#near to all commercial establishment

[carolmunson]

i'm the best thing at this party | e.m.

up and coming rockstar!eddie munson x girlfriend!reader (is that a picture of slash? sure, but we can pretend it isn't.) aka the first time carol ever wrote a fic based off a taylor song. but in my defense, it was a chase petra cover of 'you're losing me' that inspired it. this is not connected to my rockstar!eddie x actress!reader storyline, this is it's own oneshot in a separate story.

in the early 90s, when your boyfriend's band starts to make it in the big leagues, you start to come to terms with the fact that he might not want or need a small town player anymore. eighteen plus. established relationship. angst. hurt/no comfort-ish. open ending.

"and i'm fading, thinkin': 'do something, babe. say somethin'. lose somethin' babe, risk something. choose somethin' babe. i got nothin' to believe, unless you're choosing me.'"

The Hideout was hot with all the bodies packed in like sardines; stark contrast to the icy chill of winter outside. Glowing on the screen was The Tonight Show, everyone’s eyes glued to it while Corroded Coffin made their first national televised debut. 

No one’s totally sure how their manager Richie was able to finesse this slot – but they went to New York to film earlier in the week and didn’t ask any questions. With Richie, it's better to not ask questions and just let it happen. Eddie came home with an adrenaline rush so intense that he barely slept for three days. No matter how much you tried to keep him in bed and tire him out. 

And sure, it was hard to have him be gone while you drove out to Indy and took a friend to see the new graffiti art exhibit that came in from LA when it was supposed to be with him. It was hard to have him miss a lot of things. His return from the city only started another big talk about it, one you've been having every few months the last two years. Even so, you couldn’t help but be proud of him, proud of all of them. Remembering that just four years ago they were barely getting fifteen people in here to see them play when you first started dating. 

The crowd erupts when the camera comes off of the band on the stage and back to Leno at his desk, the boys in real life all standing on the bar. You look up at Ed and smile, he finally did it, he’s doing it. The contracts are signed, the people saw him, he’s gonna make it. He’s making it. 

You duck out of the way when they start to spray champagne over everyone by the bar, “Not my hair, babe!” 

The two  bartenders pour shots of Jameson and flutes of Prosecco while the show cuts to commercial and it’s not long before you feel the sticky chest of your boyfriend up against your shoulder, “It was good? I did good?” 

“Ed you’re…you’re fuckin’ famous,” you grin, “You’re fuckin’ famous!”

You follow while he leads you through the crowd, settled in near the back where the stage doors lead to the dressing room and out into the parking lot. He looks over his shoulder twice before he sneaks you both behind the amps; heart pounding when he leans you up against the painted cinder block walls, noses mashing when he takes your lips in his. It’s feverish, desperate when he pulls at your hips, one arm wrapped around your mid back to keep you steady up against him.

“Lemme – mmm – lemme take you to the green room,” he breathes between kisses, moving your hand toward the bulge in his jeans, “C’mon I wan–” 

“The interview’s up!” Jeff calls from on top of the bar. 

“Where’s Ed? ED? Come on! The interview’s up!” Gareth calls, the crowd erupting in a cheer of ‘Edd-ie, Edd-ie, Edd-ie!’

“Come on, come on!” you squeal, pulling away to pull him toward the front of the bar again, “You said they were gonna cut it!”  

“It’s stupid, babe,” he assures, “It’s so dumb.” 

“Ed, you’re being interviewed by Leno, this isn’t stupid,” you urge, “This is like – this is it.” 

“It’s literally like two minutes, it’s not special,” he doesn’t move when you pull him along with you, a frown pulling on your lips. 

“Eddie,” your voice raises an octave, tugging on his hand – he lets go. 

“I’m gonna take a leak,” he shrugs, heading toward the green room while you watch him disappear behind the door. Your brows furrow slightly, but it doesn’t stop you from making your way back to the edge of the bar where everyone’s eyes are glued to the medium sized screen in the corner. 

The crowd cheers again while the band is re-introduced, Eddie and Jeff sitting on the chairs with Gareth and Grant standing behind them. You admire the way your boyfriend looks post performance, nearly glittering with sweat but glowing with pride – with accomplishment. You look over your shoulder to see if he’s back from the bathroom yet, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

“So we got a group of some – what looks like – nice, respectable hard core guys,” Jay smiles. 

“I don’t know about respectable,” Eddie scrunches his nose back at the host. 

“I don’t know about nice, either,” Jeff jokes. You marvel at how relaxed and natural they all look on camera, cracking wise and getting laughs from the audience. They talk about the album briefly, and the front cover which has all four boys in caskets with a red kiss print on their cheeks. 

“So, the debut is self titled, Corroded Coffin – but it looks like you all got a coffin kiss here,” he points out, “These from anyone special? You got the girls going crazy.” The audience erupts in cheers and screams, a bra finding its way flung into the sound stage. You giggle when Gareth and Grant  hold it up, making them both blush pink on the screen. 

“Well I got a girl at home, so, I don’t hear any screamin’ if it’s not her cheering for me,” Jeff’s smile is bright when the camera focuses on him and he winks into the lens. Sasha, Jeff’s girlfriend, screeches in the crowd of The Hideout. 

“You didn’t tell me you were gonna do that!” she beams, and your heart thunders while you watch them kiss on the bar. The promise ring that he gave her back in ‘88 shines on her ring finger, awaiting something much more flashy when that first big rockstar payday hits.

“It’s definitely a change of pace,” Grant nods on the screen, “Definitely wasn’t getting a lot of girls in high school.” 

“It’s wild,” Gare laughs. 

“And what about you, Munson,” Jay asks, “Frontman like you’s gotta be beating them off with a stick.” 

The camera focuses on him, his pink lips and smart grin, a flash of teeth before he starts talking. He’s so handsome, you feel your fingers and toes start to tingle when he opens his mouth.You weren’t expecting to hear your name on national television, or be alluded to. You’d never really prepared yourself for something like this. To be declared to thousands, maybe millions, as a rockstar girlfriend.

You swallow the nervous spit pooling in your mouth, heart pattering while you run through all of the scenarios of the outcome of being ‘announced’ in your head.  

“I don’t kiss and tell, Jay,” he smirks.

Oh.

Your hearing clouds and your vision blurs – unsure of what you just heard. If maybe you imagined it, but that proves to be untrue when you feel a few sets of eyes on you. A moment of silent confusion lulls on the crowd at the bar.

You swallow the lump in your throat, fingers and toes cold now while the blood rushes to your heart and head, to your lungs which suddenly forgot how to work. Through teary eyes you look around, drowned out by the cheers of the bar when Jay announces when the album will release. You sniffle, trying to hold it back – but there he is in the back of the crowd now, eyes rounded; pleading, looking straight at you. 

The tears spill over and you try to catch your breath as you make your way through the bodies on your way to the front door. You hear Gareth call after you, hearing him stumble over the barstools while he hops off the counter. Another ragged intake of breath shakes through you while you get closer to the sticker covered door, pushing through the first set and then the other into the dark blue night. Your breath puffs white in front of you, coat abandoned somewhere back inside The Hideout while you walk across the street to your car. 

You fumble with the keys, blubbering while you get the engine started and the radio blares Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together part way through the song. In the rear view you see him hustle out of the bar to search for you, catching the start of your car and getting to the passenger window before you can pull away. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” he strains, his fingers hanging on the edge of the half open glass, “I promise it’s not what you think. Richie asked me to answer like that, it wasn’t on purpose.” 

You press slightly on the gas, making the car lurch forward and inch.

“Wait! Please don’t – don’t just go,” he begs, voice breaking with desperation, “We can talk about it.” 

You look at him through wet eyes, the street lights haloing behind his head to feign his innocence. He can talk himself out of anything.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you rasp out quietly, “We’ve done enough talking.” 

“I can…please don’t go,” he says again, “Not with you crying like this, c’mon. Don’t leave.” 

“I’m gonna go home, Ed,” you sniffle, “J-just go h-have fun inside. S’too cold to be out here.” 

“You don’t have your coat,” he states, “Come back in and get it. We can talk in the back, please.” 

“I don’t need my coat,” you garble out, “I’m going h-home.” 

“Well I’ll – I’ll bring it to you tomorrow morning,” he nods needily, “Okay? Is that okay?” 

You let out a shaky breath, fogging again against your windshield, “F-fine.” 

Eddie cracks a weak but winning smile, “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” 

“I love you,” he adds. It tastes like ash in your mouth. You pull away before you feel compelled to say it back. 

Eddie show’s up in the morning with coffee and your coat, a small carton of donut holes for you both to share. He’s all smiles, seeing you in the kitchenette cleaning out the coffee pot that you now no longer have to fill. 

“Morning, baby,” he grins, “I brought your coat.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, keeping your eyes on the droplets of water that race down the side of the glass pout, “You can just hang it on the hook.” 

“Are you…are you still upset with me?” his voice is airy, surprised while he makes his way behind you. Calloused hands reach around to pull your back in his chest, nose nuzzling against your cheek. Your stomach rolls, bile inching up the base of your throat. 

“Enough, Ed,” you sigh, pulling out of his hold. 

“Sweetheart, c’mon,” he huffs, “I told you already. I didn’t want to say that. But you know how Richie is! He just wants what’s best for the band and so do I! Don’t you? I thought you’d understand.” 

“Jeff had no problem talking about Sasha,” you do your best to measure your tone, too early to start yelling. 

“Jeff has the wholesome thing going for him; plus – you know his family isn’t for him being considered like, a rogue or whatever. He’s already in a metal band,” Eddie explains, like this is a totally normal conversation, “Richie even said this morning that he was getting a lot of calls.” “Okay,” you nod, sitting down at the small table in your kitchen where your coffee sits. 

“And like, a lot of people wanna do interviews with us and get hype up for the release,” he half smiles, sitting down across from you, “I told you, it was…it was a good thing. They were saying y’know like, mysterious bad boy front man is a good angle.” 

“Great.” 

“It doesn’t…babe, it doesn’t mean we can’t be together,” he leans forward, hand reaching out to touch yours. His shoulders sulk when you put them both under the table. 

“Ed I –” you let out a breath, eyes tracing a pattern on the waxed canvas tablecloth, “I can’t even look at you right now. And you wanna tell me we can still be together?” 

“What like it’s…some consolation prize?” you choke out, “You made a fool out of me. The looks I got?”   

“I know, I know, but it was for the band. You know how I feel abo—“ 

“How you feel about me?” you hold back a bitter laugh. 

“Ed, the last year or so we have kept having the same conversation over and over again. You are so, so caught up in Corroded and making it and getting there and trust me I am so proud of you. If there is anyone on the planet who is more proud than me maybe it’s Wayne, but – this is just like, this is kind of it. We have nowhere to go from here.” 

He’s quiet for a moment, his brown eyes rounding and brows tilting slightly when he realizes what you’re really saying, “What do you mean no where to go? Are you not listening? I said we can still be together, just like befo–” 

“Before? Before when?” you get up and pace back to the kitchen where he can still see you, “Before when you would cancel dates to go practice? When you missed my awards night for work  because you wanted to fill in guitar for a gig in Ohio? When you didn’t come to my poetry reading with the guys like you said you would and instead got plastered at The Hideout after rehearsal?” 

“Well I apologized for all that, that was all in the past couple years and I – look, I said I was sorry and you accepted that,” his voice raises slightly, he stands up to full height with defense evident in his stance, “You can’t just throw it back in my face.” 

“When you were gone weeks at a time for mini tours, for opening for bands on the East Coast – god, all the work I took off to make sure I was there for you? When you canceled our three year anniversary dinner, without my knowledge, because you got a call for discounted studio time on the same night,” you manage to get out, the tears inching toward the edge of your lash line, “And I sat there at the table in my new dress and everyone looked at me the same way they looked at me last night. Poor girl. Must’ve got stood up. What an idiot.” 

“Yeah well that studio time is why we were on fuckin’ LENO, babe!” he pleads, “Don’t you get that? It’s for us!” 

“It’s for you!” you break, the shrill frustration coming out with your voice, “It’s always just been for you. It’s always about Eddie and the guys. I have done nothing but make sacrifice after sacrifice, excuse after excuse to play the part of perfect, understanding, cool, laidback girlfriend but like fuck Ed, when is it gonna be about me, huh?” He stands there, unsure, cheeks sucking in between his teeth.

“And what’s on the docket for you on Friday? Have any plans?” you ask, your voice softening while you cross your arms over your chest. You lean the small of your back against the counter while you watch him. He clears his throat, hands finding their way into the back pockets of his jeans. 

“Um, we have some meetings in the morning in Indy. And then um, we’re gonna take a late flight out to LA. The label’s excited – they’re really excited,” he breathes out, eyes finding the floor and your sock covered feet.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” you nod, voice still measured, “Since we’ve had the tickets for my niece’s winter school concert on the fridge for over a month. I guess I’ll have to tell her that her favorite bonus teacher couldn’t make it.” 

“Fuck,” Eddie’s eyes shut, pulling his lips in to run his tongue across them while he thinks of what to say next. Your heart thrums in your chest, throat getting tighter and tighter while you hold back a cry – this was just another thing to add to the list.

“I can make it up to her, I promise,” his raspy nicotine voice becoming garbled with desperation, “I can make this all up to you, too. I swear. I wish you had just told me about all of this.” 

“I have, Ed. We are always having the same conversation. I’m tired of having it. I’m so tired of this. Make it up to me? How do you make up for it?” 

“I…” he chokes on his words, ringed fingers running over his face and reaching to pull his hair back off his neck. 

“Go ahead,” you encourage angrily, “What’re you gonna do? Say something. Fucking, do something, Ed!” 

“Baby, I don’t know what to…” he swallows, tears pooling in shiny wells over his eyes, “What do you want me to do? I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.” 

