing else, he knew pain. He knew flayed skin and cracked bone and burnt flesh. He knew screams tangled up in chipped teeth and pulpy tongue. Agony became a filter through which all the world’s color bled.

He didn’t know how sweet torture could be.

He didn’t know he could crave the blade of a kind word. That he could relish the bone-deep ache of a gentle touch. He longs to be drowned in your soap and burned on your skin, wishes every brush would scar as badly as acid. Somehow, he remains intact.

You are a torture he could languish in for eternity. Would gladly be hung with a braid of your hair.

But you, blessed thing, don’t even realize what you do to him. The exquisite suffering that’s remaking him. Or maybe if you do, you’re too merciful to take it from him.

“Nikto…” you croon. You’re flushed and giggly, all but in his lap. “Is this three or four?”

“Four.” He’s been counting, but he won’t stop you from having more.

You wanted to go out with the rest of the KorTac team you two have been sent with. Ever generous, you asked if he’d rather stay in, but Nikto just nudged you out the door and sunk into your shadow like always.

“One more?” you ask.

He grunts in agreement. If you wanted to stay out till sunrise, he would escort you over sunbeams.

Aksel stands to get the next round and you cuddle in against Nikto’s side again. Don’t seem to mind the Kevlar under his shirt, or the knife pressed against your thigh.

“You sure you don’t want to play another round?” Roze goads, smirking, as she shuffles the deck.

You grin, wide and pretty and so blindingly happy. “You just want to cheat me at cards.”

“I could never with your guard dog on duty,” she purrs.

You scrunch your nose this time. “He’s not.”

“A guard dog or on duty?”

“Either! Both!”

Nikto clicks his tongue and slides your half-finished water closer. You agreeably accept the distraction, dutifully sipping another quarter of it under his watchful gaze.

“I am just teasing,” Roze soothes when you set the glass down again. “Nikto just takes care of you. It is good.”

You hum, apparently pleased with her roundabout apology. “It is good.”

You thank Aksel as he sets another glass in front of you, wiping at the side with an already-soggy napkin.

“Courtesy of a man at the bar,” he adds, winking and pointing.

Nikto whips around instantly, makes cold, deadly eye contact with a normal weak unbroken stupid man at the bar. He shifts when he realizes that it’s not your attention he’s getting and awkwardly turns away.

“It’s not drugged, right?” you ask. When Nikto turns back, there’s a frown on your face. He clenches the hand farthest from you, creak of leather lost in the noisy bar.

“No, I kept a close eye,” Aksel assures. “He just tossed some cash down to ‘pay,’ that’s all.”

You snort, shrug. “Whatever.”

Nikto settles again as you continue watching the card game, seemingly content just to be in the company of others. You sip at your last drink of the night, cheering Aksel on as the underdog of the table. Nikto tucks you close and counts cards.

It’s not long before you make an uncomfortable noise and pat at Nikto’s thigh. “Restroom, please!”

He slides out of the booth and silently helps you after him, a shriveled but mending part of him endeared by the wobbly way you cling.

“Okay I think I’ve got it from here,” you assure him, patting his arm.

“You want company?” Roze asks, frowning.

“Only if you need to go too,” you reply, “but it’s right there. I’ll be okay.”

She hums and pushes another few peanuts into the center of the table with the rest of the “pot”. Nikto hesitates, but you point out the door, clearly within eyesight.

“It’ll only be a minute,” you promise, stretching up on your toes to kiss his cheek over the mask. You toddle off before he can do more than freeze.

The whole team is snickering, grinning, or shooting him knowing looks when he haltingly turns back. If he wouldn’t take their hands for it, he’s sure at least one of them would be patting him on the back. But they know better than to try to make conversation, especially without you present, and return to their game. (He thinks this is what you would call “social interaction” and it’s tolerable, for now.)

Nikto counts exactly sixty seconds before turning to watch the hallway to the bathroom. Just in time to see the man that bought you the drink stand and saunter that way. He doesn’t enter the men’s bathroom, only hovers at the edge of the hallway. Waiting.

Nikto stands and crosses the bar with a speed usually reserved for those who don’t know they’re dead yet.

The man sees him coming, wavers between pride and the smart choice. Survival instinct wins out to make the smart choice and he slinks off before Nikto is even within arm’s reach. Not a word is exchanged.

Thirteen seconds later, you stroll from the restroom and instantly catch sight of him.

“Miss me?” you tease, coming right to him.

He hums because you’ll realize he’s being honest if he says yes. But you’re a little too tipsy to do more than grab his hand as he leads you back to the table. Seem amused as he ushers you back into your safe spot in the interior.

Another blissful half hour passes before you lean into him, big eyes peering up through your lashes.

“Ready to go home?” you ask in slow, imperfect Russian.

He’s hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol and his head swims like he’s drunk. You make a surprised noise as he grabs your cheeks in one massive hand, gives a little squeeze.

“Again.”

You blink, a little cross-eyed from how he leans in. “Ready to go home?” you repeat, only slightly less stuttering this time.

It’s obscene how quickly he fills out his pants.

“Yes,” he responds in kind. Your eyes light up.

He tosses some money on the table to cover your drinks and then maneuvers you out. You happily follow along, fingers curled in the edge of his glove.

He bundles you into the separate car you insisted the two of you take, knowing he’s not one for socializing or public. Only goes to the driver’s side once you’re comfortable and buckled in.

“You have been learning Russian,” he asks. It comes out flat, but you know him well enough to just sense the inflection in his voice.

“A little bit,” you admit, beaming. “I’m not good at it. I haven’t had a lot of time to learn.”

He shakes his head. Where did you find the time? And how did he not notice sooner?

“Say something,” he commands, too fascinated to remember who he’s speaking to.

“Ummmmm oh! I love you, Nikto!”

You squeal as he hits the breaks and jerks the wheel, taking the car to the side of the road. Parks there and twists to look at you.

“Say again.”

“I love you, Nikto.”

He narrows his eyes. Leans in. “Do you know what you are saying?”

You must not. How could you of all blessed creatures say something so—

“Yes.” You tilt your head, brows furrowing. “Unless I’m pronouncing it wrong?”

“You are not.”

You are but not so badly that he doesn’t understand - on a surface level at least. He can’t fathom those words coming from your mouth. Directed at him.

His hands convulse on the steering wheel. Wanting to reach for you but unsure why. What he’ll do. He’d never hurt you, that’s the furthest thing from his mind, but he doesn’t trust himself with you either. Not right now.

And then you say something else.

A handful of sounds. A name he hasn’t heard in years. A name he barely remembers but jerks him like a leash. What he was before Nikto.

“I love you,” you repeat once more in English. “Didn’t you know that?”

On his best day words are difficult. Right now, he can’t fathom what combination of syllables would explain to you the jumbled chaos in his head.

That you can’t love him, because he is a Thing of blood and bone and agony. That even if you could love him, he would be undeserving of it. Your voice rings in his head, church bells for a broken soul.

“No,” is all he rasps out.

You make a sad face. He feels like the lowest scum.

Then you’re scrambling out of your seatbelt, out of your seat. Climbing over the center console and into his lap. He doesn’t even feel it when your knee clips his ribs or the toe of your shoe hits his thigh. It’s nothing compared to the warm lapful of you he’s got peering down at him now.

“You know how I always remind you that you’re a person?” you ask.

He hesitates, then jerks his head in a nod. You mirror him, face so serious.

“Well you’re not just a person, you’re my person,” you explain. As if it’s so simple as spelling it out. “And I love you.”

“I do not…”

You wait for him to finish, but he can’t. He just squeezes his hands into helpless fists, unable to let himself touch you.

“Don’t what?” you murmur softly. “Don’t deserve it? That’s not your choice. Don’t love me back? I don’t care. I don’t love you to get something in return. Don’t understand? You don’t have to. I just do. It wasn’t a choice I made.”

You gently tug the topmost layer of his face coverings aside, drop a kiss to the tiniest sliver of skin visible beneath his eye.

“You’re my person and I’m your person,” you finish.

“Is that… what love is?” his voice is barely more than a scraped whisper. What little he remembers of people who used the word “love” towards him in the past made it seem like the blackest curse.

“That’s what our love is,” you answer easily. “Or can be, I suppose. You’re not required to feel the same way.”

He doesn’t think he does; what he feels for you is beyond that. Beyond, he suspects, what you might even have a word for.

“Again.”

Your face breaks out into a huge smile, lighting up the dark interior of the car.

“I love you, Nikto.” You press your palm to his heart and breathe softly in awe when you feel how his heart trips over itself for you. “Will you teach me to say it right?”

He leans his head back against the seat to take in the whole of you. Warm and comfortable and unafraid. Safe. (His…)

“Da. Repeat after me.”

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Masterlist

[fluffypinkhedgehog]

❀⊱Pouty Werehog⊰❀ ⤷ Sonic the Werehog x Reader | sfw, one-shot

synopsis: Things didn't really go to plan. (Not like there was much of one.)

warnings: not beta-read! bad grammar and typos galore!

a/n: There's seriously not a lot of werehog content in general. Like three others for Sonic and one for Shadow. I cri. Also, this is an excuse to practice writing for Sonic, so it's probably a "bit" (very) OOC.

Sonic slammed his fists down with a grunt, the Dark Gaian Guardian to the Shamar temple easily dodging out of the way. You and Chip watched from the sidelines of the arena, close enough to jump in if need be— though, against Sonic's wishes. Your face contorted with worry as you watched Sonic try again and again to defeat the guardian only for it to spring back up after mere moments of it being down.