You take a breath through your nose and let it out through your mouth, taking the three steps it takes to get to him. Your hands fall from being crossed, reaching up to cup each of his cheeks. Your thumbs run over the apples and drag softly over the stubble left over from the night before. 

His eyes shut while he keens into your touch, his rough hands covering yours. Calloused fingertips coasting delicately over your knuckles. You know what you have to do, even if his touch makes you want to do the opposite. 

“Go be famous,” you shrug, smiling weakly, “Go be the big rockstar I know you are. Like how you wanted. Go play The Garden and live in LA.” 

Your hands slide down his face, tears falling after them, “Go do all that, and just, um – just leave me alone. Please.” 

“But I don’t–” he starts, pulling in a sharp breath while a cry leaks out of him, “I don’t wanna lose you.” 

“Oh, Ed,” you shake your head while the ache spills over into your own leveled sob, “I’m already lost.” 

“No, please,” he begs, trying to catch your hands as they make it back to your sides, “Please, baby, I’ll fix it. I pro-promise.” 

“There’s nothing left to fix,” you whisper in finality, “You should go.” 

“I don’t want to,” Eddie’s soft pink lips quiver while he speaks, “Please. Please. I can fix it, the next interview, anything, it’ll be all you. I swear I can…I can…” 

When your face doesn’t change he knows there’s no way to pull you from your stance, voice trailing off in defeat. You watch as he rips open your storm door and goes to his van, his chest and back shaking with sobs that make the hardware on his jacket cry with him.

A year passes and you are not surprised when you find out that Corroded Coffin has made the cover of Rolling Stone. Wayne bought every copy from the gas station at the end of the road and put them in every mailbox early that morning. You don’t think there’s been a day in the last year that Wayne wasn’t seen beaming ear to ear; his boy finally getting everything he wanted. 

Life had gotten easier now that you weren’t regularly expecting disappointment. You went on few dates here and there, just trying to navigate your life after spending four years sharing it with someone else. Some nights were colder than others, but it was better than the frigidness you felt that night at the bar.

You did your best to avoid the tabloids – Eddie was certainly doing just fine navigating his life as a bachelor; some new model or actress on his arm every other month it seemed. Hardrock’s Resident Playboy. It stung the first time you saw it, and a little less each time after – heart breaker to the core; you would know, you were the blueprint.

In the same cold that matched the night at The Hideout a year prior; you sat on your steps wrapped in a robe – morning cigarette between your fingers. 

“Morning,” Wayne’s voice is gravelly when it sounds over you, still soaked with left over sleep. 

“Mornin’ Wayne,” you smile, taking a sip of the steaming cup of coffee in your other hand. 

“Wanted to uh, to let you know that the guys are playin’ a show in the city tonight. I could uh – I could get you a ticket if y–” 

“That’s sweet of you Wayne,” you smile tightly, “But I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“He might like to see you,” he shrugs. He hadn’t quite gotten over the break up the way you and Eddie had, convinced that this was the real deal – that he was watching young love flourish into something bigger. 

“He’s seeing someone, Wayne,” you take a drag of your cigarette, “Why would he want to see his ex-girlfriend who still lives in Hawkins? He’s got some actress girl now, right?” 

Wayne shrugs again, scratching at the back of his neck, “I never know what that boy’s got goin’ on in California outside of shows and gettin’ into trouble. Maybe he is seeing some girl but, y’know, seein’ an old friend could be good for him.” 

“He’s still got plenty of friends here he can see,” you let the smoke out to drift off in the gentle wind rustling through the line of trailers and mobile homes, “I don’t think I need to be one of them.” 

“Well, they’re gonna have a small after party at The Hideout tomorrow,” he offers, “Even if you just wanna do somethin’ fun. I never see you goin’ out anymore.” 

You laugh, “You work at night, what do you mean you don’t see me goin’ out anymore? I go out plenty.” 

His eyes linger on you, enough to encourage a thoughtful sigh – you might as well humor him. 

“I’ll think about it, okay?” you toss your half finished cigarette onto the browned grass before looking back up at him.

“Okay,” he smiles, eyes sparkling as he makes his way back inside. 

You spend the next day deliberating between making it to the bar or not, putting in the effort to get ready and showing up. Why bother? Just to sit awkwardly in the corner while everyone flocks to the boys and tells them how great they are? They already know they’re great, they’re crawling higher and higher up the ladder. 

You haven’t even talked to Eddie since the morning he left your trailer, and Wayne knows that. He knows how bad you hurt his nephew because he came over to talk to you a week after Eddie went to California and stayed for good. ‘So why should I show my face there? So I can relive the moment he made a fool of me over again?’ You think while the hot water of the shower glides over your shoulders and down your chest. 

‘Maybe it’ll be good to make amends or something, I at least owe it to the guys,’ you figure silently while you slather on some moisturizer at the bathroom sink. And you did – not seeing Eddie meant not seeing the rest of the band. Gareth, Jeff, and Grant were your friends too, and you sort of broke up with them in the same instance. Sasha moved out to California with them soon after – it would be nice to catch up at least. You hadn’t seen her since that night. 

‘But why would I want to bother? So I can see that engagement ring on her finger and hear her talk about her wedding plans?’ you swallow sourly while you use a touch of your lipstick as blush on the apples of your cheeks. ‘Remember all the times you thought you and Ed were gonna get married? Hilarious.’ 

Before you know it, it’s 11:30 and you’re standing outside of the sticky and stickered covered door of The Hideout. Even from where you’re standing the bar is a buzz like a hive, energy inside like a livewire when you get into the entryway, showing your ID to the bouncer at the inside door. 

‘Small after party my ass, Wayne,’ you think to yourself when you get in, shrugging off your coat. There was barely room to move and most of the lights were off or dimmed aside from the small stage in the back. By the looks of it, they must’ve played a small set – an intimate ‘home base’ concert for the real hometown fans. You push through some of the crowd, acrid smoke haze hovering over the room. A single bar stool sits empty at the end of the counter close to the wall and before you can think about it, you beeline straight there before someone else can grab it. Not that anyone would be able to see it through the six couples making out to Slayer blasting through the speakers. 

The bar tender notices you soon after, coming over to get your order while his two cohorts speedily pour shots and mix drinks. You almost don’t want to get anything just to make the night easier, but opt for a beer instead. 

“How much?” you ask over the music. 

“WHAT?” the bartender shouts, holding a hand to his ear. 

“HOW MUCH?” you yell back. 

“ON THE HOUSE. BAND IS COVERING DRINKS,” he shouts back. You take a few dollars out while he pours your beer anyway, sliding it across the bar with a smile. He smiles back, pocketing the ones with a wink before helping another person leaning over the bar. 

The TV takes your attention, a tape of their recent interviews and music videos playing on a loop with no sound. The beer is almost comforting as it passes over your tongue, it’s been some time since you just sat in a busy bar – and for the most part, no one here even knows you. For the most part. 

A call of your name snaps you back to reality, looking around to see exactly who you thought you would. Sasha. And low and behold a ring sparkles bright on her finger, a breathtakingly big diamond glittering in the neon lights behind the bar. 

“Hey!” you call back with a smile, sick crawling up your throat. You watch as she fights the crowd to get over to you, wrapping you in a tight hug while you stay seated on the stool. 

“How have you been? You look gorgeous,” Sasha’s tan skin glows back orange in green while the lights change, tight dark curls bouncing prettily around her face. 

“I’ve been good!” you nod, your voice hardly sounds like your own, “Y’know just – hanging around Hawkins. How’s LA? How’ that ring?!” 

She holds her hand out so you can really see it, her skin is warm in yours while you take her fingers. It’s more beautiful up close, the marquise diamond flanked by two smaller triangles in perfect harmony. 

“He did so good, Sash,” you giggle. 

“I slapped his arm so hard when I saw it,” she laughs, “I said, ‘Jeff we could’ve bought a freakin’ house!’ but you know how he is.” 

“I do, I do,” you nod, “Did you set a date?” 

“Probably not for another year or so if we do a big wedding,” she shrugs, “Maybe a little longer? We think it’s smart to actually buy a house first – with this kind of money coming in. And y’know, the industry is, uh, well, it can be wishy washy. What’s in today could be out tomorrow. We wanna be smart.” 

“Well thank god he’s marrying someone like you then,” you tease. 

“That’s true,” she beams, “Do the guys know you’re here? I can go grab J–”

“No, no, they don’t,” you interrupt, taking her arm gently while she turns to leave, “You don’t have to tell them I’m here. I’ll go find them, I promise.” 

Sasha gives you a half hearted smile, “Okay. Well – We’re sitting over by the stage if you wanna come say hi to the guys. Gareth would lose his mind, and Grant brought his new girl with him, she’s so cool. They met in LA and she’s like, got the sickest punky-goth type of thing about her.” 

“I love that he’s in love,” you gush. 

“Me too,” she nods, “The girls are obsessed with him out there.” 

There’s a silence, but it’s knowing – still one person yet to have been mentioned but you both seem to understand it’s not worth bringing it up. Sasha reminds you that they’re by the stage, giving her a wave while she disappears in the throngs of people in the crowd. 

Half way through your second beer and a couple of random conversations with people later, you see him in glimpses while people pass by. You can tell by the smirk on his face that he’s flirting, and when more people move and re-disperse, settling, you see glimpses of her, too. Some cute young looking thing, you wouldn’t be surprised if it was her twenty-first birthday. All doe eyed and giggly while he leans over her against the wall near the booths. I guess whoever he’s seeing in California isn’t too important.

He looks good, healthy, you can tell his clothes are tailored now – sort of comical that a tailor would fit and adjust ripped jeans and an old leather jacket. Not that he has to know you think it’s funny. 

Eddie leans forward and lets his finger tap her on the nose, a tell-tale sign of his that they’ll kiss later. He’s used that move on you more times than you can count. He did it the night you met, tipsy at a party at Gareth’s – tapped you on the nose, making you scrunch it. 

‘Aw, if I knew you’d make a face like that I would’ve booped you way earlier.’ 

‘What do you mean? What face?’ You scrunch again. 

‘That face,’ he bites his lower lip, blush on his cheeks, ‘It’s a cute face.’

You expected it to hurt more, to watch him active in his element; but it doesn’t. You know the motions, you know his tells, he next move. You can see it in the way he leans into her and then leans away – almost kissing her, but leaving her wanting more. You smirk into your next sip, counting down the moments until he puts their conversation on pause to do their rounds and finding her again later. Gotta keep her yearning, you guess. He certainly was always good at things like that. 

You don’t see their reunion, you assume it was somewhere near the stage where the band and Sasha were. At the end of the night, the boys play a goodnight mini-set, just three songs. You’d never seen Ed so in his zone in your life, fully basking in the glow of upcoming stardom. Every chord and every lyric punching out of him like the sweat pouring from his hairline and chest. This was what you wanted, what you told him to do. 

Go be famous. And here he was. Famous. Just like you said he would be. 

Water takes the place of your beer while they play; and you know better than to get up and join the crowd. Much happier sitting at the end of the now more empty bar just listening instead of getting potentially punched or tussled with amongst the bodies. 

People take their time leaving when the set is over, shrugging on their coats to brave the cold weather. 

‘Thanks for comin’ out to celebrate with us – now get the fuck out so our buddies at the bar can go home before four!’ 

You savor the conversations and music settling down to a much quieter murmur while you sketch on a napkin. A few people you shared niceties with tap your shoulder to say goodbye, new friends you’ll never see again. On the other end of the bar you hear Grant and his girl order a round of shots. Your head almost pops up at the sound of his voice, but that might bring attention to you that you don’t think you really want. Now that the night is over, you’re glad you came. If anything, just to see that they were making it just fine – and they would have with or without you. 

With less people in the bar you can hear Sasha’s laugh in the back where the stage is, and you laugh into your napkin turned sketchpad. Her laugh was always infectious, enough to make the crowd follow suit. You grab a fresh napkin from the pile next to you and start to doodle again while you figure out how to best leave without anyone catching wise that you’re here. Out of the last twenty people left at the bar, a little more than half knew who you were.

The tap of the pen on the bar top while you think blends in with the tinkling of hardware that gets a little louder the closer it gets to you. A squish of leather and drag of a barstool later makes you privy that someone’s next to you. Spiced cologne and sweat sheened skin. 

“You come here often?” 

Slowly, you turn your head – level with brown eyes you haven’t looked in for a year, just in the glossy pages of magazines you’d leave behind at the grocery store or Melvald’s. 

“I used to,” you offer a quiet tired smile, leaning your chin on your hand on the bar, “It’s been a while.” 

Eddie smiles back, soft, cautious, “Yeah, same for me.” 

You both don’t speak for a moment, adjusting yourselves on the barstools while a few more people head out to leave. The jingle of the door fades out, crunches of the parting patrons’ sneakers and boots in the snow sound outside.

He clears his throat, bringing your attention back to him – the curls of his hair, the slight stubble on his jaw and cheeks. His bottom lip tucks between his teeth for a moment before he turns his chest toward you. 

“Can I uh, can I get you a drink?” 

[vincentsambershades]

How not to tame a dragon

Cregan Stark x Targ!fem!reader

Summary: when Cregan Stark informs his Targaryen bride that she cannot bring her mount with her to Dorne, all hell breaks loose.

(I usually avoid writing since English is not my native language (be warned). I was, however, inspired by some hotd-fics from my favourite creators and wanted to write something fun, about our favourite northern man, mister cregan, which I'm actually pretty proud of. So here it goes.)

Word count: 2.5k-2.6k

Warnings: 18+, angst, smut, fingering, p in v, tiny bit of breeding kink, flufffffff

When Cregan Stark was first presented with the young Targaryen princess he didn't fail to notice the fire that erupted from within her. A fire caused by her close attachment to her dragon. Her Cannibal, albeit frightening, had served the both of them well enough after their wedding. And even though Cregan was hesitant to ride on dragonback, his wife had charmed him in doing so relatively early in their marriage. 