You watched as Sonic threw one of the summoned Dark Gaia monsters into the guardian, only for the guardian to get back up with not a scratch on him— bar the monster it heaved off of itself. With renewed vigor, and a tired Sonic, the guardian mimicked our hero, throwing one of the monsters at Sonic.

“Sonic!!” Both you and Chip yelled as Sonic was slammed across the arena. The guardian slowly stalked towards one of the many boxes littered across the arena before starting to push it. That's when it clicked in your head: The way to defeat the Dark Gaian Guardian is to play its game. You jump from your seat without a word, hopping down into the arena.

“Aaah?! What are you doing?!” asked chip as he fluttered behind you.

”That guardian guy is pushing the blocks to that side of the arena,” you said, pointing towards the guardian. “If he's going that way with these boxes, then we have to go this way. Help me push!” With a nervous nod from Chip the two of you start pushing the box. You wouldn't think it would be that heavy, going by its looks, but you guess it's made of stone for a reason. Even with Chip's help, which isn't much if you're being honest, you're barely moving the box inch by inch. Sweat starts dripping down your face as you work your muscles as hard as you can to move the blasted thing, only to get interrupted by a screech above you, halting your progress. You and Chip look upwards to see one of the Dark Gaian monsters mere inches from you face.

Chip screams, catching Sonic's attention. His eyes widen in both surprise and fear. The two of you were supposed to stay in the audience! What are you doing?! With a stretch of his arm, Sonic punches the monster off of the box before racing over to the two of you.

“I thought I told you to stay in the stands!” Sonic barked, grabbing onto your waist and hoisting you up onto his shoulder.

“Sonic!” You exclaimed. “This guy wont go down just like any other enemy,” you try to explain, but he's not having it.

“Yeah, I can tell,” Sonic huffed, dashing back towards the auditorium. “I need you to stay here while I wear him down.”

“But he's just going to keep coming back—”

“You promised you'd stay out of the way!” Sonic spat, shutting you up.

You stared at Sonic in surprise. You knew that his emotions were more wild when he's in this state, but when he lashes out towards you, you can't help but feel hurt. Sonic breathed deep before letting it out in a huff.

“Stay here,” he said before dashing back off, punching the guardian off of the box he was pushing.

You huffed, eyebrows furrowing. Chip looked at you in concern, knowing what you were about to pull.

“Hey, maybe we should—”

“I'm going back down there,” you said, cutting Chip off. You jumped back down into the arena, gunning towards the nearest box and pushing it with all of your might. Chip anxiously looked around. Sonic was in the throws of his battle with the Dark Gaian Guardian, leaving it up to him to make sure you were okay. Thus, he followed you. You and Chip navigated the traps with little trouble. Most of the monsters activated them, making it easy to see where they were. Once you reached the end and slotted the box into the glowing area, you heard an inhuman scream. Turning around, you saw what made the scream: the Dark Gaian Guardian. Sonic stood there, confused, before he looked over and saw you and Chip back on the arena floor. His face immediately scrunched up angrily. You cringed, a little guilty. You'll have to explain this later. For now, considering you're an entire arena apart, you motion to the box behind you. Sonic seemed to understand, nodding, before turning his attention to the corrupted temple guardian in front of him, which seemed to be struggling to get up. With a swipe of his claws, Sonic resumed his fight with the guardian, and you—with Chip— bolted for the next box.

Instead of berating you or stopping mid-fight to put you back on the bleachers, Sonic stayed near to keep any Dark Gaian monsters away from both you and Chip, as well as keeping the guardian from reaching his goalpost as well. With the three of you working together it was a breeze to slot in the last two remaining boxes. A final scream from the guardian sounded out, ending when Sonic landed one last blow to the creature. Sonic heaved, his breaths labored with effort. This was the hardest battle against the corrupted temple guardians yet, and he doesn't look forward to the next one.

“We did it!” You exclaimed, excitedly, jumping up and down in celebration with Chip. Sonic looked over at the two of you at the top of platform, the last box slotted behind the two of you. He huffed, flopping down onto the ground. His ears flicked as he heard your delighted footsteps approach. “Sonic!” You huffed, tired from pushing the heavy, stone boxes. “We won!”

“Yeah,” Sonic replied, equally tired. He avoided eye contact with you, staring at the ground instead. Your happy expression fell.

“What's wrong?” You asked. Sonic huffed, almost insulted at the question.

“What's wrong?” He echoed, standing up. “You completely ignored what I told you to do!” Sonic's roar made you step back, slightly afraid. It wasn't like Sonic to get this angry. But, that made you angry yourself.

“Because you were getting beaten out there! I couldn't stand by and just watch you get hurt!”

“I would have handled it.”

“You were fighting for 30 minutes before I stepped in, Sonic. You needed help!”

Sonic grabbed onto your shoulders, his giant hands engulfing your smaller frame. His grip was tight, almost as if he's scared to loose you. “I didn't want you to get hurt!”

You breath hitched at his words. It left you speechless. You watched as Sonic dropped to his knees, his head resting against your abdomen and his grip loosening, sliding down your arms before falling to the ground. “I didn't want to lose… my friend.”

“Sonic,” You said, softly, lifting your hands up to cup his face, forcing him to look up at you. “I know, this journey is dangerous. You didn't even want me to come with you at all. But I came along because I wanted to help. I knew the dangers going in. You gotta respect my decision, Sonic.” You rubbed your thumbs across his face in a soothing motion.

Sonic looked away, a bit embarrassed. He felt guilty for his actions. He knew that this was your decision. You're a grown person, he should let you make your own choices. Heck, it was his own choice to agree to your request to tag along with him. He nods to your words before getting up and turning away, rubbing the back of his head.

“C'mon. Let's get inside and restore the Chaos Emerald.”

“Right!” You said, smiling.

Tag List: @affinitytales

[thistlepig]

Stones and Scones

Thorin had vague memories of his grandfather sitting at a desk for long periods. This was prior to Thror's gold obsession and gradual ignoring of everything in the kingdom that didn't shine with a yellow luster. But before that, before the great hoard and greed, Thror had spent much of his time in this office.

The stone desk bore the marks of generations of Durins working here. Chips and carvings in the surface, a broken corner where a particularly irate dwarf had slammed something heavy into the desk and broken off the stone. But Thorin, as his fathers before him, refused to replace it. It was symbolic of the mountain, and their people. Of the steadfastness of stone, of their people, and the gradual marks and erosion caused by leading their kingdom. And like all Durins before, the desk would stand and serve until it fell to dust on its own.

Papers, much less sturdy than the stone, rested on the desk and moved gently as Thorin sighed. Each one bore a new complaint, decision, or permission needing his personal attention. Every aspect of the mountain and the life of the dwarrow therein rested on him.

Thorin's eyes began to cross as he looked at the words. He shook his head to clear his vision. This was always the worst part of leading. Battles he could handle. Irate dwarrow he could handle. But paperwork? This would be the end of the line of Durin. He would rather face Azog again a thousand times than spend another minute with paperwork.

As he lifted his hands to his face to rub his eyes, Thorin heard the door to his office creak open.

"Balin, if that is more paperwork, it will need to wait until tomorrow... or the day after," he said gruffly.

"And how about a cup of tea?" a mild voice responded, a chuckle following the words.

Thorin brought his hands down, and his lips cracked a small smile as his burglar walked into the room, carrying a small tray with a pair of steaming cups and a plate covered by a small silver cloche.

"More welcome than more work, at least," he replied, brushing a pile of paper aside to make room on the desk. "Though I should be getting back to it."

"Oh tosh. A break will do you good," Bilbo said as he set down the tray and pulled a small wooden chair over to the desk. "Allow me to join you for a spot of tea, yes?"

Thorin chuckled as well. "I suppose I can't deny you that."

"Quite right," Bilbo said, picking up his tea and blowing the steam away before taking a sip. He swirled it around his mouth before swallowing and frowned slightly. "While it's better than nothing, these leaves from the Greenwood do leave much to be desired. We'll have to send for something proper from the Shire come springtime."

Thorin picked up his own cup and tossed back a large drink without bothering to cool it. The hot liquid seared its way down his throat and he grunted. "It gets the job done, at least," he said, already feeling a bit more awake than a few minutes ago.

"Well, I hope these are better than adequate," Bilbo grinned as he lifted the cloche. A pair of beautifully baked scones rested on the plate, a drizzle of berry jam glistening on the buttered surface.

Thorin could feel his mouth water just looking at them. Bilbo pushed the plate toward him with a grin, and he grunted as he picked one up and took a bite. The buttery sweet bread mixing with the sharp tang of blackberry jam on his tongue. His eyes rolled back slightly as he chewed.

"Much better," he said finally, swallowing the mouthful before taking another bite. Bilbo nodded in satisfaction before taking up his own scone and grinning around a mouthful.

"They did turn out quite well," Bilbo said after swallowing. "I had to make do with some ingredients, but I'm quite pleased with the result. Even if they won't be winning any baking competitions in the Shire."

"They would win here," Thorin grunted, taking another mouthful. There was only a bit left, and he tried to savor it before he would have to return to the paperwork.

"Well, that's a lovely idea," Bilbo grinned. "A baking competition in Erebor. It could be just the thing to get people's spirits up. And at least fill their bellies a bit. I'll talk to Balin and Bombur and see if that's something we could do."

Bilbo finished his own scone quickly and stood up, gathering the empty plates and cups again. He took a step towards the door, then turned to look at Thorin and glance at the table.

"You know, I heard Balin earlier. I don't believe there is anything there that is pressing to get done today. Why don't you come with me and stretch your legs for a bit?" Bilbo grinned at him.

Thorin glanced down at the papers, biting the inside of his cheek slightly. If he left it now, it would still be there later. And really, it wouldn't hurt to let it wait a little longer.

Nodding, Thorin lifted himself from his chair, grabbing his cane as he stepped up. The wounds from Azog were mostly healed now, but Óin insisted that his foot not carry all his weight unsupported yet.

"Lead the way, Master Burglar," Thorin said, a small smile gracing his features as he looked down at the hobbit.

"Very good," Bilbo nodded, walking to the door and holding it open for him. "You know, I do believe this mountain is beginning to feel like home. And with a baking competition, I'll feel like I fit right in. Do you really think my baking could hold up against Dwarven fare?"

Thorin chuckled as he stepped through the door and followed Bilbo down the hall.

"The mountain will be home to you always," he said, then patted his stomach. "And I would say your baking ranks above anything else I've had."

"Oh," Bilbo blushed. "Well thank you." His footsteps stammered just a little, and he coughed. "You know, telling me that almost would amount to a proposal in the Shire."

"Would it indeed?" Thorin asked, grinning. "Then I suppose it's a good thing we're already married then, isn't it, Zabad?"

Bilbo’s blush deepened. "I suppose it is."

Thorin chuckled as they continued down the hall, resting his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder as they walked. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s curls.

"Thank you, my love," he said into the braid under his nose, Bilbo’s marriage bead bumping against his cheek.

"It's just scones and tea, Thorin," Bilbo huffed, grinning.

"No," Thorin said as they walked. "It’s much more than that. Much more."

[vibingpyro]

General Hobie Headcanons!

-He definitely carries a penny in his pockets just so he can use, "Penny for your thoughts?"

-Has the randomest shit in his pockets. Crumbled pieces of paper? Check. An half eaten bag of chips he was saving for later? Yep. Turning those tiny crumbled pieces of paper into balls to toss at Miguel when he isn't looking? You betcha.

-Snacks non stop yet gains nothing. He would be wandering around HQ bored as hell and eating his chips in one sitting, then eat a burger, then drink an soda in like ten minutes and still be hungry. He would stare into your soul while refilling his soda in a water cup down at the spider cafeteria.

-Hobie just has the warmest hands. He's a heater, so he gets warm very easily so him wearing crop tops and tanks should be expected frequently, I see this man just chilling in his boxers briefs at his place, absolutely miserable in the heat and only giving one word hums or grunts in response to anything he's asked.

-He has stabbed himself with his pins on more than one occasion. He switches out his pins depending on the day, but he has some sentimental ones that he refuses to take off. "Ova' my dead body, more like."

-definitely has a weird sense of humor and talks to himself on the daily, although most of it might be late night delirium because he is for sure a night owl. "Is darkness just the lack of light or is light the lack of darkness?" A pause..then a whispered continuation. "Am I just darkness with the lack of light???" Proceeds to stare at his hands as if they personally wronged him.

[minzart]

Beggars can't be choosers (9)

Ao3 - Prev - Next

Decepticons & Reader(GN), Megatron & Reader(GN)

You find an "automatic" tank busted in the middle of the night, and as the good millitar Mechanic that you are, you fix it.

Or, the Decepticons don't have a trained doctor(yet), and you just volunteered as a substitute by their leaders' logic and standards

The rain started to fall in the middle of the night road, alone in it, a lone green truck drives, it's driver listening to the late hours radio station, fighting exhaustion with cans of beer besides him, he takes a sip of one of them and grunts when not a single drop falls out

Then from the corner of his eyes, he spots a figure right in the middle of the road, he honks at them, and when the figure doesn't move the man almost didn't register that he needed to stop. With the screeching of wheels and splash of water he is able to stop just in time, giving the middle finger to the stranger, he screams "Get out of the middle of the road!"

The figure dressed in black pulls out a pistol, and aims at him, for a second the driver doesn't react, and realization hits him, the shame of stupidity gracing his face, he shouldn't have stopped

"Out"

......................

The drops of heavy rain send shivers down your spine, you never though you would actively join in whatever the fuck the decepticons do, but here you are, sneaking in your old work place with a cybertronian in your belt and a stolen truck parked by the hole he punched in the eletric fence

Your job was to patrol around and, hopefully, without being noticed, run back to him so you two could escape without too much of a fuss, so you walk around the facility, the night sky pouring from all around you, dressed in black, covering your face just to be sure

The facility is in full function inside, you hear workers shouting at each other, running around, lantern lights passing inside the facillity from time to time, meaning their intern generator broke, that's convenient to you... probably

The cameras were down, if it were not for the distant murmurs of conversation, this place would look like an abandoned factory. Walking back to where Megatron works his magic, you stop for a bit, observing the absurdity of cybertronian technology in all its glory

He holds a device close to the wall, right where the machines that generate the quinectic energy lie, from the weird contraption you can almost see eletric curents being pulled around it, connecting the thing to inside the machines, from it a purple liquid seems to pour down, thick and glowing, that, you assume, must be energon, but why is it purple? Does it become blue when inside the body? Or to consume it needs to be separated from impurities like water to humans?

You force yourself to look away and continue patrol, giving a thumbs up to his direction even if he didn't saw, just in case

The other side was just as empty of life, for a while, a door opens by the corner, and you hide, listening and observing the shadows that stand just a few meters from your hiding spot

"So what did you want to tell me, champ? Lunch break is yours not mine" an older man chuckles

"It's just..." a younger voice joins in "this is wrong dad! How long can we keep this up! We can't just shut down the energy like this forever!" Your eyes wide, carefully you take out your phone

"Spike... we are helping in every way we can" and start recording the exchange

"But in the hiding! Can't you see? We can't keep this up forever! Someone will find out we have been causing the black outs and then-"

"Listen. I know you want the world to see how great the autobots are, but the world is not ready for them, you are a big boy you should know that"

"But we are! Look at us! Look at Chip and Carly! We are their friends! I'm sure if they make a peaceful public apearence then..."

"No, even if they did I doubt that starting out with, we are hungry please feed us, will only create more suspicion, especialy that this would give the green light for those Decepticons to go rampage without a cover. It's too risky, son"

"... I guess... do you know if they are done in section 6?"

"Not yet, they just started... don't look at me like that, I don't like doing sneaky things either, but they are our only hope of surviving a decepticon invasion if push comes to shove"

"And our friends" you hear the stuborness in the boys tone

"And our friends" and the contempt of his father

You see them walk around the facility, entering another door, and disappearing, you release a breath you didn't know you were holding, so that's how the autobots get their energon...

....................

Megatron hadn't plan on doing a heist today, didn't even crossed his mind, however, an opportunity is an opportunity, especialy if he can shove it up Starscreams aft when he gets back on comand while the base is on fire

After all he might have, or not, given Soundwave a free zero-punishment-mensage if, say, the caccettes run rampage around the base for today only, his quarters were obviously off limits, but that might teach Starscream a lesson, perhaps the seeker might even beg him to "take over", as if he actualy left, control when he comes back, it would be glorious

A self-satisfatoried smile is plastered in his face he is sure of it, but tonight might prove extremely satisfactory, storming off after a failure of a mission only to come back with a full cargo of energon, morale will be strong for few cyrcles after today, hopefully

The little human pass by, stopping to watch the process of extraction for a while, their eyes are far more expressive than a cybertronian, the wonder and awe of simple things amuse the silver tyrant, not even a new forge is as curious as you have been for cybertronian biology

It would be off-putting if he wasn't used to Shockwave. You two will hate each other or become fast allies... and isn't that a weird picture, Shockwave with a consistent friendly presence by his side, the scientist would call him illogical by the mere though of it, however he was also a hypocrite that can't see himself emoting even in front of a mirror, while others could tell the "only most logical of cybertronians" was just an introverted egomaniac like the rest of them, given long enough time in his presence that is

Then again, he might actually prefer studying you, open you up, learn the ins and out of a humans body so to see what can be your limit, he would kill you if the torture of the experiments doesn't do it first... and that's what will happen, won't it? Once the bridge is build, their empire reconnected, because he refuses to believe his decepticons have lost after four thousand centuries, that will be your end, a slave to the decepticon empire or an experiment, nothing more, nothing less

And that... isn't, shouldn't be of, Megatrons concern, worse has happen to far more important people, worse has happen to him even, and yet... he puts the energon container down in the truck, and observers his job, far less energon than he imagined there to be, only twelve full containers, perhaps he can get five more with enough time-

[The autobots are here - 02:14:67 - °°/°°/°°/M.R - D.C: Human ]

The mensage shines in the corner of his optics, the silver tank snaps his head around, silence and rain, nothing indicating an ambush, nothing indicating a fight

[Status of mission]

He steps cautiously at the energon extractor, by sheer will he forces his engines to quiet down

[Not compromised, they don't know we are here- 02:15:04 - °°/°°/°°/M.R - D.C: Human ]

That makes Megatron stop, processor running calculations and possibilities

[Where are you?]

[ Getting close to your location, retreating - 02:15:40 - °°/°°/°°/M.R - D.C: Human]

This could be an opportunity, an ambush, he could destroy this place and every autobot in here, but how many were there? Who were they?