 In spite of how much Cregan admired the beast, as well as the bond between his bride and her mount, there were moments when he wished he hadn't been married to a Dragonrider. 

The princess was used to roaming Westeros with her loyal travel companion. Therefore, when the time had come for the newly wed couple to head to Dorne, in order to manage 'certain financial and commercial matters', as her husband had called them, Cregan prevented her from bringing her beloved dragon along. He insisted that a dragon, despite being a sign of force and power, would create an intimidating environment that would leave no room for impartial negotiation. He was right of course, as always, but the wrath of the dragon was easy to provoke.

"Cannibal is coming with us to Dorne! The cold of the North is no good for him! The heat will soothe him!" she was red in the face and as terrifying as the wild thing she had managed to tame. 

"My love, you know we cannot travel with a dragon to Dorne, bringing your beast along will only serve as provocation which we cannot afford!" said Cregan only fuelling his wife's fury.

"This is outrageous!" she looked almost as if she intended to feed him to the dragon.

No direwolf would ever be able to save him from that fate.

She didn't speak to him for at least two weeks after that. 

Around that time, their journey to Dorne began.

After long hours of travelling, as night was setting, time had come for them to rest and as Cregan helped his men set out camp for the night, his wife was taking a stroll near the frozen river. She was wrapped in more furs than he could count and looked as if she would tumble over from their weight any moment now.

She would appear comical had it not been for that sour expression on her face. 

Separating her from her dragon seemed to toll on her more and more as the days passed. Her denial to exchange more words with him, other than 'Good Morrow' and occasionally 'Good night', didn't seem to improve her mood either. 

It didn't matter to her that she missed him. The princess wanted for her husband to be the first, out of the two, to break. She wanted for him to seek her out, chase her and claim her all over again. 

Cregan needed her too. He had always known that half her heart belonged to her dragon. That was what happened with all Targaryens.

He had come to terms with that.

Yet, there were moments, like this when the mere view of his beautiful wife had him hoping that he owned at least some part of her heart. 

He felt silly. He knew that their marriage was a political arrangement. Her father had established that when the match was made. However, Cregan couldn't help but feel lucky to have found a match in the princess, their chemistry was undeniable and their times together were filled with all the passion other political marriages lacked. There was mutual understanding in their marriage. 

Cregan shook these thoughts and concentrated on the task ahead. So called traders from Dorne had been entering his borders and tormenting villages on his coastlines. Of course, the Lord had tried to diplomatically remove them from his land but when the situation became unbearable and his ambassadors came back empty handed, he knew it was time for a formal visit to the far South. He had been tempted to use his wife's creature in order to intimidate them, but the thought of causing further commotion, when the throne was so vulnerable, prevented him from doing so. For a Stark, Cregan's will to maintain the peace was greater than his thirst for battle. 

Cregan was lost in his thoughts as the men sat around the fire, passing around carafes of ale to warm them during the cold night. It took his companions quite a bit of convincing, but he finally accepted to take a swing. 

"To keep you warm, Lord." insisted the man who was sitting on his right. Cregan took the carafe, offering the man a grateful smile, and drank generously. 

Instead of downing more, he wrapped his coat tighter around him and relaxed while watching the flames. Cregan managed to lose himself in the moment. He didn't know what it was, the easy atmosphere or his companions' laughter, but something warm bloomed in his chest. How he had missed travelling. Roaming the North with his friends as the moonlight illuminated them.

It felt even better this time. Because in this particular occasion, he had her to share it with. His stubborn little wife. His fierce dragon rider.

And that was when it hit him.

Cregan realised he hadn't seen her in more than an hour. The last time his eyes had fallen on her, she was wandering around, kicking the snow with her feet. He didn't think she had headed for the woods, he knew she wasn't that careless. Before they began their journey he had, after all, made sure to inform her of all the dangers they might come across, wolves, bears and other animals humans shouldn't meddle with. Therefore, she had to be in their shared tent. 

"What is it Lord?" the man turned to him again. Cregan attempted to hide the worry off his voice. 

"Have you seen my Lady around?" 

"I fear I haven't, Lord, she must be resting." offered the man with a toothy grin that did nothing to ease Cregan's worry. 

Cregan rose to his feet swiftly, turning on his heels and heading to the tent where he found nothing but an untouched bed and a trunk he himself had placed there. He exited the narrow space, searching for any sign of his wife. His vision, despite being acute, served him little in the moment and the full moon, albeit helpful, didn't shine enough light upon the heavy snow. His mind ran several miles an hour, considering all the possible paths the princess could've taken. He began his search without being in control of where his feet took him until he reached the river. He looked for footprints but found none. Even if she had taken that route, the fresh snow would've covered her tracks.

His train of thought was rudely interrupted by a crack on the ice that had gathered at the edges of the river. The sound of the rapture was followed by a splash in the cold water and a womanly scream, one that undoubtedly belonged to his wife.

He followed the direction of the sound only to be met with the sight of the princess' attempt at defying the coldness of the river and swimming to the surface. Without second thought, Cregan rid himself of his fur coat, keeping on his less warm leather attire. He placed the heavy coat to the side and got in the freezing water aiming for his wife. She was easy to identify, even in the dim moonlight, and so he reached for her. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and pulled her out, letting her limp body rest against the snow covered ground but only long enough for him to pull his dry furs on top of her soaked ones. After she was securely wrapped in them, he carried her unconscious back to the untouched bed he had prepared for her. 

"You stupid girl..." he scolded her while peeling her clothes off and leaving them near the fire to dry. Despite being close to the fire and covered in all the blankets Cregan could find, she was still shivering. "The blood of the dragon is not enough to keep you warm after all..." she had awakened during this time and was aware of everything he threw at her. 

Had she been in her senses, she would've jumped at him for daring to question the fire in her veins. But she was weak and defeated as she watched him pull his own clothes off. 

He knew there was only one way to warm her up fast and that was body heat. And no matter how mad she had been at him for the past two weeks, she couldn't help but feel grateful as he covered himself in the blankets and pulled her to him. His arms found their place around her waist and she buried her face in the crook of his neck inhaling the manly scent of him. He started running his fingers up her back, all the way to her damp hair, and down again, just above her rear. He grabbed her thigh, hiking her leg over his hip and drawing her closer. His fingers found her front and caressed the skin below her bellybutton, tentatively delving lower. She heaved a sigh, her now hot breath hitting his neck as he let his urges overtake him. 

His hand found its place between her thighs. She was warm there. Warm and soft. He dipped his fingers in her delicate folds, finding her oversensitive bud and circling it. They hadn't coupled in a while and his desire for her was driving him crazy.  

"Cr-Cregan..." she whimpered and for a moment he thought she was hesitant. That thought, however, didn't plague him for long. When he pulled away to look at her face, to search for a negative reaction, he saw her pouty lips regaining their colour and her eyes reddened with unshed tears and clouded with want, pleading for him to finally touch her. 

"Please, please, please-" as much as he usually enjoyed her begging him to take her, he was quick to stop her whimpering by capturing her lips in a kiss. His lips felt hot against hers and as he replaced his index finger with his thumb on her pearl, reaching lower and teasing her entrance, she gasped offering him the perfect chance to deepen the kiss. His fingers felt heavenly inside her, pumping in and out of her always hitting the rough spot that Cregan knew made her see stars. 

Even with his fingers inside her and his length, brushing against her lower stomach, the kiss was his personal way of reclaiming her, swallowing her whole. 

She reached her smaller hand between their bodies, taking him in her hand and stroking him as he sat hot and heavy in her palm. 

She pulled away and her slack expression, lust filled eyes and kiss-swollen lips could have made him peak at that instant. 

"I want you inside of me, now." she stated and how could he refuse her. Especially when she looked so eager, practically begging him to fill her. 

He was quick to pull his fingers out of her, leaving her with an empty feeling. She didn't complain though, not when the sight of him getting on top of her and settling between her thighs had rendered her speechless.

He lowered his hips, reaching between his legs to tease her with his tip before entering her in one forceful thrust. She let out a yelp and choked out a moan.

The feeling of him long and thick, stretching her out after weeks of refusing him couldn't compare to anything. 

Except, perhaps, for the feeling of her, wet and warm and tight, around her husband. Cregan swore there was no other woman besides his wife that felt so perfect. 

Her tears, from how intense their lovemaking was, had Cregan remembering their first time together, right after their wedding feast when he had her lay on silk sheets, broken her maidenhead and molded her to him. 

"Cregan I need to-need to-" she tried to say while Cregan delivered licks and bites to the sensitive skin of her neck. 

"What do you need, my girl?" he thrust in her hard and fast, the way she liked it as his lips landed on her breast, sucking lovemarks and taking her nipple in his mouth, making her moan loud enough for everyone around to hear. 

"I n-need to peak, please!" she managed and who was he to deny her wishes. He led his fingers to her pearl, rubbing it while hitting her sweet spot. 

"Suck a good girl for me, begging me for her peak. Do it, I want to feel you come apart on my cock" he commanded her and not long after that her climax hit her. She held onto him, her nails digging into his biceps as he kept his unrelenting pace. His murmurs of 'that's it' and 'good girl' were muffled by her hair. Endless mantras of his name left her lips as she rode out her orgasm, her hips moving involuntarily against his own. 

"Do you want me to spill in you, uh, my love?" he asked almost mockingly as his thrusts grew uneven, a sign he was close.

"Sp-spill in me Cregan!" she yelped as he continued to abuse her insides. Her husband groaned at her lustful pleas, grabbing her face and forcing her to look him in the eye.

"I will, sweet girl. I will spill in you, make you round with my pup. You would like that, wouldn't you?" Cregan came apart with a satisfied moan, his warmth filling her and then running down her thighs as he grew soft and pulled out.

He didn't leave her side after that. He laid beside her, instead of on top of her, and pulled her to him. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to regain her breath and Cregan placed reassuring kisses to her forehead.

After a few moments of utter silence, he heard her sniffle and mutter something against his throat. He soon came to realise she was apologizing. He gave her a questioning look, wondering what she had to apologize for.

"I'm sorry for avoiding you for two weeks, it was stupid and immature of me and I'm so so-" he silenced her with a kiss to which she responded quickly.

"You have nothing to apologise for." Her expression was hopeful. "I understand what it is like to be parted from something or someone you've truly set your heart to. That's what staying away from you felt like" she gave him a nod before letting his words truly set in. Her confusion painted her face a scarlet red and her anticipation was later imprinted in her voice.

"What are you saying?" she questioned and he sighed softly, cupping her cheek and wholly giving into her.

"I love you infinitely, my fierce dragon princess. And you needn't say it back. Not unless it's your truth." a weak smile formed on her lips.

"I love you too, have loved since I married you, before that even." her cries ceased. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, inviting him to her. "I love you my wild man from the North, my wolf." he laughed at that, an honest heartfelt laugh, the vibrations of which she felt against her own chest, and proceeded to kiss her.

Cregan kissed his dragon princess like his life depended on it.

[vampiricgf]

WATER SONG [PT. 1]

merman leon x gov't researcher reader

word count : 7k+

warnings : female reader, reader has a sort of type A personality and some mild anger issues, talk of medical experiments, he's referred to as a subject and specimen quite a lot, descriptions of predatory behavior (animal kind, not the sexual kind), slow pace, sfw, lots of yearning for touch

okay part one isn't terribly exciting im sorry ajdgakab I just wanted to establish a connection between the reader and him in the setting n such before developing any deeper connection. also like 1% research went into this so im sorry if you're knowledgeable about oceanic research this'll probably piss you off lmao. also all credit for this au idea goes to @/bunnivievve tysm for letting me write a lil interpretation of your idea! this was inspired by this post of theirs as well ‹𝟹

JUNE

Subject Zero. 

Male, combined characteristics of humanoids and aquatic species. Captured by a trawling vessel, out in deep waters usually traversed by cargo freighters but occasionally by commercial fishing vessels. A freak happenstance. When the net had been dredged up in a fantastic spray of salt water, the hoard of tuna quickly spilling into the sorting containers, the men on deck had spotted something much larger than white fin tuna thrashing in the net. 

Upon careful inspection they feared they’d pulled up a man, some poor unfortunate victim of a seafaring disaster. A capsized or otherwise destroyed vessel, a near drowning victim that had fallen overboard perhaps. 

Until they spotted the flashing of sharp teeth, and the thick, muscled tail slamming against the wet metal under their feet. 

Thankfully their transmission to the Coast Guard was intercepted, a naval craft catching the broadcast and setting course as fast as possible for the trawler. 

And now Subject Zero finds respite in your “office”. If an office can be counted as more of an observation space, nevertheless. A part of you feels bad, the less scientifically trained and inclined part that is, for keeping such a clearly intelligent creature within a tank inside a black site. The initial placement had been… difficult. It was clear the subject missed the open ocean, and you did feel sorry that it had been so unceremoniously plucked from its home and deposited in such an alien space on land. But there was nothing to be done about it. 

He was far too valuable as a research opportunity. The cold, clinical part of your mind understood that. He was a marvel of nature, flesh and blood proof that man could be intermixed with seafaring species, it was one of the single greatest events in modern marine biology. And an immense privilege for you, the scientist chosen chiefly to study the subject. 

A dream. The government all but telling you to do whatever you deemed necessary, no concern over the expense. Gone were worries of securing grant funding for more piddling projects or the endless anxiety of thinking you would be stuck as one name in an endless list of names relegated to ordinary oceanic study. Not that your peers' works weren’t valuable, but you always held the selfish desire for notoriety. Had dreamed endlessly throughout your undergraduate program of the day your name would be the one filling up library indexes and publications with impressive, weighty studies. Discoveries so undeniable you would join the ranks of the most noteworthy in the field. 

And seemingly, your wish had been granted. Subject zero would be the gravel that paved your road to success. It’s just a pity it has to be such an intelligent creature. 

You sit back, uncuring from your hunched position at the desk, rolling your shoulders and wincing as you hear your joints popping. Documentation was a never ending pain in the ass but it had to be done, if you wanted to keep the convenience of not having to answer to nor justify your expenses to an overhead department. Ordinarily that work would be relegated to a lower priority researcher, but you preferred being able to sign off on it all yourself, comforted by the fact that there were no unforeseen surprises lurking in the documents or spreadsheets or data tables. Nothing anyone would be about to point out as a discrepancy, leaving you humiliated and floundering. 

As you close your eyes you can feel it, the hair on the back of your neck slightly on edge. The feeling of being observed. 

He seemed to prefer watching you when your back was turned or if you were otherwise unaware. If you were facing the ten foot thick glass of the massive elcousure he would recede into the farthest corners of it, shying away into watery obscurity. In a way it was cute, an obvious curiosity for the beings around him but he seemed stricken by shyness, didn’t know if you were trustworthy. Which was understandable. You were the one keeping him there, at least to his limited viewpoint. The one that denied him reentry into his former home. 

That irritatiningly scentimental part of your mind whispered to you again. 

What if he thinks you’re cruel?

So what? We don’t even know to what extend he does think. 

You say that but you do care, at least a little. Thats why you sneak him extra food. 

You sigh to yourself, pushing up from the familiar desk, palms flat on its slick glass surface before rising to your full height. Out of the corner of your eye you catch the white coat you don most of the day, every day, slung carelessly over the back of another chair at a separate station. Your badge attached via a shiny, silvery little clip. Walking over you purposefully keep your eyes directed away from the elcousure, your movements slow. This is a good opportunity to see how long he’ll watch you as long as he believes you aren’t paying attention. 

The badge is solid, though lightweight as you pick it up, bringing it closer to your face. It’s hard to believe you look so excited in the small picture in the upper lefthand corner. Your name in bold typeface as last name, first name all neatly lined up next to the photo. In it’s reflection you can see him, one hand perched against the glass, that thick midnight blue tail swishing up and down in a soft, rhythmic motion as he stays still. Ever watchful. 

Its hard to see in the little reflective glimpse but subject zero does have more… handsome features. You smile to yourself, recalling one of the other researchers giggling while telling you it wasn’t weird to note that because it was true. What man on land, with two legs, had eyes that shade of blue or a jawline that impressive? None that aren’t using photoshop or filters. 

Maybe if the discovery of the subject was publicized there would be throngs of people banging on doors trying to find out where he’s being kept. It did make you huff out a laugh, the idea that a half fish man who couldn’t speak was more appealing than the majority of men on earth. 

Maybe we should open an instagram page for him. 

You shake your head to yourself, still smiling, as you set the badge down. 

The office slash observation room remained quiet save for the occasional sound of sloshing water. It was late, well past time fo anyone other than the usual armed military guard to be roaming the facility. Well past time for you to go home. 

At that moment you turn, just enough to peek over your shoulder and as soon as your eyes fix on the spot he occupied all you catch is a low flash of dark blue, retreating into the shadowy depths encased in glass. 

~

OCTOBER

Three months of observation. 

Hardly enough to form any evidence based conclusions, but enough time to get started on the right path. You had approximately nintey days of solid data on his diet, his presenting condition each day, endless notes on his observable physiology. He preferred deep water fish, clearly an omnivore as he also didn’t mind the addition of oceanic plant species mixed with the fish when it was introduced into the tank. In fact he seemed to greatly enjoy the sudden introduction of variety, although still preferred to eat his meals in a semblance of solitude. 

His distrust was only natural, you had to remind yourself. Until such time as he’s fully used to his new environment you’re unlikely to observe any great variation in his behavior. 

At least he wasn’t showing signs of aggression. That had been a legitimate concern, and still was, of course. All proper safety precautions were followed to the letter when it came to subject zero, and absolutely no one was to physically get in the tank, not until further tests could be done on his temperament and how he reacted to certain stimuli both pleasant and unplseant. 

You grimace seeing a newly sent email notification, the little computerized ding signalling that your attention was required. 

When isn’t it?

You put the sleek desktop into split screen mode, keeping the charts on the subject to the left while your email opened to occupy the right side. Amid the usual low importance emails from general staff there was a new one, at the very top. The name made your stomach twist in preparation of the message. Dr. Gregg had, for lack of a better phrase, a raging hard on for the opportunity to remove the subject from the tank and getting it into a smaller one in order to sedate and extract genetic material. It didn’t matter that he’d already been sedated and had samples drawn when he was initially transported here, no. The good doctor wanted more than that, but you couldn’t accommodate the request in good conscience. 

Or rather, you were worried about the effect it would have on him. It could set back the last nintey days of progress, or worse, inspire severe mistrust and heightened aggression towards all researchers. There was no way, even with sedation, that cutting into him wouldn’t cause pain. And a source of pain that a creature like subject zero had no way of understanding would only lead to problems. 

The two of you had been butting heads over the issue for the last week, culminating in an argument yesterday where you all but told him to get fucked. You were the lead on this, you made the decisions and he wasn’t going to usurp your authority. Your credit. 

But as your eyes scan the email you can feel yourself getting physically hot, your blood pressure threatening to rise. 

You may be the lead, the head researcher on this project, but do not believe for one moment that I will not go above your head. You are not CIA, doctor. You don’t call the final shots here, and it would do you well to remember that. Whatever your personal feelings on subject zero, you cannot stand in the way of necessary elements that better out understanding of the creature. 

With shaking fingers you close the window, not bothering to respond and not trusting yourself to either. Every fiber of your being wanted nothing more than to march down that hallway and wring his wiry old turkey neck. Who does he think he is? He’s just some physiologist, some ancient fuck. Who is he to threaten you? If his contributions were so invaluable wouldn’t he have been made lead?

You squeeze your eyes shut, hands clenching in your lap as you breathed deeply in through your mouth and out through your nose. The meditation app you’d been using had provided you with some useful tools, being that your temper had plagued you since you were small. Always the first to fly off the handle at even the idea you could be questioned, your competence or credibility casted in doubt. 

Inferiority complex, a nasty voice giggled in your head. 

It’s not that it wasn’t true, and it was a bit of an achilles heel for you. But what took priority now was holding Gregg back, keeping him away from the subject and minimizing the risk that he could fuck it all up before you even had a chance to really begin. So, once you felt that initial flashpoint of rage quelling you reopened the email application, setting your shoulders back as you began typing. 

Under no circumstances are you permitted to sedate nor perform any surgical procedures on subject zero. You have not been given any formal authorizations, so it would do you well to remember not to threaten your head researcher in the contents of easily retrievable emails. You are free to broach the topic with any superior officer on sight, and I am more than happy to entertain a line of questioning from said superior officers on why I do not believe it to be prudent at this juncture to allow for another extraction of material. Research is not a race, Doctor. 

You can’t help but smile smugly to yourself, imagining his fury at opening your reply. If he thinks just because you’re young that you’re easily pushed around he is sorely mistaken. Nothing and no one is allowed to jeopardize the most important work you may ever do. 

With that you abandon the desk, it’s dull and mind numbing work, in favor of standing in front of the tank yet again. It was nice, having a portion of it extending into this area as an offshoot of the main tank where all the feeding and the bulk of physical testing was done. He seemed to enjoy it too, which despite yourself you did place some importance on. 

It was important to ensure he was as comfortable as possible. He was still a living being, despite his status as a research subject, and you took no pleasure in the idea of him suffering in any way. It was definitely a slight drawback, you could begrudgingly admit, that you tended to get… overly attached to the species in your care. You’d done the same in both undergrad and postdoc, although it was more important than ever before to keep a tight hold on those tendencies now. 

How would you feel, if you knew that man was so hell bent on slicing you open? 

Probably afraid. 

What are you feeling now?

It would be so much easier if he were capable of speech. The bridges that had to be built between what was known and unknown had to come from the very foundations, things that required occasionally unpleasant experiences in order to build their understanding of him. But if he could just explain some of it, that would be easier. A half formed bridge is faster to finish than one from scratch. 

Uselessly you peered into the clear, clean water. Between swaying stalks of plants there was nothing to see except the seemingly endless expanse of water. Several mind boggling tonnes of it, all kept nicely contained in ten foot thick military grade glass. Bulletproof. Shatter proof. Even if subject zero were to ram it with intent, crack it even, it would still hold. 

You couldn’t help but wonder, as you remained staring through that glass, if he was lonely. Seeing so many strange, upright walkers but being unable to even touch them, even consider the act of doing it. 

As you frown at your own reflection, you feel it again. 

Duel observation.

~

It was bizarre, to him. These two legs, tall men. He knew they existed, they’d always known a different sort of being lived on the land, domineered it and then took to making attempts at dominating the sea as well. It had all become so noisy, so very nearly unbearable thanks to their hulking monstrosities of shining metal and the things they constantly kept dumping into the water.

Every day there were new threats to avoid. Long gone were the days of simply worrying about other predators lurking in the open waters or within the sediment and foliage. 

He hadn’t seen the net, as they called it, until it was too late. Had been too caught in the euphoria of finding such a gigantic school of gorgeous, meaty tuna, that his mind switched off to everything but pure instinct as he’d circled them quickly, calculatedly. His jaw had felt the ache of hunger so viscerally it was like the bones themselves were vibrating with it. 

And then they’d all begun moving. Swept up, trapped in an upward drag that he’d been powerless to fight against while overwhelmed by the wriggling, frantic fish flashing across his vision, no way to know what was forwards or backwards, up or down. 

Then the shock of air. His lungs had seized up painfully with it, the feeling of being constricted by nothing at all yet everything all at once had been horrific, beyond frightening. 

After that it was too messy, too jumbled in his mind. Harsh sounds, their sounds, were prevalent in his memory but just beyond his grasp. Far too loud without the water to act as a buffer between, softening the blows of each reverberation against his eardrums. 

But her sounds were different. Or, it was that she didn’t make many to begin with. The look of them all was mostly similar from behind the thick material they kept him in, in this unknown space. At least they offered readily available food, although not nearly what he was used to hunting for himself and his webbed fingers itched at the thought of clawing through water in pursuit of some darting piece of prey. It would feel so, so good to sink his teeth into flesh, to feel it rip and catch in chunks between his teeth, the iron rich scent of blood swirling around. The roar of adrenaline in his ears. 

It was difficult to keep his focus on much here, save for her. The best parts were when the others disappeared but she would still be in that corner, down the long corridor of water and he would be able to see her, sitting and doing wholly alien things with her hands at something large and flat, but vaguely shiny. Hers didn’t have webbing, none of them did from what he could tell. How did they ever swim competently? 

She was softer than the rest and he enjoyed watching her do her strange tasks, sometimes she would pace around holding a sheet of paper in her hands, chewing on her bottom lip. Her teeth didn’t seem all that sharp, since she never seemed worried about cutting her flesh on them. What did they eat, with useless teeth? 

Just like at the present moment, with her back turned it was easier to look at her fully. Usually he wouldn’t approach openly like this, unsure of the intentions of everyone here, but this space seemed to be reserved for her only which put him at ease. That and none of those harsh spotlights were present, if anything she seemed to prefer it half dark which was fine by him, preferable to that loud bright area behind him back through the water corridor. But she seemed tense, the set of her shoulders curled forward, almost in on herself. Something in front of her was clearly upsetting and in some odd way he felt offense on her behalf. She was kind, gave him extra food before she would disappear through the night, always seemed to be keeping a close watch over him and how the others were with him. 

He may not be able to speak, but he’s pretty sure she was the reason he wasn’t suffering in this place. And that was good enough, at present, to make him feel a sense of kinship with her. Closeness. 

As she carried on with whatever it was that kept her so occupied his mind wandered to what it would feel like to touch her. They seem to enjoy touch, most of them being very casual with the way they interacted. How did she like being touched? Or would she dislike being touched by him outright? Would she find his webbed, clawed fingers disgusting, would she flinch away?

He frowned behind the glass. Hopefully not, but there really was no way to know. They seem intent on keeping a wide distance from him, which wasn’t unwelcome. The only one he was at all curious about was her anyway, not that he would purposely antagonize anyone who ventured inside his new domain, though he certainly wouldn’t circle them like one of the friendly, if a little dumb, nurse sharks do occasionally out in open water. 

He was so caught up in that worry he nearly failed to catch her movement, but his reflexes are faster than hers. Before she could approach the glass fully he’d already retreated a safe distance away. Watching as she stared into the expanse of water, her face unreadable but the set of her eyebrows told him she felt some kind of stress, strain. 

His fingers twitched at his sides, thinking about reaching out to touch her again.

~

You smile to yourself, a soft hidden kind, at the now familiar feeling. It was like there was a strange sense of understanding between you two, although you could just be ascribing things to him he doesn’t possess. Thats always something to keep in mind, as a researcher but more often than not lately you’re coming to resent that line of thought. It was clear subject zero was intelligent. Maybe not to the degree of a human being, but he was close enough evolutionarily speaking, that he was like a cousin in the chain. An offshoot of the formerly solidly established line of human life. Theres no reason, as yet identified, that he wouldn’t be able to communicate if given the chance to learn how. 

You aren’t thinking of him as a subject anymore. That’s dangerous. 

You know it is, know that voice is right. But it doesn’t account for everything. The odd push and pull, hide and seek game you two play here in this office every single evening. Its to the point now that you feel tense, uncomfortable if you don’t sense him behind you, watching you work or pace around nonsensically. You’ve spent over an hour before reading and rereading the same observational notes and data sets because you kept grinning to yourself like a fool feeling those eyes burning holes in your back. 