He hears you coming before seeing, steps heavy and quick, water slashing around the ground, when you get to him you immediately speak "we have to get out of here, this is their main energon source"

Megatron knees closer to you "do you know how many are there?"

"Didn't get the chance, heard two people talking about them at sector 6, couldn't risk confirming and being discovered"

"So this is how they get their share of energon... hypocrites" he snarls in a wicked smile "I'll close the truck, prepare it to go, but do not start it"

"We are not leaving? We are out numbered, one against who knows how many, there's no way we get out of this with the energon or our lives" you go to the truck, putting the keys on and getting everything out of the way so you can jump in without inssue

"Your life is certainly garanteed, they wouldn't hurt a human, and I will not die by their servos. I can not let an opportunity like this pass by, we are going to delay their main source of production"

"How?" You hang out of the open door, he smirks at you

"We are going to blow up their energon"

"You are joking" and you hear him transform, pistol hitting the ground as the rain gets worse

"Energon, raw energon, is highly unstable, one good shake and it will cause a chain reaction, and an explosion will sure put this place out if comission for a month, you only need one good shot"

"I..." You jump out of the truck "I am not trained for this, I'm going to lose an arm, a finger, or worse, how... what even is your range anyways? If i get caugh by the explosion, I will die"

One step after the other, one drop after another, you walk towards him anyway

"You won't" you pick him up, heart a blaze, blood pumping in your veins "trust me"

.....................

There were three autobots extracting the energon, a yellow one, a white one, and a red and blue truck, for some reason, that last one seemed familiar... then again, it could be your imagiantion, trucks were not hard to find in that color anyway

You walk in the shadows, carefully minding your surroundings, thankful for the heavy rain that drowns out any sound you make by mistake

"Do you think this will be enough?" You hear the yellow one ask from the distance

"It better be! This place is running dry by each visit "

"We have to find another way to extract energon, hopefully a way that doesn't involve the humans, it's our war, not theirs"

"Your concern is noted, Bublebee" the truck talks, you feel Megatron pulse in your hands "however our best way of survival without ruining this planet is to use what is already being taken, we can not let what happened to Cybertron repeats here"

You turn around another corner, taking a clear vision of the cargo full of purple energon

"I understand, Optimus..." You take aim, both eyes open, the silver pistol and you hidden in the shadows of the night, you hope you have distance enough, you hope you can make this count, you hope you won't lose a limb... you wonder... how does he work without bullets

"There there, now help me lift this thing" taking a deep breath, you feel everything around you quiet down, like the universe itself is watching, in your hands the gun warms up, you hear his engines pick up, swirling in your finger tips

Your blood roars in your ears, heart jumping in it's ribcage, one hand bellow the handle, you prepare yourself for the recoil, and pull the-

"Hey what are you doing here!?" Trigger

In a glorious shine of purple you see the energy leave his barrel and momentarily stop mid air before cutting in a straight line like a blade directly to the energon pile, you turn around to face the boy that shouted at you and as the explosion happens behind, you can only note, he has no recoil

"OPTIMUS!" You hear the mechs' voices roars behinds you as the boy jumps, fists first, into your direction

"What have you done?!" You take one punch right in the chin, for a moment you fear conscience leaves you body, but the second you feel your grip lighten around the silver pistol, you force yourself back, grip solid and imediatly swing it's butt to the boys head

It has enough force to throw him to the side, creating an opening for you to run and run you do, because your life depends on it, you ignore anyone who notices you passing by, you just need to get out faster, from behind you the boy shouts "Get back here! Stop!"

The lights return to the facility, you jump out of the busted electrical fence, climbing the truck so fast you almost forget how to turn on the damn thing

Do you know how to drive a truck safely? No, you have a hunch they aren't made for high speed and need to be in the lowest gear possible to make turns when full of cargo, especially dangerous cargo like yours, but fuck it, if you live after today you are going to be on the high of the century of power trips

Turning the gears up and up, doing your best to get out of the forest you find yourself in, hearing shots being fired behind you, purple energy swirling around as you finally exit to the main road

You see a yellow beetle car run pass you way faster than it should, you turn the gears back and back, hitting the breaks as fast, but as smooth as possible starting a turn to break free of the road and do your best at avoiding your pursuer

The truck almost tumbles in your haste, but you persist, getting pass the disguised autobot, from inside him shots are fired, breaking the window seat, you do your best to hide your face, grip still firm and heels still down in the accelerator

Heart ablaze, blood roaring in your ears, you feel the tugs in your face of a hysterical smile coming in as your adrenaline surpasses its peak in this chase, one turn after another, one trafic light after the other, one acident after the next, a trail of destruction you leave behind as the yellow autobot is still hot in your trails

When arriving at the main road leaving the city you hear Megatron "throw me out! Right now"

With a shaky hand you pick the gun and throw it for the opposite window with all your force, you hear the familiar sound of mass displacement and two voices shouting "Megatron?!"

Body rigid, never stopping, you look at the side mirror, Megatron has transformed into his tank mode and is exchanging shots with the yellow beetle, that now has two little guns besides his headlights, he is buying you time

And you take it, you run, engine roaring into the rainy night, you go far and far, for how long you don't know, where are you going? you also don't know, but anywhere is better than where you where before

As your heart slows down, body goes limb, exhaustion kicks in, you start feeling an ever growing pain in your left arm, your vision becomes turvy, you feel yourself sweat, then you finaly look at your arm... it is full of glass shards, but worse? There are three bullet shots in it, and one is an open wound that transpassed your whole arm

For a moment you felt nothing, no fear, no anger, just numbness, enough for you to finaly stop the truck besides the road, shakely you help your own fingers lose grip on the steering wheel, arm going numb, you pick your phone, vision going black

The last thing you remember trying to do, is calling an ambulance as the sun rises in the horizon of the tundra desert

...............

Starscream is going to kill Megatron, that has always been the plan, but now it is officially personal, how dare that idiot pass him comand in their lowest point possible, how dare him jump ship in the worst possible scenario leaving him to pick up the pieces of this damn situation

Stradled in a backwaters planet with little to no energon, a useless crew that refuses to listen- "SOUNDWAVE GET YOUR CACCETTES UNDER CONTROL IMEDIATLY!"

Rumble has, yet again, picked a fight with Skywarp and the two threw themselves at the red comander with full force in their brawl, the spy comander takes one look at the mess and turn back around ignoring Strascream pleas

"YOU MESSED WITH MY TURBINS IN MY RECHARGE! I KNOW IT"

"Oh shut IT YOU STUPID PICE OF JUMKWARD YOU ARE JUST BAD AT FLYING"

"YOU TAKE THAT BACK"

Starscream punches Skywarp right in his chin and kicking Rumble out of the purple seekers pads does his best at a commanding tone "WILL YOU TWO BEHAVE FOR ONCE! THIS IS THE FIFITH TIME IN TWO DAYS AND IF I MUST I WILL USE MY CANONS AND TRANSFORM YOU BOTH IN SPARE PARTS OR SO PRIMUS HELP ME"

skywarp recolects himself enough to steady his balance, Rumble, the second he bounces off the ground, comes back in possition, both look angrily at the seeker, judging that three second is enough for them to have listened Starscream leaves following Soundwaves direction

He quickly catches up with his coworker, as a painfully scream can be heard by Skywarp as Rumble bites his ankles "You stop right there Soundwave, I know you have Megatrons location, give it to me or so help me get him back right this instant!"

"Assumption: incorrect"

"Incorrect your scrambled wires for a processor, I am your superior, and you will listen to my commands or die"

Soudwave stops abruptly, face millimeters away from the Seekers "Treath: Empty. Soundwave: too valuable for Starscream"

"Doesn't mean I can't hurt you into submission" the air commander doesn't back down, his hand carefully going to his back, fingers glazing the hidden compartment where a small blaster lies "why haven't Megatron returned yet Soundwave?"

There is an air of darkness in Soundwaves visors, a frustration only seen when the caccette player is decoding a hard software or even if he... "you don't know, do you?"

"... Megatrons' communication line: ...silent since last cycle" a shiver runs down Starscreams plating, at any point he would be elated, relieved, ready to party even, but how things are now, if Soundwave does not know his localization then... the seeker backs down pushing his co-comander inside their office, locking the door behind them

He starts circling the messy place, wires and half made computers lie around, Soundwaves work, no doubt, side stepping as he spins around the place "The autobots would have contacted us if they had him, or even apeared already in our doorsteps arealdy, wouldn't them- the human!"

He turns, Soundwave already in the only functional computer, a cable connecting his back to the sistem, fingers gliding along the three primitive keyboards "find their device, it's location has to be of use"

In mere klicks, the screen circles the world, pinpointing their device last location, and it's journey "what... were they doing?"

As he asks and watches the small red dot travel along the human map, Soundwave relaxes in his servos, the cloud of frustration leaving the spy master, Starscream looks at him "Did you find something?"

"Megatron: requests presence at main hangar"

"HE IS HERE?! BUT- Frag it" both comanders storm out of their shared office, marching purposefully to the main hangar, the spy relaxed and pleased, the air officer tense in faux arrogance

They hear him before seeing, voice as demanding and commanding as ever, but there is an amusement in his tone, a lightness and arrogance in his request "Thundercracker, Frenzy, unload the cargo! Gently now, we don't want one single drop of it to go to waste... ah, Starscream, how gracious of you to join us"

Exiting the corridor, the second and third in command are met with their leader with open arms, a cruel smile in his face as the seeker and caccetticon unload an old earth tuck full of gallons of energon

"Megatron... how gracious of you to show up after abandoning us without a single information of your location" the red jet growls

"Oh why so angry Starscream? Did leadership prove to be too hard for you now?"