He’d even made appearances in your dreams a handful of times over the last month, flashes of deep, endless blue that clung to the soft corners of your mind as you went about your morning routines, ruminating over his appearance as steam from your coffee curled around your hands, ghostly fingers clawing at the air. Tension crept up your beck, spreading out over the tops of your shoulders and trapezius muscles prompting you to stretch against the back of your office chair, rolling your joints and hearing their familiar cracking in response to hours of sustained poor posture. Lazily you grasp your phone from the desk, thumbing open the music app and scrolling a bit through your shuffle playlist before settling on something bubbly, but easily tuned into the background. 

You wonder if he enjoys music, what his preferences would be if he could swipe through your library of songs. It makes you smile to yourself thinking about it, maybe that would make for a good test of his thinking abilities, how he responds to different genres, different artists. Standing, you bend slightly to make a quick note on a half discarded sticky tab: musical testing?

And suddenly a somewhat mad thought grips you, what if you tried right now? Whats the worst that could happen, he lurks in the background while you sway around the dim office like a fool? At least the only people who could see would be the guards, not that they’d say anything either beyond thinking to themselves that every researcher here must be insane. That makes your smile grow wider, giggling to yourself a bit as you take slight steps in time with the beat, giving a little spin on your toes to face the take. 

It only somewhat shocks you to find yourself face to face with him, that he hasn’t retreated to the safety of the shadowy corners. His eyes, a remarkably similar color to the water surrounding him, track your movements with abject curiosity as you follow an imaginary path, one foot placed delicately in front of the other to carry your body with the faint sound of the music. All the while his eyes never stray from you, even when he has to move to keep you in his sights, even when you come right up to the glass and offer a little spin in front of him, giggling to yourself a little more freely now. 

And to your amazement, at your laughter, he smiles. He smiles and it makes your chest feel light, like a ten pound weight you hadn’t even been aware of was finally lifted off. Some might find his fanged appearance frightening, to you it was boyishly cute. A toothy little grin, the tips of his elongated enscisors catching against his bottom lip, and his thick, muscular tail began to move. As if, had he possessed legs like yours, they would be moving in tandem with you. 

It felt like a genuine breakthrough, making you hug your arms around yourself as you stopped moving, still laughing and feeling just a tad bit lightheaded. He genuinely smiled at you. 

He was moving with you. 

That was a major breakthrough, even if just a personal one. Increased rapport meant things would be easier going forward, for both of you. 

With a contented sigh you pressed one hand to the smooth, icy surface of the glass, your fingers stretching over the sleek glass and he does something that makes your breath freeze in your lungs. Gingerly, the way people stretch out their hands to scared animals, inch by inch his own rases to be a perfect mirror of your own. One larger, webbed, hand pressed to the glass right behind your own. It felt silly but you were too afraid to even exhale with any effort, for fear even the barest noise would ruin the moment and he would flee right back into the far corners, beyond your reach. 

But he doesn’t, doesn’t stop holding your gaze for a single second and you marvel at the way his blonde hair sways in the water, like the finest strands of silk-

“So, thats why you keep refusing to allow any progress of this “research”?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the voice from behind you, a signature grating tone you could pick out anywhere. As your head snaps to the side, body following the movement only a second after, you see him standing in the door way with his arms crossed nearly reeking of smugness. 

Fuck. 

~

One week. 

You have one week to figure out what to do. 

After shattering your late night revelation with subject zero, who has been increasingly attached to you ever since, the resident pain in your ass physiologist had made sure to fire off emails riddled with concerns and accusations addressed to the operatives truly in charge of the site. Questions of your ability to continue in any capacity with the project, the nature of your relationship to the subject, insinuating you had some kind of perverse intention, even going so far as to insult your credibility. Not only cc-ing yourself but “mistakenly” sending those emails to every person working on site.

It had effectively turned you into a pariah with regards to your peers. Whispers of conversation that would be cut off as soon as you set foot into a room. Strange looks from your coworkers, ranging from disgust to perverse curiosity. It felt like you were continuously on fire, every minute of every day. There would be a meeting in one weeks time, and until then you were relegated to nothing but the paperwork in your office, per the tense instructions given to you.

But your panic had less to do with your professional reputation, surprisingly, and more to do with feeling very nearly physically sick when you recalled how fixated he was with the idea of getting to cut into subject zero. If you were removed completely from this project there would be no one else to act as a roadblock, to keep that from happening. 

Your eyes slide over to the observation tank, noting the worried way he’s been watching you for hours now. You wished you could haul him out of there, explain what was happening, the risk of what could happen to him. Maybe he would have some idea of how you both could get out of this. But was there any way out? Or is the only option allowing yourself to become a laughingstock, a professional embarrassment and to allow subject zero to languish in whatever horror would surely be inflicted on him? 

You can’t say if desperation is the only thing motivating you, but your mind becomes mostly blank as you leave the office. Its early enough, after you’d been practically climbing up the walls all night, so maybe the choice was fueled by sleep deprivation. Whatever the case may be, you find yourself moving as if through a dream: down the cavernous corridors, turning and twisting to follow the slate grey concrete all the way to the impossibly large main observation chamber. 

With a swipe of your ID card, forcefully and defiantly, the locks give a little beep before disengaging. Mechanically you make your way to where the suits are stored. Specially designed, one of a kind. Made of an interwoven, enmeshed material not unlike chainmail to prevent sharp teeth from being able to puncture both cloth and flesh, and featuring only the best in terms of diving design. The manufacturer had created them after winning a defense contract from the governenment and you wonder if they ever would have guessed someone would be stripping and tugging the suit on in order to come face to face with something most people would assume only existed in a fairytale. 

But here you are: yanking and adjusting the suit before prepping the oxygen tank, also designed to be compact but sacrificing the amount of time one could spend fully submerged at any depth. Either way it would work for this application, although no one had been given clearance to dive yet. 

You knew doing this would come back to bite you far worse than just those vendetta fueled emails. Diving without any clearance, using untested equipment. It was beyond insane. But the circumstances felt insane enough on their own to justify it. Subject zero was overwhelmingly likely to be just as intelligent as you were, and just as likely to feel physical and mental distress in similar ways. Trying to communicate was step one and what better way than face to face. Then you could form step two: proving beyond a reasonable doubt that he was intelligent and thus, could be advocated for medically even if he couldn’t advocate for himself. 

That was the only way to halt the now speeding train of decisions being made on his behalf and without his input. If he could even write out the most barebones statement, even that would work to prove they needed consent to continue with any of this. Tomorrow you could wake up in a whole new world, one where there is technically a second legal classification of human being, one with a tail and gills. The though made you smile despite the tense circumstances. 

What you were doing was a halfcocked, absolutely batshit attempt at a hail mary but it was worth a shot. Your reputation was already in tatters on site, how much worse could it be? If you fail in this all that happens is you’re dismissed and removed from the site, doomed to be a whispered footnote for future researchers. Did you ever hear about the lady that went crazy with one of the subjects? A cautionary tale about getting too attached to your work. 

But fuck that. If you’re not at least a little attached to your work then do you even really care at all about any of it? You would argue that the resident physiologist holds no love for the work, only a love for the idea of something else experiencing pain.

With a deep breath you sit carefully on the steel ledge that runs the length of the tanks open ceiling. Easy, you just flip backwards and hit the water, reorient yourself and try not to get eaten by one potentially pissed off subject. Yeah, a real piece of cake. With that you decide theres no more time to waste, it’s probably already flagged in the system that you accessed the main deck, they’ll be here any minute. 

Good, that means they can all see I’m not insane or inappropriate. He can comprehend things just like we can, the music wasn’t a fluke. 

In the span of a second your worldview dips, swirls, and the splash of water hits your ears at the exact same moment the shock of cold does. The water is kept at approximately the same temperature as the water he was captured in, frigid Atlantic delights. As bubbles envelop you, you manage to get yourself turned right side up, carefully circling your arms to tred water and remain mostly stationary. This would be the key moment, you have to exercise extreme caution. 

You’re another predator that has invaded the territory of a fellow predator. In the natural world, it’s a killable offense. But you keep your eyes open, sweeping the dimly lit, wide expanse of saltwater around you. No sign of him, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t here, watching you, gauging the situation. As you continue to keep your breathing even, your movements slow enough but steady enough to keep your body afloat, you catch sight of something in your peripheral. That intimately familiar midnight blue tail. He was moving behind you now, one webbed, clawed hand slicing through the water like knives as the rest of him came into your view. That sandy, dishwater blonde hair floating in fine tendrils around his face, framing piercing blue eyes that took you in critically, curiously. 

You allow him to keep circling you, doing your best to calm your nervous system that felt on high alert, panic just on the cusp of overriding your sensibilities. Allowing that would spell disaster, you would certanly be killed if you started thrashing or spinning wildly, it would scare him, you could both be injured in any kind of violent altercation. They would kill him if he killed you. 

But your worries abate as he slows to a stop in front of you, and despite your eyes staying locked together you’re conscious of the audience you have on the other side of the glass. The feeling of being watched by many people is something quite unique, it’s also unnerving. You wish you could apologize to him, you hadn’t realized before how uncomfortable literally living beneath a microscope was. 

You raise your arm, hand extended, in a painfully slow movement that makes the muscles in your forearm ache. His attention goes to the appendage now how hanging between you two, eyeing it with equal parts suspicion and what seems to be excitement. The physical equivalent of a high pitched alarm happens in your body as he moves closer to you, the air suddenly locked in your lungs as you wait. This was another critical moment. Would he grasp your hand? Rip it off? It was entirely unknown, beyond dangerous. 

But none of those things happen. The painting, god touching adam, comes to mind as he raises a clawed index finger delicately up to yours. They don’t touch but rather hover in proximity to one another before a grin works its way across his face, those sharp incisors catching against his bottom lip as his eyes flick back to your goggled face. 

You hope he can see that you’re smiling too, but you hope its not like it is with monkeys where grins are signs of aggression. But it seems that fear is unwarranted as his tail twitches erratically, the wispy bits of filigree flesh on the split end swirling through the water in a gorgeous display of deep blue and white. Like sheer fabric winding through the air. 

The ecstasy that floods your brain is a feeling like no other, a full body sensation that spreads from the tips of your fingers to your fabric covered toes. His tail moves to brush against your kicking legs, the heft of it is shocking. You can immediately imagine the sheer power of it kocking into you, it would feel like being hit by a freight train no doubt. For something that looked so elegant and otherworldly, it was still a threat. 

But you couldn’t get distracted you needed some display of his intelligence, and you needed it now. 

So you shake off the awe, do your best to refocus on his face. Carefully you draw back your hand, pointing to yourself and then at him. You repeat the gesture several times, hoping to receive a reaction that displays understanding. 

And he doesn’t keep you waiting long. 

In a flash one clawed, webbed hand encircles your wrist and halts your movement. 

It’s like time suspends, a complete and total pause as you feel a different kind of chill within the suit. It’s like you’re watching in third person, your throat seizing as your fingers intertwine hesitantly. It’s an oddly tender gesture, and then your body is tugged through the weight of the water, pushed against the solidness of his chest. Your arms came gingerly around him, and his enveloped you in turn. He was all firmness, so solidly built it shocked you. You hadn’t properly appreciated the sheer mass of him, the way his body had been crafted for underwater pursuit, hunting. But also to accommodate displays of affection, just like your own. 

And as you two embrace you can’t help but smile again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to form one hell of an argument on his behalf and you would shout until your face was blue that going forward, communication would take priority. Worrying about the innerworkings of his physiology could wait until later.

[queenshelby]

An Illicit Affair

Part Two: Jazz Bar

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (46) x Reader (23)

Warning: Age-Gap, Taboo Relationship, Infidelity

The jazz concert took place in a small bar, downtown Soho. It was a Thursday evening, at around 9 o'clock, when you arrived at the establishment with the view to meet your best friend and fellow student Lucy there. Lucy was two years older than you and you shared a dorm room with her on campus. 

Just like you, Lucy was nerdy and focused on her studies, telling you years ago that you should not have gotten involved with Max but, of course, you did not listen to her at the time. 

That evening, Lucy stood you down, not intentionally but out of necessity. She had an assignment due the following day and recognized that she had not spent enough time on its content. 

So, at around nine that evening, you received a message from her saying that she had to bail on you, leaving you alone in the quirky bar which, by now, was filled with art students, middle aged men and women and a few musicians. 

Still, you were determined to make the most of the night. After all, your favorite band was playing, and this alone encouraged you to order yourself a drink and take a seat close to the stage.

A few minutes later, the band started a lively tune, and soon everyone began dancing.

You found yourself swaying to the rhythm, feeling the energy of the crowd enveloping you and, just as you were starting to get lost in the music, you spotted a familiar face.

It was Cillian, Max's father, who was standing near the bar, nursing a glass of red wine. 

The sight of him jolted you, sending a wave of mixed emotions coursing through your veins. You hadn't seen him since that fateful weekend in Dublin over fifteen months ago, and the memory of his captivating blue eyes and mesmerizing voice lingered within you. You watched him from afar, unable to tear your gaze away.

Cillian appeared to be engrossed in a conversation with a group of people, but every once in a while, he would glance around the room, scanning the faces of the attendees.

That's when his gaze landed on you and he excused himself from the group of people he was with. 

Approaching you with purpose, he smiled warmly. "Y/N, hey...it's nice to see you again," he greeted you. "How have you been?" he wanted to know and, immediately, his deep voice resonated through your body, stirring a familiar spark within you.

"I'm doing well, thank you," you responded, trying to remain composed. "How about you?" you asked before asking "what brings you here tonight?" with some surprise. 

"Oh, I saw that this band was performing and thought I'd check them out," Cillian explained casually with his thick Irish accent. 

"Are you in London for work or to see Max?" you asked Cillian, trying to keep your voice steady. 

"I am here for work, shooting a commercial, but I did catch up with Max yesterday for dinner," Cillian answered. "He seems to be doing well, even though he dropped out of medical school," he explained, and you couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness knowing that you may have been the reason he quit his studies. 

"I am sorry Cillian, I feel like I caused this," you admitted hesitantly, remembering the countless arguments you had with him about his lackadaisical attitude towards academics right before the break-up. 