"You could have compromissed our whole operation in the middle of nowhere that you had been-"

"I was getting us energon" the silver tyrant gestures to the purple liquid "being useful, something you could learn to be"

"You...if you could have always done this THEN WHY ARE WE STARVING FOR MONTHS?!" The shot was expected, the seeker screams in pain as his right leg receives a blast from the warlords canon, the smell of burned metal and fried circuits gracing his sensors with all the familiarity it has "STOP! STOP! STOP! I UNDERSTAND, STOP!"

"Welcome back, Lord Megatron" Soundwave nods at his lord, ignoring Starscream in the ground

The warlord nods back, a satisfied smile appearing as he faces his third in comand "Soundwave, it is good to be back indeed"

Both, leader and comander walk away from the hangar, shoulder to shoulder, the red seeker craws to the closest wall, resting his back to it, angrily punching the ground, and grunting when he feels the pain shot trough his sistem, the rest of the team continues working, like nothing as changed

"So... the human?" Frenzy asks Thundercracker, him not being here when their lord arrived with the beaten down truck

"Lord Megatron hasn't mentioned anything about them" the blue seeker continues picking up the energon "..."

"... did... do you think they ran away?" The black caccette murmurs as he decides to head to the front of the truck, seeing if he can drive it to a far corner

"They were seen leaving togheter... it wouldn't explain his good humor...unless..."

"He killed them..."

"What?" Thundercracker trips in his own pads, reflexes thankfully saving the energon box from faling down and exploding

"Look" he walks towards the front, the drives seat is open, Frenzy hangs at the door, red smears inside it, spots dry, he senses iron in the air "humans bleed red don't they?"

"... oh"

"Hm..."

Both seeker and caccette stare at the red in the steering wheel, at the soft seat, at the broken glass scattered around it, expressionaless. Then Frenzy squishes himself in, analyzing the pedals and turning the vehicle on "We better go back to work"

Thundercracker is still, looking inside but not seeing anything, a... far familiar, feeling crushing his chest plate, his spark contorts in itself, with an intake of his vents after, and it's gone, it is not the first, will not be the last time he feels this

"Well, good ridance" they hear Starscream screech, now standing in his pads, servos on hips "one less pest to worry about now"

The black caccette sees Thundercracker tense, eyes shining bright red as he turns to the air commander "Oh shut it Starscream, they never did anything to you"

"Nor for me" the red seeker mocks "so better gone than uselles, right?"

"They did nothing but be useful" the blue seeker stomps to meet his commanders gaze

"Then why isn't them here?" That makes Thundercracker stop, his head hangs down and with a forceful shoulder bump he storms out of the hangar

Starscream follows him with his gaze, no smile on sight, only a neutral thin line in his lips, when he turns around Frenzy is staring at him, that makes the seeker squawk "what are you looking at?!"

"Nothing!" The black caccette looks back inside the truck, to the last barrels of energon "... a little help?"

"Ugh" he groans,but steps forward, a limp clear in his walk "incompetent fools"

[xcaptainhannax]

Where It’s Warm (joel miller x reader)

Plot: Jackson’s peaceful days are still new to Joel Miller, but between coffee in bed, shared walks through snow-covered streets, and Ellie crashing dinners like she belongs (because she does), he starts to realize that happiness didn’t die with the old world.

Warnings: a lot of fluff

A/N: i'm still writing slowly the series with joel, just thinking of a general plot but i'm giving you this while you wait. btw the last of us is taking over my entire life yet AGAIN, joel miller the man u are

Mornings in Jackson were cold.

That kind of see-your-breath-inside cold that made the walls creak and your knees ache. Joel was already up, already dressed, boots laced tight, coat zipped halfway. He always woke before you, not because he liked mornings (he didn’t), but because he liked the part where he brought you coffee.

The first time he did it, he told himself it was just polite.

The twentieth time, he stopped lying to himself.

He stood in the doorway with a chipped mug in his hands and watched you blink awake. Hair a mess. Eyes still soft with sleep. Wrapped up in his quilt like you belonged there, because you did.

“You gonna sleep all day?” he asked, but his voice was gentle.

You stretched, made a noise like a cat, and smiled at him. “It’s cold.”

He held out the mug. “Made you coffee.”

That got you sitting up, still wrapped in the quilt like some ridiculous blanket creature. You looked at him like he’d invented warmth itself.

“You’re spoiling me.”

He grunted, rubbing the back of his neck. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

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

He didn’t say: I like taking care of you. He didn’t need to.

You walked to the stables together, your mittened hand tucked in his. It still surprised him sometimes; how easily your fingers found his. How natural it felt.

He wasn’t a hand-holder. Never had been.

But you weren’t most people.

You talked as you walked; rambling about something you read, something Ellie said yesterday that made you snort-laugh. Joel listened, nodding sometimes, giving little hmm’s. He wasn’t much for chatter, but he liked hearing your voice. It filled the empty parts.

“You’re quiet today,” you said, bumping his arm.

He glanced at you. “I’m listenin’. You’ve got a nice voice.”

You blinked, surprised. He saw the flush in your cheeks before you buried your face in your scarf.

Worth saying, then.

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

At the stables, Ellie was already there; bundled up, trying to feed one of the newer horses and losing that battle completely.

She looked up. “Hey, lovebirds. Took you long enough.”

Joel rolled his eyes. “We’re not-” He paused. Looked at you. You were laughing.

“…nevermind.”

Ellie smirked. “Sure. Keep tellin’ yourselves that.”

You joined Ellie by the stalls while Joel lifted hay bales like they were made of feathers. He caught pieces of your conversation; you teasing Ellie about her hat, her calling you “gross” in the most affectionate tone possible, the way you tried to sneak her a second apple for the horse when no one was looking.

Joel stood there for a second, leaning on the stall, watching the two of you.

He’d never imagined this life for himself.

Never imagined he’d have a girl in his house and a kid who needed him and this strange, slow peace that crept in when he wasn’t looking. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it. He didn’t always think he did.

But he had it.

He had you.

Later that day, you and Joel sat on the porch, sharing a blanket, watching the town. He liked sitting beside you like that. Close, quiet, simple.

“This is nice,” you said.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

You leaned against him, and he let out a soft breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“You warm enough?” he asked.

“With you? Always.”

That one hit him right in the ribs.

He turned and kissed your forehead, slow and careful. He could still remember the first time he let himself do that; the way you leaned into it without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was still learning how to be soft.

You made it easy.

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

That night, Ellie showed up halfway through dinner at Tommy’s.

She plopped down next to you, already shoveling potatoes onto her plate.

“Figured if Joel was coming, there’d be leftovers,” she said.

Joel made a face. “Hey.”

“I mean, look at you. You don’t even finish your plate.”

You grinned. “He gave me his cornbread last week. That’s love.”

“Gross,” Ellie muttered. “But also… can I have yours too?”

The three of you laughed and Joel watched, silent but full.

Across the table, Tommy caught his eye. For just a second, Joel saw it; hat soft, surprised look in his brother’s face. The one that said I didn’t think you’d ever have this again. That he didn’t think Joel could ever laugh like that, sit around a table like that, with a kid and a woman who looked at him like he hung the damn moon.

Like a family.

Joel looked away, cleared his throat. It was too much, too close to the heart.

Tommy didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

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

That night, after Ellie went home and the town quieted down under falling snow, Joel walked you home.

You stood on your porch, snowflakes catching in your hair.

Joel brushed them away gently.

“You comin’ in?” you asked.

“In a sec,” he murmured. “Just… wanna look at you a bit.”

You gave him a look. “You’re ridiculous.”

He looked at you, really looked. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Only for you.”

And he meant it.

In a world that had taken so much from him, you were the thing he’d never expected to find again; something warm. Something kind.

Something his.

[1800titz]

THE THRILL | Phone sex operator AU

preview

“God— I feel good, too. I’m so wet for you,” you hum. 

The confession is syrup on embers— a simmering, wet heat in the trench of his underbelly, and feels like liquified nirvana across his fibrils. 

It pries another grunt from the asunder seam of his teeth— gravelly, husking— the rasping growl of a faceless stranger on the verge of splintering. 

(Hunk of a man, precarious footing like the lip of a mountainside, toying at the sutures of pseudo-phone-sex— an automated script of moans and coaxes— and crooning please with your fingers dug under the cotton of your underwear and sweat on your brow.)

And maybe that’s the thrill of it. 

Chasing the dirty bliss on borrowed time— costly minutes— painting the monolithic bulk of an innominate outlander behind your eyelids when you pour your work ethic into doing the very best job, giving it your all, heel of your palm pressed tight to your clit and your fingers tucked deep. 

(Because, maybe, you both feed off the kick. Chasing the same buzz that’s molded off an intricately carved proxy of intimacy.) 

There’s something marginally less vulnerable (marginally more— parceled up in the seedy filth along the grooves of your fingerprints, saturated on the crumbling bulwark of melding scripts and vices), in evading the tangibility of sex through a phone. In pretending—

“Yeah,” Harry grunts, hips flexing into the nook of his fist. His shoulders quake with the shudder that rolls up his nape. The swivel chair creaks under the pressure of the motion. “Can hear it, dirty fuckin’ girl—“

And in the knurled grimace that graces his pink mouth (the guttural hiss shattering in his windpipe) you nearly taste euphoria off his bared teeth. The way you know they glint white. Soak in the scorching deluge of the same ecstasy when he ruts into his own hand at the way you moan. 