"No, you didn't. If anything, he hung in there as long as he did because of you," Cillian reassured you. "He is a good kid, but he lacks the discipline and commitment for such a difficult field of studies, and I must admit that, so did I, when I was his age," he chuckled before telling you that, at the age of twenty, he dropped out of law school. 

"Well, fortunately for you, you discovered acting and that clearly turned out to be your calling," you said with a wink and Cillian laughed heartily, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

"That's right, I guess," he agreed, sipping on his wine. "So, no doubt Max will find his way too, at least once he gets over you," he then added calmly before gesturing towards the chair next to yours, wanting to take a seat.

"I am sure he is over me. It's been a year already and I see him quite often on campus these days. He may have transferred to the Arts Faculty, but he is still chatting up and flirting with the medical students," you joked before indicating to Cillian to take the seat. 

"He's a charmer, that's for sure," Cillian said with a hint of pride in his voice. "So, tell me," he leaned in closer, his scent intoxicating, "have you narrowed down your field of practice yet? Are you still interested in pediatrics?" Cillian asked you, his eyes sparkling with interest. "I mean, you mentioned it the last time we saw each other, but have you decided on anything yet?" Cillian pressed further, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I suppose that's accurate," you replied, feeling a surge of nervousness wash over you. "Pediatrics is definitely the direction I'm leaning towards, particularly oncology research."

"Oncology? That's fascinating," Cillian remarked, his eyes widening.

"Why oncology specifically?" he pressed, genuinely curious. "Is it because of your friend who battled leukemia? I remember you talking that," he went on to say and you were impressed by the fact that he remembered. Unlike Max, Cillian appeared to be a good listener and you appreciated that. 

"Yes, that's right. Ever since visiting my friend in the hospital, I've been fascinated by the idea of using science to combat diseases. Research gives me the opportunity to contribute to the advancement of healthcare," you explained earnestly.

Cillian tilted his head, studying you closely. "Your dedication is admirable," he complimented, admiration glimmering in his eyes, and you blushed faintly, feeling flattered by his praise.

"Thank you, Cillian," you mumbled shyly before downing the rest of your drink.

"Would you like another drink?" Cillian thus asked, being observant, as he settled into the chair, his scent wafted over you, a mix of expensive cologne and freshly laundered linen. "My shout," he then went on to say as he noticed you hesitating and, immediately, you suppressed a shiver, suddenly aware of the intimate setting you'd created.

"Okay," you muttered nervously, gazing down at your empty glass. "Thank you," went on to say and, not long after that, Cillian walked off and instructed the bartender, handing over his credit card.

When he returned to the table, you both fell quiet again, awkwardly staring at the dance floor. The band played a slow, bluesy number, and couples danced intimately beneath the dim glow of the stage lights.

Feeling increasingly uneasy, you attempted to change the subject. "How is Danielle?" you asked, swirling the wine in your glass.

Cillian hesitated, his expression clouding over. "Alright, I suppose," he muttered, a hint of melancholy creeping into his voice.

"Alright, you suppose?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. The way he answered your question seemed absurd.

"Yeah, well, things aren't exactly smooth sailing with us," he admitted reluctantly. "We have been having problems for years," he confided in you, causing your heart to skip a beat.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," you sympathized, genuine concern etching your features. "Max did mentioned about you fighting a lot," you commented cautiously, careful not to cross any boundaries.

Cillian exhaled deeply, his shoulders drooping slightly. "We've been trying to work things out but it hasn't been easy," he confessed, his voice laced with sorrow. "Sometimes it feels like we're stuck in a cycle of misunderstandings, accusations and resentment," he admitted.

"I may have heard about certain rumors, in the tabloids, concerning you and other actresses," you ventured delicately, "but I know that these gossip magazines tend to blow things out of proportion," you quickly added just as Cillian chuckled and interrupted you. 

"I didn't take you to be the kind of person who reads these kinds of magazines Y/N. I am really disappointed in you," he mocked, giving you a sideways glance, which made you blush. 

"I don't, unless I am at the hairdressers and my phone is running low on battery," you admitted, meeting his gaze. "And I know the press loves to feed on drama," you added defensively, trying to cover up the embarrassment.

"Well then, for what it's worth, I can assure you that I have never cheated on my wife," Cillian stated plainly, his eyes locked on yours. "Not that I haven't had the opportunity though," he admitted without hesitation, his honesty striking you speechless.

"I am sure you have had many opportunities," you commented lightly, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

"Maybe not many, but I had some," Cillian laughed before changing the topic to something lighter. 

"What about you?" he asked. "Have you met anyone new since you broke up with Max?" he wanted to know before apologizing for his question, telling you that you did not have to answer it if it made you uncomfortable. 

You swallowed nervously, your pulse quickening at the mention of your former lover. "No, it's okay," you told him. "I haven't had much time for dating," you lied, fiddling with your napkin. "Med school takes up most of my time," you added, not wanting to reveal the truth that no one had caught your attention since Max, at least not yet.

Cillian nodded sympathetically. "I can imagine," he said, before pausing briefly, watching you sip your drink before continuing with caution. "So, besides med school, what keeps you busy?" he questioned, curiosity burning in his eyes.

You sighed softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Not much, honestly," you confessed, shrugging nonchalantly. "I mean, there's the occasional date with friends, dinners with family, and that's pretty much it," you admitted. "I can't lie though, it does get lonely sometimes," you revealed, peering down at your lap.

"I get like this when I am away filming for weeks," Cillian shared, nodding sympathetically. "When the loneliness creeps in, it makes you feel so isolated, doesn't it?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, absolutely," you agreed, your voice barely audible. "I've learned to appreciate moments like these, though, because they remind me how precious human connection truly is," you confided in him, reaching to clasp your hands together.

Cillian gazed at you, his gaze softening. "It must be tough, being so dedicated to your studies. How do you manage to balance everything?" he pondered aloud.

"I've developed strategies to cope. For instance, I set aside time for myself each day, whether it's going for a run or reading a book," you admitted, your voice trailing off and it was at this point that you learned that you shared even more common interests with Cillian. 

He, too, liked to go for runs and read, and not just scripts for upcoming projects. He enjoyed historical fiction as well as thrillers, and his literary horizons were broad. You found this refreshing, considering how insular and self-involved actors could be.

After ordering more drinks, you and Cillian talked some more and shared some laughs. Your conversations flowed effortlessly, covering various subjects ranging from books you both loved to visit places you hoped to travel to someday. Cillian spoke passionately about the beauty of Ireland and its rich history, while you eagerly described your fascination with Italy, having taken a trip there during your gap year.

You exchanged stories, sharing experiences both past and present, discovering more similarities between the two of you. Cillian was intrigued by your intelligence and wit, while you admired his charm and charisma. The chemistry between you intensified, growing stronger with each passing moment.

By the time it was midnight, the group of people he had talked to earlier left and the music had stopped, which is when Cillian reached across the table to refill your glass from the bottle of wine he had ordered thirty minutes ago and, just as he did, his fingers brushed against yours, igniting a spark that neither of you could ignore.

An awkward silence ensued, but instead of dissipating quickly, it grew thicker with tension.

Cillian's intense gaze bore into you, leaving a trail of goosebumps along your arms. You glanced at the stage, searching for a distraction, but the band had packed up their instruments and left.

Cillian cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Well, time flies when you' are having fun," he murmured, his voice husky and seductive. "It is nice talking to you, but it is getting late," he added, checking his watch conspicuously. "And I should probably head back to the hotel," he concluded and you blinked twice.

"Where are you staying?" you blurted out impulsively, catching yourself off guard by your sudden curiosity.

"At the Hilton," Cillian replied simply, adjusting his posture in his seat. "It's not far from here, actually," he added, his voice drifting into a contemplative tone.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, contemplating your next move. "That's convenient," you murmured, attempting to sound casual. "I have heard that they have a decent bar downstairs," you stammered, feeling your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

Cillian chuckled softly, his eyes glinting mischievously. "They do. So, perhaps we should grab a nightcap before you are heading home," he offered you almost nervously, causing your heart to race. 

"I would like that," you said softly, offering him a gentle smile, hoping that he would interpret it correctly.

With a nod, Cillian rose from his seat, his frame casting a shadow over you. He extended his hand, helping you to your feet. You felt the warmth of his touch and the strength of his grip, and your knees weakened slightly.

As you followed him towards the exit, the crowd parted, making way for you two as if silently acknowledging the magnetic pull between you two.

Once outside, the cool air hit you, a stark contrast to the heat inside the bar.

The neon signs cast a hazy glow on the cobblestone streets, and the distant hum of traffic blended seamlessly with the whispers of passersby. A sense of excitement pulsed through you as you allowed your senses to heighten, embracing the intoxicating atmosphere.

You and Cillian headed for the Hilton, which was a five-minute walk from the jazz club.

As you approached the hotel lobby, the ambient lighting and plush furnishings provided a cozy refuge from the chilly night air but, much to your disappointment, you noticed that their bar was already closed.

"I suppose we won't be having that nightcap after all," you lamented, pouting your lips while Cillian contemplated whether or not to ask you to join him in his room. 

He bit his lip, looking up at the ceiling before making a decision.

"We could always go to my room and order a bottle of wine," he then suggested, his voice trembling slightly. "If you want to, that is," he added hastily, turning his gaze onto you and, immediately, your heart skipped a beat, your breath hitching as you stared into his deep blue eyes.

"Okay, yeah, why not," you managed to utter, feeling a rush of nerves wash over you. "Just for one drink though," you insisted, hoping to ease your mounting anxiety while Cillian's piercing blue eyes lighted up.

"Sounds perfect," he agreed, leading you towards the elevator bank with a pang of guilt flooding his mind as he thought about the possibility of taking this further than his vows would permit. "Just one drink then," he thus reminded himself as he pushed the button for the top floor, hoping that his loyalty to Max and Danielle would prevail over the desire for you.

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@heidimoreton @nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter

[balkanradfem]

So, I've been reading 'Seeds of Hope' by Jane Goodall, because I am curious to what other people are saying about plants, and this book truly delivered. I've been introduced to some past plant drama in the world and that was incredible lore that should have been taught in history.

Apparently, when people first discovered tulips, they were so intensely valuable and popular, that people would trade huge amounts of money, diamonds, or even acres of land, for just one bulb. People were pre-paying for bulbs that didn't even exist yet, they would pre-order bulbs that are not yet even made. One servant ate a bulb thinking it was an onion and he got jail time for it. And I mean they're all correct, tulips just are that good.

There was also a lot of, much sadder drama about orchids; I didn't know this, but they originally grow very high up in the trees, and people were competing for discovering new and rare species. These rare and exotic species would then be displayed in rich people's gardens. Because they became so valuable, poachers would go trough the forests and take almost all of the orchids in there, making them near extinct in nature. This was resolved by orchid gardeners carefully growing them, multiplying and sharing to the point where they were sold commercially, which lessened their value on the black market, so there was no need to pillage them from the forests anymore. Growing rare plants is protection of them!

The book goes on to talk about botanic gardens, herbariums, and the value of collecting and archiving plant material, which is then showing us the effects of climate change, and stores valuable information about what is happening to the plants. It made me want to start a herbarium for sure, I'm always stressed about the loss of local plants, and it's happening more and more as green areas are cleared out.

The book touches upon plants that people have found harmful, such as plants that people make drugs out of; she clears it out to us that these plants are sacred to the native people who grew up with them, and creating drugs from them is in fact, abuse of these plants, and offensive to the communities who hold them sacred, and use them in appropriate doses as medicine. The book talks a lot about plant medicine! Apparently the pharmacy companies have been learning the knowledge about medicinal plants from native people who knew how to use plant medicine, and then the pharmacy would make medicine from those same plants, and profit off of it, without giving any credit or profit to the communities they got this knowledge from, which is not great. But then the demand for this medicine would go so high, they would go and gather all, or almost all medicinal plants from the areas where native people lived, devastating their medical supplies and natural habitats. Book goes on to question the ethics of acquiring medicine in this way, and never informing people where it came from, or what was sacrifices in order for the world to have it.

Similar things happened with valuable crops that are grown in native areas; once the demand for these crops grew, big monocrop fields were established, damaging the land and the local ecosystem, killing millions of animals who lived there, and sometimes forcing people or children into modern slavery, in order to grow them. Coffee, cocoa beans, vanilla beans, palm oil; they've been described as specifically devastating for the communities and the environment. But the book doesn't condemn these foods at all, instead the author goes on to describe, what has been done to improve this. Instead of monocrops, which are devastating for the environment, people are now taught to grow fruit trees in the same fields as coffee, which makes the coffee plants healthier and stronger, and creates and environment where some plants and animals can thrive. I personally don't believe you should have only 2 or 3 plants in a big area, I think you need about 3 millions, but it's a progress from monocrops.

The author describes finding and helping the local farmers who found ways to healthy, natural and non-damaging growing of these plants, and she helped them sell it! She also encourages buying organic food because it helps if the demand for non-monocrop food is growing.

Now there's a section of the book standing strongly against GMO foods, and for some reason I never heard any arguments against gmo, I didn't understand much about the harm coming from them, so I was very curious to hear this. The author explained how 47 million dollars was spent just for lobbying for GMO, which explains why all my information on gmo was positive, and I remember hearing it was 'the best way to reduce world hunger', but the world hunger is still a problem, so it obviously did not succeed. But now I have a better understanding of what it is.

GMO foods were specifically developed to have pesticides inside of them, so they'd be poisonous to pests, but not to people eating them. The research on whether they're poisonous to animals showed that the animals who ate them long term, had their inner organs irritated, enlarged, stomach infections, and had higher risk of cancer. So it was not proven to be safe, but it ended up in the stores anyway; the author says that about 70% of food in american supermarkets has unlabelled gmo, which is scary to think about. She also explains that this is the reason so many people in america are now trying to grow food at home, they don't want to be poisoned by pesticides.

GMO foods were specifically designed to support monocrops, and to protect them pests; this worked out in creating more and more bugs that are resistant to the pesticides, and farmers have reported the appearance of 'superbugs', which are resistant to any kind of pesticide. There's now also 'superweeds', which are resistant to herbicide. The industry is trying to develop new pesticides and new herbicides, in order to counter these new problems, but it is obvious that they're only sinking deeper and deeper; monocrops are unsustainable. Poisoning the earth and the plants, and even the seeds, is not going to lead to the end of world hunger. Farmers are often ending up losing their entire farms due to new bugs that are now thriving because all of their competition has been eliminated by pesticides, they're now the only bug and they can eat up the entire crop easily.

The other problem of GMO crops is that they're spreading their seeds and mixing with the natural crops, making them into GMO crops as well. According to the author the canola crops has already been lost, now all canola existing is genetically modified.

I'm dissatisfied with this knowledge, but it's better to know and be aware rather than to be in the dark. The author suggests designing living spaces that have gardens in them, and encouraging local community to garden, as well as planting city gardens, where food would grow for everyone. She goes on to describe the efforts of universities and cities who already had built their own living gardens in order to support the community, and how it worked to create a more beautiful, life-sustaining, happier place. She even explained how having local gardens makes the crime rate lower.

I loved this book, it had the environment awareness that can only be compared to Greta Thunberg's book, it described trees and plants so lovingly, and the connection people have with them. It showed me there's so many people fighting to save the forests and grasslands and native plants, and it's an effort that will make a big difference to how we get to live on this planet in the future.

[workersolidarity]

[ 📹 The dead and wounded are recovered by local residents after a bombing conducted by the Israeli occupation army targeted a house this morning near the European Gaza Hospital in Khan Yunis, in the south of Gaza. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

248 DAYS OF "ISRAEL'S" GENOCIDE IN GAZA: GANTZ AND EISENKOT RESIGN FROM UNITY WAR CABINET, US-MADE SMALL DIAMETER BOMB USED IN LATEST MASSACRES, THIRD OF AMERICAN JEWS NOW SAY "ISRAEL" COMMITTING A GENOCIDE IN GAZA, MASSACRES CONTINUE ANOTHER DAY

On 248th day of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 5 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 40 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 218 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

It should be noted that as a result of the constant Israeli bombardment of Gaza's healthcare system, infrastructure, residential and commercial buildings, local paramedic and civil defense crews are unable to recover countless hundreds, even thousands, of victims who remain trapped under the rubble, or who's bodies remain strewn across the streets of Gaza.

This leaves the official death toll vastly undercounted as Gaza's healthcare officials are unable to accurately tally those killed and maimed in this genocide, which must be kept in mind when considering the scale of the mass murder.

Ministers Benny Gantz and Gadi Eisenkot submitted their resignations from Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's war cabinet on Monday, citing the Prime Minister's handling of the war in Gaza.

The move leaves Netanyahu and his Likud party with a slim majority that continues to allow the Prime Minister to retain control for the time being.

In identical letters submitted to the Prime Minister, Gantz and Eisenkot left room for their eventual return to the fold, writing that "if a broad unity government is established that will work for the state of israel, for all that comes from that, we will also mobilize to be part of it."

The two ministers, who joined Netanyahu's war cabinet at the start of the genocide in Gaza, claimed they were leaving the government due to the "foreign and political considerations" of the Prime Minister.

Gantz and Eisenkot's resignation explains how Netanyahu was “preventing us from advancing to the real victory," adding that "recently we have witnessed that the decisions made by the government and by you [Netanyahu] are not necessarily motivated by national considerations and the good of the country. foreign and political considerations have infiltrated the discussion rooms and influence the decision-making."

The two ministers said they will continue to support any "correct action" that the Netanyahu administration makes, and that they could possibly return "as soon as a responsible outline is brought in for the return of the abductees, we will be ready to provide all the necessary support in order to enable its transfer and for the duration of its implementation."

Concluding the resignation letter, Minister Eisenkot added in the last line that "hopefully for change, for israel to be strong and just, a legacy and future worthy of our people," while Minister Gantz added that he "had the privilege of serving the state of israel in its difficult time!"

In other news, with large-scale destruction and massive casualties inflicted on Palestinians in recent Israeli operations in the Gaza Strip, a report published in the American media looks into the munitions being used by the Zionist regime.

According to the report, it was revealed that the Israeli occupation army has been using the American-made GBU-39 Small Diameter Bomb, a "precision-guided" munition, during military operations in densely populated civilian neighborhoods, resulting in the deaths of dozens of Palestinians, during recent operations like the one on Saturday to recover 4 hostages from the Al-Nuseirat Refugee Camp, in central Gaza, that killed at least 274 civilians and wounded 698 others.

The report cites two different weapons experts as saying their appears to be an increase in the use of American-made bombs since the start of the year, when compared with the start of the Israeli occupation's genocidal war in Gaza, when just 10% of Israeli airstrikes involved such bombs.

As the recent assaults and massacres in Gaza illustrated, the report says, even relatively small bombs, when dropped on densely populated residential areas, can inflict enormous civilian casualties.

In the published article, an Amnesty International arms expert named Brian Kastner is quoted as saying, "The thing is, even using a smaller weapon or using a precision-guided weapon doesn't mean you're not killing civilians, doesn't mean that all your strikes are suddenly legal,”

Additionally, the report states that at the start of the war, the Israeli occupation army launched a large-scale invasion of Gazan cities using tanks, artillery, and American-made 2'000lbs bunker-busting dumb-bombs, inflicting astounding damage and huge casualties, and sparking an international uproar and condemnations.

The report determines that since then, the Biden administration has pressured the Israeli regime to shift it's combat strategy towards low-intensity operations and targeted raids, which now relies more heavily of munitions such has those used in the Nuseirat Camp massacre like the GBU-39 Small Diameter Bomb, which weighs 250lbs, including 37lbs of explosives, and is typically launched from Israeli warplanes.

The report also states that current and former American authorities say the Israeli occupation does not typically share information about its use of the GBU-39 or other munitions with the US State Dept., which created its own system to track civilian deaths caused by the American-made bombs.

The newspaper also adds that the Israeli occupation has been using the GBU-39 since 2008, and has launched the bomb as part of military actions taken previously in Gaza, Syria, and Lebanon.

The bomb has a range of approximately 40 miles, and are a guided munition that uses the Global Positioning System (GPS).

Since 2012, the United States has delivered at least 9'550 GBU-39 bombs to the Israeli entity, including 1'000 of the shells that were shipped to the occupation last Fall in an expedited order following the events of October 7th, according to data published by the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute.

The report added that most Israeli and American attack aircraft can carry eight GBU-39 Small Diameter Bombs at a time, with each capable of being directed independently to different targets.

In more news, nearly 1/3rd of American Jews agree with the statement that "Israel" is committing "genocide" in the Gaza Strip, while 60% support the establishment of an independent Palestinian state.

The survey was conducted by the Jerusalem Center for Public Affairs, a privately-run far-right Israeli think-tank, and was carried out between May 9th and 11th of this year, including the opinions of 511 American Jews.

“Approximately one-third of respondents agreed with the accusation that Israel is committing genocide in Gaza, while about half disagreed,” the study said.

The survey found that 17.4% of American Jews strongly agreed that "Israel" was committing a "genocide" in Gaza, while 12.5% agreed with the accusations. Another 24.8% disagreed, while 26.6% disagreed strongly, and another 18.5% neither agreed nor disagreed.

Further, the survey concluded that over 51% of American Jews supported the Biden administration's decision to withhold certain arms shipments to the Israeli entity during its offensive on the city of Rafah, south of Gaza.

According to that section of the polling, 22.5% of respondents strongly supported the decision, while 29.9% supported it, 11.7% opposed the decision and another 10.5% strongly opposed it. Additionally, 25.2% neither supported nor opposed the Biden administration's decision.

Further, the polling looked at American Jewish support for Student protests raging in the country. According to the survey, 34.4% of American Jews viewed the campus protests as "anti-war and pro-peace", while 28.3% said they saw the protests as purely "anti-Israel". Another 25.3% said they thought the protests were both anti-war and anti-Israel, while 11.9% said they were neither.

As for solving the Palestine issue, 60% of American Jews considered a Two-state solution as the “the best way to peace, with varying conditions related to demilitarization and recognition of Israel as a Jewish state.”

The same poll found that 11.5% supported an unconditional independent Palestinian State, while 24% backed a Palestinian state under the condition that it recognizes "Israel" as a "Jewish State."

Additionally, 16.8% supported a "confederation" between "Israel" and a Palestinian State with "security arrangements", 4.8% support the idea of a Palestinian "tribal" emirates, and 3.1% support integrating Palestinians into "Israel".

Just 5.8% opposed the establishment of a Palestinian State and another 8.8% had no opinion.

Meanwhile, the mass murder continued in Gaza after another weekend filled with Israeli massacres of Palestinians in the Gaza Strip.

On Sunday, at least 35 Palestinians were killed, and dozens of others wounded, as a result of the Israeli bombardment of residential neighborhoods in Gaza.

Occupation warplanes bombed a residential house in Gaza City on Sunday, killing 6 civilians, including women and children, according to local medical sources.

Similarly, Zionist fighter jets bombed a house belonging to the Al-Shafi'i family in Camp-2 of the Nuseirat Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, resulting in the deaths of three brothers.

In another horrific war crime, Zionist warplanes bombed a shelter housing displaced Palestinian families in the Bureij Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, killing four civilians and wounding a number of others.

Another series of occupation airstrikes targeted two homes in the Al-Nuseirat Camp and Deir al-Balah, both in central Gaza, assassinating 7 Palestinians and wounding several others.

Local reporting stated that another Israeli bombing targeted a residential house in the vicinity of the Akila station in Deir al-Balah, resulting in a number of casualties, while Zionist forces also detonated a number of residential buildings in the Abu al-Ajen neighborhood, east of Deir al-Balah.

North of Gaza, medical sources at the Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital in Gaza City reported the deaths of four Palestinians, and several wounded civilians, who arrived at the hospital following an occupation bombing of the Kassab family home, in the Al-Daraj neighborhood of Gaza City, adjacent to the Al-Daraj Clinic in the center of the city.

In another bombing, occupation fighter jets bombed a house in the Al-Shujaiya neighborhood, east of Gaza City, resulting in the deaths of two civilians and wounding a number of others.

Another report detailed the deaths of four citizens after the occupation army bombed a residential house in the Al-Maghazi Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, while south of Gaza, occupation artillery shelling and bombing targeted areas of Al-Khirba, Musabah, Al-Hashash, Khirbet al-Adas, and Oreiba in the city of Rafah.

Meanwhile, Al-Awda Hospital, north of Gaza, reporting receiving 6 bodies and 22 wounded resulting from renewed Israeli airstrikes on the central Nuseirat Camp on Sunday afternoon.

The Israeli occupation also fired artillery shells along the shore of Gaza City, while artillery shelling was also fired in the direction of civilian homes in the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood, southwest of the city, in addition to the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of the city.

In the meantime, Israeli bombing and shelling also hammered Rafah and Khan Yunis on Monday morning, killing at least 5 Palestinians and wounding many others.

According to local sources, 5 dead bodies and at least 30 wounded arrived at Nasser Medical Complex in Khan Yunis, south of Gaza, after occupation bombing targeted the city of Rafah, where all hospitals have closed, including artillery shelling near the Al-Alam roundabout, west of the city.

Zionist warplanes also bombed the tents of displaced civilian families near the Al-Mawasi area, in the Khan Yunis Governate.

Similarly, occupation aircraft bombed a house in the town of Al-Fokhari, east of Khan Yunis, in the southern Gaza Strip, killing three civilians and wounding several others.

As a result of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the infinitely rising death toll now exceeds 37'124 Palestinians killed, including over 15'000 children and upwards of 10'000 women, while another 84'712 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

June 10th, 2024.

#source1

#source2

#source3

#source4

#source5

#source6

#source7

#source8

#source9

#source10

#source11

#source12

#videosource

#graphicsource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

[tkwrites]

Worth the Wait - Quinn Hughes x ofc

photos from pinterest

Title: Worth the Wait

Author: Tory / @tkwrites 

Relationship: Pre-established: Quinn x Sarah

Warnings: Swearing, grief, mentions of a dead mother. Mostly, it’s fluff.

Summary: It takes more than a week, but Quinn and Sarah finally go on their second date.  

Word count: 5,500

Comments: This one is a little long, but I felt like all the parts were needed to flesh out the characters the way I wanted. I hope you enjoy! 

Part 2 is being planned as we speak!

Worth the Wait

A Quinn & Sarah Snapshot

Hey Sarah, I just wanted to let you know we’re headed out on the road, so I’ll be out of town for the next week. 

Quinn sent this message before boarding the plane. He’d never done something like this before - tell someone he was interested in that he wouldn’t be home. He didn’t want Sarah to think he was ignoring her, or putting off their next date. 

Can I see you when you get back? 

Definitely, he sent, a giddy, effervescent feeling in his stomach.

The following evening, for the first time in her life, Sarah sat down to watch a hockey game. 

Eunice was in their living room, anxiously awaiting the start of the game. Currently watching people talk about betting odds in her Canucks t-shirt, a stuffed orca on the cushion next to her. 

Sarah had lived with Eunice for a little over a year. They were friends in the way two people coming together for convenience could be friends. She was nice and sweet, and made the best mac & cheese Sarah had ever eaten. She was also dramatic and had a borderline obsessive love for many things, including the Canucks. Sarah had never paid much attention to that particular obsession, as it didn’t cross over into her life, until now. 

“You okay?” Eunice asked when Sarah sat down.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“You never watch hockey with me, I thought maybe you were sad or something.” 