Your favorite regular. 

He was different. Chipped his way under your skin and sinew to make home in the hollow he carved from the moment he dialed. Heady timbre flowing like smoke; sultry, kerosene-soaked, rough-hewn in hedonistic pursuit. 

So unlike the other regulars or the one-timers rolling onto the line, scuffing their speakers against their clothes when they shuffle, voices low and brittle when they beg you to tell them how you’re going to step on them and call them filthy names. 

(You moan and purr how you’re so close, how bad you want them to cum inside, phone tucked to your cheek, sprawled with your legs kicked up over the arm of the couch, scrolling through Pinterest meal prep recipes on your laptop.) 

You should feel ashamed, maybe, at the startling ease it took for him to thaw you away and reverse the roles (leave you hankering for the sweet warmth of a gray haze— thick, smoggy, petrichor with your tummy buzzing and your breath caught in your throat— when he bid you goodnight with the murmur of we’ll do this again, sweetheart before the line clicked). The way it left you feeling like you were on the line with an operator on the other end, milking you for more. 

(“And what name should I have in my mouth when you make me cum for you, hm?”)

(Borrowed time, costly minutes; you soak in every cent he spills into your wallet.)

・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・・。・。・・

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[paranoiddreams]

I beg you write for some Robert Sheehan characters 😔

Just for Her

⌗ Nathan Young x fem!reader

⌗ Warnings!! - Explicit language ofc!!!, fluff, slight angst, tension between Nathan and y/n because they’re stupid and whipped for each other, mentions of bullying, everyone treats Simon like shit still, jealousy, secret pinning, y/n is a Simon defender💅🏼, y/n’s power/ethnicity/features are not specified, 1 big cock joke 💪🏻, just general cuteness

⌗ WC!! - 1.94k

⌗ A/n!! - HI MY LOVE YES YES I AM WRITING SO MUCH RN I FEEL BAD FOR ALL THE SPEAK NO EVIL STUFF I HAVE STILL😭😭 but here’s something small for right now because I really need to get out of this weird writing funk I’m in. Sorry if the quality is shit, I’m on some new meds that are FUCKING with my head rn😀 at least I have these beautiful men (fictional and not) to keep me occupied 🤷🏻‍♀️ Speaking of, I have some stuff coming out for Mahito and Satoru soon as well, so don’t worry JJK babes, I will deliver soon🫡

Nathan couldn’t, more like wouldn’t, hold back his laughter as Simon stood before him, Curtis, Alisha, and Kelly, grunting and groaning as his face starts to turn red.

“He looks like he’s going to shit himself!” Nathan howled, keeling over in a fit of boisterous laughter.

“This is really impressive,” Alisha continued, her hand on her hip as she looked at Simon with an unimpressed expression. Curtis was snickering as well, while Kelly just frowned at the sight.

The door to the locker room swings open, the knob hitting the wall from the force of the last addition to the group enters.

“What are you guys doing? We have to paint some stupid fucking benches again!”

Everyone, including Simon, stop and look over at Y/n, who’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest next to the lockers. Her face falls as she looks around, spotting Simon who’s practically shaking in front of the group.

“Barry here was just showing us his A-list power!” Nathan chuckles, gesturing for her to come over. “Go on, Barry, show the girl!”

Simon looks back and forth between Nathan and y/n, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Y/n looks back at the jester of the group, his lips still twisted into a dumb smile.

“The fuck, Nathan?” Y/n groans. “Why are you all just laughing at him?!”

“He was standing there red as a tomato groaning,” he stops to pull a screwed up face, grunting as he impersonates the scene, “trying to show us how he turns invisible! And well, I hate to say it,” he puts his hand to the side of his lips to cover them, “but I don’t think it worked…”

Y/n rolls her eyes and walks over with a huff. “Curtis,” she asks flatly, turning her head to look up at him, “turn back time—now.”

He looks down at her confused. “What? Why? You know it doesn’t work like that!”

“Exactly!” She shouts, looking to the rest of the group. “I can’t control my power at will either, but none of you have denied it like you are with Simon!”

“I never said I believed you,” Alisha retorts.

Y/n turns her head to look at her with an annoyed huff. “Do you believe Curtis, then?”

She rests the hand on her hip at her side, her expression faltering slightly as she goes silent; she does, wholeheartedly at that.

“Right,” y/n says with a slight tilt of her head. She then turns to look back at Simon, who’s looking at her with the same wide-eyed stare he gives everyone. She then turns to look at Nathan, sending him a particularly harsh glare. “And you don’t even have a stupid power,” she sneers at him, her tone clearly fed up before she turns around, walking towards the locker room doors.

“Are you coming?!” Y/n shouts over her shoulder a few seconds later. The rest of the group reluctantly follow, Nathan looking a bit dejected—almost like a kicked puppy.

Once the group returned to the lake they were beside the day the storm happened, Curtis and Simon put the cans of white paint they were carrying down onto the seat of one of the benches. The fresh coat they’d only painted on a few weeks ago was already chipped and stained—partly from the massive clumps of hail that fell from the sky that fateful day, and partly from the ash of cigarettes smoked by the people passing by in the past few weeks.

“Well, this brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Nathan says with a deep sigh of sarcastic remembrance as he tails behind the group, his hands on his hips as he looks out upon the lake. “The day I met you lot,” he smiles, “the day you met the love of your life!”

Y/n looks back at Nathan, who’s looking at her with a cheeky smile while wiggling his eyebrows. She simply rolls her eyes before turning to help Kelly open a can of paint.

Nathan’s smirk falls slowly as he feels a sting of rejection in his chest; he was used to y/n snorting softly, or nudging him with her elbow, whenever he made a stupid joke or pass at her. But he could tell something was up, and he had a feeling it might have something to do with what happened in the locker rooms. Just maybe…

…It most definitely did. Y/n put her headphones on as soon as she started panting the bench Curtis was working on opposite of her, turning her music up all the way. She couldn’t help replaying the previous confrontation in her head as she slathered white paint onto the bench with a cheap brush. She just wanted to go home and sleep, maybe drink a few glasses of wine from her mom’s secret stash just to forget the 164 hours she has left at this place.

Although she knows she’ll most likely wake up tomorrow excited to ride along with the group as they complete various bothersome tasks; as crazy as it sounds, she’s grown close to the five of them, despite everything. Especially Nathan.

She hates to admit it, but that Irish prick has her in a chokehold. She finds herself thinking of him and his stupid jokes late at night, or when she’s getting ready in the mornings, a smile coming to her face. Usually on mornings like that, she tends to layer on her mascara just a little heavier.

But sometimes, she just can’t stand the guy; especially when he’s being a bigger dick than usual.

Ignoring her racing thoughts, brushing them off as her being a bit more irritated than usual today, y/n continues to paint the bench in front of her. She pretends she’s actually painting something meaningful, like the Mona Lisa, or her favorite piece, Saturn Devouring His Son.

But her train of thought is quickly cut off when the swelling music in her ears stops suddenly. “Hey!” She yelps, turning her head up to look at the culprit behind her.

“Whatcha’ listenin’ to?” Nathan asks with a smile as he pulls the headphones over his head, his curls falling over his face. Music pours through the padded speakers over his ears, and he starts plucking an air guitar as he dances to the song. But he quickly halts his antics when y/n shoots up from her crouched position behind the bench, yanking the headphones off of his head before darting towards the opposite direction.

“Where is she going?” Kelly turns to Nathan, brows furrowed as she glares up at him with a knowing look.

“Hell if I know!” He exclaims, dropping his hands at his sides. But before he can stop himself, Nathan feels his feet acting on instinct, trailing behind her. A few moments later, he sees her in the distance, jogging the rest of the way to her.

Y/n sits against a concrete pillar under the highway, holding a cigarette in her fingers as smoke pours from between her lips, floating above her head like a halo. She looks out over the lake, the water lapping and glittering in the sunshine.

At first when Nathan reaches her, she continues on as if he weren’t there, but then flinches to attention when he sits down next to her.

“Is my dancing that bad?” he asks when y/n pulls the muff of her headphones away from one of her ears. "Ran off like a scared deer."

She sighs softly, and takes them off completely. "And?"

"And you can't leave me with them!" Nathan exclaims in a lighthearted manner. "You know you're the only one I can barely tolerate."

Y/n exhales a soft huff of amusement, making his heart flutter softly, to which he ignores as usual.

"You were being a dick, you know?" y/n sighs. "You always are to Simon."

"Who?"

She cocks her head to look at him, a blank expression of annoyance on her face. Nathan cackles, putting his hands up in surrender.

"Alright! Alright! I was just playing with him," he defends.

"Yeah, well not everyone likes to play around like that."

"You do."

Y/n gives him a look again, and he backs off slightly. "Okay," he sighs. "I'll give the lad a proper apology...later..."

Once she analyzes his face and determines Nathan isn’t joking around completely this time, she smiles softly for the first time today, leaning her head back against the concrete pillar. Nathan mirrors her, his eyes focused on the slope of her nose as she looks out across the water--he can practically hear the cogs turning in her head.

"You can make people feel like shit sometimes," she continues after a few silent moments. Nathan pulls his eyes away from her Cupid's bow, back to her's. "I would know."

He feels a slight pang of...something in his chest. "I make you feel like shit?" He asks.

"No," she says, "not that. It's just...no offense...but I've known a few boys like you--well, not entirely like you. They didn't have..."

Nathan's smirk returns. "Good looks? Charm? A huge cock?"

Y/n giggles softly, nudging his shoulder with hers. "Shut up," she smiles, "I mean boys who cover their emotions with humor at the expense of others, they didn't have a joy for life like you, I guess. So when they'd make fun of people, it was impossible to tell the difference between jokes and insults. At first I thought you were one of those kinds of boys, and sometimes I forget you’re not."

Nathan nods softly, trying not to let his stupid jokes surface for once; because he knows she’s right. Humor is the immediate response he has to any emotion he feels. He's never thought about how it affects other's until now, despite the lectures from kids his age and adults alike over the years. What is it about y/n? He doesn't know; but he does keep listening.

"So just...try not to hide so much of yourself anymore," she sighs. “Be funny because you want to be. Not because you want to hurt someone else.”

A few moments of silence go by, only the sound of rushing water and the distant voices of the group reaching their ears.

"So...you were bullied by these guys?"

Y/n turns her head to look at Nathan. She simply nods her head and looks back at the water.

"Oh," he whispers.

She's never heard him so quiet, so speechless, before.

“I didn’t know.”

"I didn't tell you."

They sit there for a few more moments in silence, practically feeling the dragging of time going by before them. Nathan's eyes only wander back to y/n's supple cheeks when he makes the realization that, for the first time in his life, he has no jokes to tell. He isn't sliding past with an inappropriate innuendo, or breaking the silence with an offensive observation. He's just sitting in complete and udder silence with her.

"Maybe you could come with Simon and I to the pub tonight," he says after a few moments. "You know, so you can walk me through a proper apology."

Y/n turns her head, a soft smile appearing on her face. "Wow," she gasps.

"What? Want t' make it just the two of us?" Nathan asks with a cocky smirk. Y/n punches his shoulder, and for once, he relishes in the sting.

"No it's just...you called him Simon..."

Nathan's eyes widen slightly at her words, and he shakes his head softly, curls sticking up when he runs a hand through his hair.

"I--what do you mean? That's his name, isn't it?"

"Yeah," y/n laughs, "but none of us were really sure if you remembered that."

He clicks his tongue softly, cheeks going slightly red from being called out. "Yeah, yeah, I knew that. You lot really think lowly of me, huh?"

Her smile widens slightly, and she shakes her head softly. "No," she says, "At least I don't."

[holylulusworld]

Snap of fingers (6)

Summary: You only tried to become friends with wings.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Creature!(fem)Reader

Characters: Sam Winchester, Crowley, Castiel

Warnings: language, creature reader, fun, cocky reader

Snap of fingers masterlist

Catch up here: Snap of fingers (5)

“Sooo, you’re an angel of the Lord?” You ask, looking Castiel, the trench coat-wearing angel, up and down. “Hmm…you don’t look very angelic. There’s no halo, wings, or even sparkles or stuff.”

You’re disappointed. It’s the first time you met an angel, and he looks like a middle-aged dude in an ugly trench coat. He even wears a boring tie.

“Dean,” Castiel doesn’t answer. He worriedly looks at his friend, ready to attack you if needed. “What is this creature doing here? She’s dangerous to be around.”

“Why?” Dean cocks his head. “She’s living with us for months and nothing happened. Y/N is not a monster nor a creature. She has a special power, is all. Just like you with your grace.”

“That’s not the same, Dean,” the angel argues. “If she decides you’re her enemy, she could kill you. Both.” Sternly looking in your direction, Castiel huffs. “Let me bring her away.”

“Hey, I thought you were nice,” you pout at Castiel. “There I was thinking angels are cool and all shiny. But you’re a butt.”

“A butt?” Castiel furrows his brows.

“Yeah,” you nod eagerly. “You’re a butt, Mr. Angel. I don’t like you.” Pointing your index finger at Castiel, you stick your tongue out. “I’ll get some food now. You better not follow me, or I’ll throw a pie at you.”

“Not my pie!” Dean hastily says. “Sweetheart, do not throw my pie at him!”

“Pie?” Castiel is as confused as when he first met the Winchesters, or humans in general. “Dean, she could easily kill any being in this world. Maybe even archangels.”

Dean furrows his brows. How can the woman who fought alongside the brothers be a threat to them? You did nothing wrong. Killing monsters or demons to keep them from abusing your powers is not evil in his eyes.

Castiel shakes his head. He can see in Dean’s eyes that you already sneaked your way into his heart and life. The angel keeps an eye on you fighting with a bag of chips.

“Dammit, open. I’m hungry and want to throw food at wings,” you grunt and curse, fighting with the bag until you rip it into two halves. The chips end up on the ground – leaving you hungry and frustrated.

“Y/N.” Sam sighs deeply. He just cleaned the floor. “Why did you do this?”

“Fucking chips,” you grunt and stomp onto the chips. “I wanted something to eat. What the fuck is wrong with the universe?” You throw your hands up. “Angels should be nice. But the first one I meet wants to kill me. I want to eat chips, but they end up on the ground. And there’s the perfect dick I want to ride, but it belongs to a good friend.”

Dean chokes on his spit. He coughs as you glance at his crotch. “Sweetheart, we have more than enough food in the kitchen and the fridge, and if that’s not enough, I’m hiding the good stuff in my secret stash.”

“Secret stash,” you purr, and step closer to Dean, poking his bicep. “What are you hiding in your secret stash? Chocolate? Candy? Pie?”

Dean smirks as you grab his wrist, tugging at it. “Easy there, tiger. If you’re hungry, let me make you something good. How about my infamous bacon burger?”

“Raise me to pie, and we have a deal.” You grin, eyes drifting toward Castiel, who is gripping his angel blade tightly.

“You’ll get a slice of pie if you stop looking at Castiel as if he’s an enemy. I know he can be a little overwhelming at first, but he’s a good guy.”

“Hmm…” You watch the angel with interest. “His vessel is dead. What did he do to the poor guy he possessed?”

“It wasn’t my intention to lose him, Jimmy,” Castiel says, eyes dropping to the angel blade in his hands. He mostly doesn’t dare to think about the man whose life he stole in more than one way.

“Hopefully he’s in heaven for playing your meat suit,” you snap at Castiel. “Who’s the creature here, huh? At least I didn’t steal this body.” You roam your body with your hands. “This is all me.”

“Yeah,” Dean hums as he follows your hands with his eyes. “All you…”

“Dean!” Castiel tries to stop the hunter from falling for you even more. “This is not the time for this…”

“Can you two stop fighting?” Dean sighs deeply. “Cas, listen. Y/N has special powers, but she’s not an enemy or dangerous. She can control her powers.”

Castiel nods, but his eyes flash blue for a second.

“Y/N,” Dean softly says. “Castiel can be stubborn, but he’s no threat. No snapping his ass to heaven or crap.”

“I don’t even know if my powers work on an angel,” you say while looking Castiel up and down. “I wouldn’t want to waste his vessel’s sacrifice by killing the angel. This wouldn’t be fair. If he’s no threat to you or me, I won’t mind having him around.”

Twirling around, you walk away, whistling for Dean to follow you. You start chatting about his secret stash, while Castiel watches your interactions with interest.

“She’s no threat,” Sam assures the angel. “So far, she controlled her powers and only killed demons or monsters. And she only kills the ones attacking her. Y/N is not looking for a fight. She tries to stay out of them most of the time…”

Tags in reblog.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 61

part 1 | part 60 | ao3

cw: mentions of canonical minor character death

Chapter 14

It's twilight by the time they make their way to Rick's place — gnat clouds swarming, sun dipped low, Lover's Lake an inky smudge beyond the blur of passing pines. Steve’s not totally sure how they got here, this dusty service road that's more pothole than pavement; one minute he's bitching about doomed love and double VHS, the next he’s taking the scenic route to a drug den.

There were some important moments in between, he’s pretty sure.

He’s also pretty sure he blacked out somewhere around the moment the morning news reported that an-unidentified-Hawkins-student-who-very-well-could-be-Eddie-Munson was found dead in his fucking trailer.

Kinda difficult to resurface from that one.

Feels like his soul’s got swimmer’s ear.

Even hours later — after Dustin and Max burst into Family Video talking a mile a minute about how Eddie was alive and they needed to use the phones; after Ernie stupidly gave a reporter Steve’s name, swearing up and down on the TV that his neighbor Steve Harrington was an upstanding young man who would never do something like this; after they spent an agonizingly long afternoon lying low and taking backroads to avoid the cops because the cops probably suspect Steve of murder now, oh god—

“It’s this next right up ahead,” Max says from the back seat. There's a map spread over the bench between her and Dustin, and Steve blinks himself awake; gives her a nod in the rearview.

Beside her, Dustin’s munching on Twizzlers he stole from the store — window down, easy slouch, just way too chipper for the situation at hand. "So Steve," he says conversationally, "now that you're a fugitive, does that mean—?"

Steve cuts Robin a pleading look.

Robin reaches back and smacks the little twerp upside the head.

"Ow!" Dustin whines.

"Shut up, please," Robin smiles.

Max makes a sound like she's trying not to laugh and checks the map again. "Right here," she says, pointing. "After that weird tree stump."

They turn onto another road that could be generously described as paved, once, several decades ago, and eventually, the winding path lets out onto a slightly nicer street. Aging but cared for, Holland Road is a crowded row of little lake houses, trailers and shacks with manicured shrubs and chipped fence paint, weeds growing through the sidewalks beneath pristine American flags. Steve pulls into the driveway of #2121.

It looks abandoned. Dark inside and out, a truck parked on the curb that's likely been there for a while, its tires sagging in a mulch of old wet leaves. There’s an autumn wreath on the front door.

“You sure this is the place?” he asks as they climb out of the car.

Max sasses him for questioning her navigation skills, Dustin unsuccessfully tries to land a revenge slap on Robin — a move that earns him a retaliation wedgie and a wrestling match he was never gonna win — and Steve pops the trunk and feels a hundred years old. Feels every bit the exhausted dad trying to keep the family road trip together as he grabs his nail bat and slings his duffel over his shoulder.

"You planning to spend the night?" Dustin teases from Robin's armpit, still bent double where she's got him in a headlock.

"No, just-" he drops the bag at their feet with a grunt, “doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

Dustin’s eyes bug out. “Is that a can of goddamn bear mace?”

“Keep your voice down!” Steve hisses.

“You keep your voice down!”

"Should I just go ahead and choke him out?" Robin offers.

Steve considers it for a second: knock 'em all out, stuff 'em back inside the car. Go do this shit quietly by himself.

He rolls his eyes and puts his hands on his hips.

"You're no fun," she pouts, but she lets Dustin go.

Dustin grabs flashlights and walkies out of the bag, passes them around the circle. They take a moment to steel themselves — huddled together in the dark, shoulders tense, the creepy house looming ahead. Sharp shadows stretch toward them. Croaking sounds creeping from the edges of the lake.

Robin puts her flashlight under her chin like she's about to tell a scary story. "Alright, kiddos," she says in a deep, ominous voice. "Let's go rescue Steve's ex."

Stunned silence in the sudden vacuum her words create. Steve lets out a tired sigh. Dustin’s jaw is on the curb.

“His WHAT?” Dustin shouts.

Oh, my god. “He’s not my ex."

Robin rolls her eyes and says ‘sure’ under her breath, and Max turns to Dustin, laughing. “You didn’t know they were a thing?”

“We’re not—” Steve tries again.

“What were you trying to get them back together for then?”

She seems genuinely curious. Dustin seems three seconds from spontaneous combustion. “What was I WHAT?!” he yelps, limbs everywhere. Reminds Steve of Eddie so bad it hurts.

“Okay,” Steve interrupts, clapping them both on the shoulder; drops his voice to a harsh whisper. “In case you two forgot, we’re here to rescue Eddie.”

“Who you’re dating.”

Dustin’s voice is small, disconnected, his gaze far away. Like he’s shellshocked.

“Jesus Christ.” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “I— Yes. No. It’s complicated.”

Max snorts at his answer, Dustin makes a series of faces like he's gonna need seven years to process, and Robin interrupts his crisis by waving her flashlight like a traffic guard, walking backward up the hill as she directs them toward the house.

“Why don’t we just go find him first?” she suggests, making a rainbow with her hands, flinging light through the grimy windows. “And then Stevie here can answer alllll your big gay questions.”

Steve glares at Robin. Dustin glares at him, narrowed eyes for a full ten seconds like 'yeah, you fucking better,' and then he takes off up the driveway hollering Eddie's name.

—

part 62

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 77 (A Baby and a Surprise!)

Heather went into labour at the tail end of fall. She left work and phoned Conrad, who set aside his casework to meet her at the hospital.

When he arrived, he called Ash on the phone he was too young for - but Nancy had insisted on it. "Hey bud, are you going to be okay at home for a bit? Mrs. Goth's on her way over to hang out until we get back from the hospital, but we might not get home until you're in bed."

"Gord's here; I'm good."

"Just remember to lock the door and don't answer for anyone but Mrs. Goth."

"I know," he said casually. "Are you at the hospital, too? Is mommy okay?"

"She'll be fine, but when we come home we'll be bringing your little brother or sister."

"That's pretty cool." He still didn't completely understand, but everyone around him was happy about it, so Ash was happy, too. "Are you going to get married like Daddy and Miko?"

Conrad paused. "Do you think your mom and I should get married?"

Thoughtful and smart, Ash considered the question. "I don't know what you should do, but sometimes I don't know what to call you."

"What do you mean, buddy? Conrad's just fine."

"I mean at school, when people ask if you're my stepdad."

Conrad gaped. "What do you tell them?"

"I say sort of. Don't people who love each other get married?"

He laughed. "It's about a bit more than that."

"How much more?"

He didn't have an answer. Not for a five-year-old. And maybe, if he really thought about it, he didn't have an answer for himself. But his thoughts were interrupted by some noise on Ash's end of the line. "Mrs. Goth just got here and she wants to teach me to play chess. She won't let me wear my hat! She says it frames my face wrong."

Conrad shook his head with a laugh. "It's not too cold out tonight. Just humour her and try not to beat her too badly once she's taught you how to play."

Ash grumbled playfully. "It's not my fault games are easy."

Conrad hung up and returned his attention to Heather, who sat on the bed doing breathing exercises between contractions. This was her third time in labour and delivery, and Conrad was far more nervous. "What was all that about?" she wondered.

"He asked if we were going to get married like Malcolm and Miko, but now Mrs. Goth has him focused on learning to play chess."

Heather smiled. "Malcolm says he's always asking him and Miko to have a wedding he can be invited to since they eloped without telling anyone. He'd scam all of us for that much wedding cake."

She grimaced as her contractions returned, breathing through them as Conrad felt helpless to soothe her pain. "What can I do?"

"Just be here. And get me ice chips, maybe."

"I can do that."

As Heather's labour progressed, they moved downstairs to a birthing room. Conrad swayed with her between contractions. "Why do you look so...concerned?" she asked.

"I'm not. I was just thinking about what Ash said earlier."

"When he asked if we're getting married?"

"He said he doesn't know what to call me because I'm not technically his stepdad. We know we're a team, and I know what we said after Hazel's wedding, but marriage means more to some people than just the certificate."

"What do you mean?"

"I think I want to get married."

"You think...?"

"Heather Nesbitt, I want to marry you."

"Not today, I hope." She grunted with discomfort. (He never fails to make her flirty but today is the exception, pushing out a human and with a full cache of uncomfortable moodlets drowning out everything else.) "I'm sorry, I love you...I was never the girl who dreamed of planning her wedding. I want to get married. Wait. Are you proposing?"

"You're hanging on a little tight for me to let go to get down on one knee, but whenever and however you want to get married, I'll be there."

She smiled as they swayed. "I was going to say the same to you."

"I am going to tell our friends you're my fiancee now, though."

"I like that."

After another contraction, he helped her back into bed and she looked at him with a serious expression. "Nothing will change once we get married, right? We'll still always be us. We're a team, and we'll always tell each other what we're feeling?"

"Married or not, we're a team." Leaning forward he kissed her head, gently caressing her hands with his own. "I'm with you forever. You, me, Ash, and this wild one right here. I love you."

"Are you two teammates ready to push?" Dr. Serra interrupted their quiet moment with a smile. "You should be fully dilated now."

"I'm so ready to get this baby out of me, Dr. Serra. If they kick me one more time I might explode from the inside out."

After one final exam, Dr. Serra nodded. "It's time."

Heather laboured with Conrad by her side. In the early hours of the morning, Dr. Serra announced he could see the head. "It won't be long now, Heather. Just keep pushing."

Conrad held her while she worked to bring their child into the world. "You're the strongest woman I know," he assured her. "The baby's almost here."

"The shoulders are out, Heather. One more big push."

Heather complied with a grimace, and her efforts were met with the wailing cries of a healthy infant.

"Congratulations, you guys. It's a..." Dr. Serra paused for dramatic effect as he passed the infant to Heather's waiting arms. "...Girl! You have a daughter!"

Heather smiled, holding their baby girl against her chest as Conrad looked on in awe. Ten fingers, ten toes, and a healthy set of lungs - little Lavender Helena Gordon was finally here!

With winter just around the corner, how would the Nesbitt-Gordon household adjust as a family of four (+ 4 pets)? ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

NOTE: I didn't plan their engagement at all. They did this entirely on their own and this is the stuff I live for with this game. After Heather went into labour, Ash got a text from Conrad, and it was the whole 'I found a ring, what should I say?' advice cycle. And since it's technically against the rules for them to get married, I could have said no. I wanted to say yes! And after Ash was so supportive of Malcolm and Miko, and with how much he loves Conrad, I couldn't bear for him to be the one to say no. So I split the difference and said 'decide for yourself.'

Without skipping a beat, Heather and Conrad decided for themselves to get engaged! This isn't in the challenge rules, but they wanted this, I definitely wanted this, and I think we all wanted this! And I loved so much that Conrad asked Ash. Their bond is so deep. He's been in Ash's life since before he was two, which really isn't that much less time than Malcolm, since Ash's bio-dad skipped the first year of his life being a dick.

There was the issue that Heather wouldn't propose, but technically Conrad didn't propose, either. She's so unflirty and content as things stand, and even though this engagement was autonomous and that's everything, it didn't come with any animations. So since it all went down while Heather was in labour, I reshot everything in a second save and gave the very important moment the storyline it definitely deserved. (This also explains why they're in many different hospital rooms and beds while in labour but shhhh! It's an illusion, it's all happening at the same time!)

NOTE 2: All the poses used for this post are from the New Life pose pack by @eclypt0sims, which I think is spectacular! But I don't know how to use toddler sliders, so it's angles to disguise that there's no baby in those shots. But there could be if you have skills!