“Oh, no, my project is done, so I’m free for the night and thought I’d join.” 

Eunice squealed and threw her arms around Sarah, “I’m so excited to introduce you to the best sport in the world!”

Feeling instantly overwhelmed, Sarah put on a brave face, and watched as the national anthem began to play. The camera scanned over the players, 5 stood separate from the others in a line, and her heart jumped into her throat when Quinn’s face came across the screen. He looked impassively at the camera. He seemed so different than when they had met, determined and competitive, not so quiet and interested. It was strange to reconcile the two as the same person. 

“What does the C mean?” 

“It means he’s the captain. That’s Quinn Hughes. He’s like, the best defenseman in the league.” 

"Isn't he a little small to play defense?" Sarah asked, surprised. 

Eunice looked personally affronted. "Hughes is an amazing skater, which is the most important thing in being a good defenseman. Defense in Hockey is more tactical than super physical." 

When the game finally began, Sarah was instantly overwhelmed. They moved so quickly, and it was damn near impossible for her to keep track of the puck. There were terms being thrown around by the commentators that were so niche, she didn’t even know where to begin figuring them out.

“What’s icing?” she asked when there was a commercial break. 

“So, it’s when a team shoots the puck to the other end of the rink, but no one is there to receive it.” 

She knew that wasn’t quite right. There were plenty of times before the break when that very thing happened, but no icing was called, and couldn’t the goalie receive it and negate that altogether? 

“And there’s no out of bounds?” 

“Nope. Just the rink. You can get penalized for shooting the puck over the glass though.” 

The game continued, and after a scuffle, Quinn skated off to sit by himself. 

“Why is he there?” 

“He got a penalty. High sticking,” Eunice said without any additional explanation. 

The announcers replayed the offense in slower motion, showing how in the midst of a play, Quinn had accidentally hit another player in the jaw with his stick. 

“That doesn’t seem like it should be a penalty when it was an accident,” Sarah said. The other guy wasn’t even bleeding.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s part of the game. Keep control of your stick all the time.” 

The camera moved back to Quinn in the little cell. He removed his helmet and rubbed a towel over his face and hair before replacing it.

Eunice sighed dramatically, “God, he’s so hot.” 

Sarah had to agree. He did look hot - supremely so. Flushed and sweaty, it was difficult to keep her mind off imagining him in her bed like that.

“Wait, why is it 4 against 5?” Sarah asked as the game began again. 

“Cause Hughes got a penalty,” Eunice said, as if this was all the explanation Sarah should need. 

Sarah stopped asking questions. Every time Eunice had tried to explain something in the past, she would get so excited, she would leave out key points, or assume Sarah had background knowledge she didn’t, and Sarah would end up even more confused. She often had to look up whatever they were talking about after their conversation anyway. 

The period ended, and Eunice left the living room. 

Sarah continued reading the article about the basics of hockey she had pulled up on her phone at the last commercial break. She wished she could watch with someone who would patiently explain each rule as it passed in the game. She had learned Football from her dad that way. Maybe Quinn could explain it to her. 

“Okay, so what’s really up?” Eunice asked when she returned, plopping back down on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a bag of caramels.  

“What do you mean?” 

Holding up one finger, she said, “you’re watching hockey with me,” she held up a second, “you’re trying to understand it,” a third finger went up, “and you’re, like, actually interested in sports?” 

“I’m interested in sports,” Sarah defended. “We’re a football family. My uncle coached.” 

“Whatever,” she waved her hand dismissively, “it’s a dumb American sport anyway.” 

Sarah rolled her eyes, but didn’t take the bait. 

“All I’m saying is that we’ve lived together for over a year, and you have never, not once, expressed any kind of interest in Hockey and I want to know what changed.”

The commercials ended and the camera cut to someone interviewing Quinn, who was in his full kit sans helmet. He answered questions in the same quiet, methodical way he had answered her on their date. Only this time, he said a lot of words without actually saying much of anything. 

Sarah chewed on her lip. 

“Did you finally discover how hot hockey players are?” Eunice teased.

“I don’t -” Sarah cut off, pushing a breath out her nose in frustration. 

She was about to tell Eunice that hot guys were not the only reason she watched sports, only to realize that that’s precisely what she was doing. 

“I met him,” she finally admitted. 

“You met who?” 

“Quinn,” Sarah said, gesturing to the TV. 

“Met? You MET Quinn Hughes?” Eunice asked, turning in slow motion to look at Sarah. “When?!” 

Sarah started, “on Monday.”

“Where? What? How?” Eunice demanded, her voice getting progressively louder with each word. 

“He came into the aquarium, asked some questions after one of my talks, and then asked if I wanted to get lunch.” 

“He asked you to lunch?” Eunice repeated. 

“Yeah, we went to get bao.” 

“Like on a date?” 

“I think so. I mean, he paid, and he got my phone number aft-”

“Quinn Hughes asked you for your phone number,” Eunice thundered, “and you didn’t think to tell me about it?” 

It probably wasn’t the right time for Sarah to point out that she and Eunice really didn’t have that kind of a relationship. In fact, Sarah hadn’t told anyone but Beth, her best friend from back home, who had been thrilled Sarah had finally met a good guy.

“Sorry,” Eunice said, settling on the couch like a proper lady in a period drama, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to flip out.” 

Sarah wasn’t sure how she should react. She hadn’t intended on telling Eunice at all, worried - justly, it turned out - that she would freak.  

“But oh my fucking God,” Eunice yelled, throwing her hands up and breaking her posture to flop dramatically into a slouch. 

“What’s going on?” Jane asked, leaning in the door frame, rubbing sleep from her eyes. 

“Quinn Hughes asked Sarah for her phone number,” Eunice declared, gesturing to Sarah as if she were the reason Jane was up early before her graveyard shift, not her own yelling. 

Jane perked awake, “really?” 

“Yeah,” Eunice said, sounding like a petulant teenager.  

“Oh my God. I didn’t think this was a big deal,” Sarah said, putting her head in her hands. 

“That the most eligible bachelor in the whole city of Vancouver asked you for your number? I’d say that’s a pretty big fuckin deal.” 

“He’s just a guy, Eunice.”

“I’d beg to differ," Jane cut in. “It is a pretty big deal.” 

“So he’s not a guy?”

Both women rolled their eyes at her. 

“Of course he’s a guy,” Eunice said, exasperated. 

“But he’s not ‘just’ a guy,” Jane said, air quotes and all. “He’s a little more than that, I think.” 

“Why? Because he’s a professional athlete?” 

“Yeah. And millions of women across the world want to marry him.”

“He’s handsome and all, but I can’t believe that’s true,” Sarah said. “Do millions of women even watch hockey?” 

At the fierce glares she received from both of her Canadian roommates, Sarah held up her hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. Maybe millions of women watch hockey, and some of them find him attractive. But for my purposes, he’s just a guy. He was just a guy on our date.” 

“It's not about you,” Jane said. 

Sarah raised her eyebrows in a challenge. 

“What we mean is that it’s a big freaking deal that Quinn asked for your number.” 

She reeled back, “Is it so hard to believe that he would be attracted to me?” 

“No!” they both shouted, Eunice exasperated while Jane was horrified. 

“Of course he’s attracted to you. Look at you.”

“I think what Eunice means is that Quinn Hughes has celebrity status in this city, and so him asking for your number means that he saw something really special in you. Women throw themselves at him every day.” 

Sarah wrinkled her nose in disgust. 

“It’s like, a major, major compliment,” Eunice said. 

Biting her tongue, Sarah resisted the urge to tell her that it was a major compliment if anyone asked for her number, celebrity status or not. 

“So, are you going out again?” Eunice asked, sitting back down on the couch. 

“I mean, we said we would, but he’s out of town until next week, so I guess we will when he gets back?” 

“Oh man,” Eunice said, leaning back in her seat. “You are living such a fanfiction right now.” 

Sarah snorted and rolled her eyes. 

Jane yawned. “I’m going back to bed. I have to be at the hospital at 2 in the morning.” 

“I’m sorry we woke you up,” Sarah said. 

Shaking her head, Jane smiled. “I’m glad Quinn saw the same things the rest of us do. If anyone deserves a fanfiction love story, it’s you.”

Heat raced into her cheeks, and Sarah smiled, turning back to the TV as the game began again. 

“I cannot believe this,” Eunice said, picking up the stuffed whale to clutch in her hands. “You’ve got to introduce me to Kuzmenko.” 

“Who?” 

A few nights later, Quinn was slipping into a dinner booth in St. Louis when his phone pinged with a message. 

Hey, I don't know what your schedule is next week, but The Electric is showing the Star Wars movies starting Sunday if you want to catch one together?

His heart jumped into his throat so fast, he made a sort of gasping choking nose that had Elias clapping him on the back. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Quinn said, clearing his throat. 

“Who is that from?” Petey asked quietly. 

Quinn was suddenly overwhelmingly thankful that he wasn’t sitting next to anyone else, who surely would have made a big scene of announcing that he got a text about a date to everyone in the near vicinity. Petey knew he preferred his privacy, and always respected that. 

“Remember that girl I was telling you about last week? The one from the aquarium?” 

His eyebrows shot up, “that’s her?” he asked, nodding at the phone.

Quinn nodded. 

As Elias watched, Quinn pulled up their practice and game schedules. 

Sounds awesome. I’m back in town Wednesday and free on Thursday or Saturday nights. 

Almost immediately, the icon of her typing appeared. His heart began to hammer a little harder, pulsing in his throat in that nervous, I-can’t-wait-to-talk-to-her way he hadn’t felt in a long time. 

Thursday is The Empire Strikes Back, so I’m guessing that’s our choice. Unless you’d rather see the Force Awakens on Saturday?

Thursday is great.

Cool. I’ll get us tickets. Showtime is at 7 and they have a special menu for dinner and drinks at 6. 

Sounds great.

It was as simple as that. Quinn had never had a date planned so smoothly. 

Her text bubble popped up again, before going away. He gulped some of his nervousness down. 

When he clicked off the screen and looked at Elias, he found the other man smiling at him knowingly. 

“What?” 

“I didn’t think she existed.” 

“Sarah? You thought I was making her up?” 

Petey rolled his eyes, “No. I didn’t think the girl you always talk about wanting to date existed. But she’s right there,” he gestured to Quinn’s phone. 

Feeling his cheeks flush, Quinn shrugged to deflect the wave of sincere agreement that washed over him by busing himself with the menu. 

Leaving her last class, Sarah was beyond thankful to leave campus and go home. She was exhausted to the bone. It had been a hard week of studying and midterms. On top of that, nervous, excited energy was buzzing under her skin in anticipation of her date with Quinn that evening. 

When she got home and finally pulled her phone from her bag, she found a missed call from him. Stomach dropping, worry billowed into her thoughts like smoke. He was probably calling to say he couldn’t come. Why else would he call when they’d only texted so far?

 Rapid fire, her thoughts rifled through friends that might want to come to the movie before she snapped back to herself. This was her anxiety talking. It wasn’t the truth.

Taking the time to pull in a few deep breaths, she told herself he could be calling about something other than canceling. It took eight breaths before she felt calm enough to call him back.

The phone rang three times before he answered. “Hey.”

“Hi, sorry I missed you earlier, I was in my last midterm.” 

 “I’m sorry,” he said, wincing. That was one thing he didn’t miss about college. There wasn’t a lot, but the pressure of midterms and finals were something he was happy to live the rest of his life without. 

“Well, it’s done now, so I’m just excited to take a nap.” 

He laughed. 

“So what’s up?” she asked, trying, and failing, to not sound nervous. 

“I wondered where I should pick you up tonight,” he said. 

Relief sighed through her legs and she sunk onto the bed. “I was planning to meet you there.” 

“I can come pick you up,” he offered. There was no need for her to take the train when he could drive them. 

This was always an awkward conversation, but one she’d constructed with her therapist to ease her anxiety. If someone didn’t respect this, it was a sure sign she didn’t want to date them. “Quinn, you seem like a great guy, but I don’t want you to pick me up. I don’t know you very well.” 

A long pause passed over the phone. She wondered if she was going to have to explain this concept to him. 

Honestly, Quinn hadn’t heard that line in a long time. He knew from friends that women often did this to protect themselves, but something about his presence in the media made women trust him implicitly. He hadn’t taken advantage of that - he would never - but it had infiltrated his thoughts before, how easy it would be. 

She stood up for herself, and kept herself safe, and he respected her for that. “That makes sense,” he said.

It was so much easier than she’d been expecting, that Sarah had a hard time coming up with words.

“So I’ll meet you there?” he said when she didn’t say anything. 

“Great.”

“What time?” 

“Dinner starts at 6, so I figured like 6:15?” 

“Great. I’ll meet you out front?” 

“Sounds great.” 

They said some pleasant goodbyes and she flopped back on the bed. Karma was really seeing this one though. Nice, interested, a bit nerdy, and respectful, not to mention handsome, Sarah had hardly allowed herself to dream up a guy like Quinn. And now, here he was, suddenly in her life. A feeling like she’d just drunk champagne began to fizz in her stomach. A smile spread over her face as she hugged her pillow and set an alarm.  

Walking up to the theater, Quinn wiped his hands on his jeans, hoping he wasn’t about to revert back into a teenage boy with sweaty palms. He had to pee again. Nerves always shrunk his bladder. It hadn't happened in a game since he was ten, but other places - getting on a stage, press conferences, dates - always made him nervous. 

The theater was an old fashioned, stand alone cement building. A ticket booth complete with marquee lights sat between two sets of French doors. Sarah was already there, leaning against the wall, looking up at the building across the street. It surprised him she wasn't on her phone.

“Hey,” he said as he got closer. 

“Hi,” she said, meeting his eyes with a smile that made his stomach ache. Her lips were darker, making them stand out a little more. His eyes were drawn to them like a magnet. 

She slipped her arms around his neck for a hug. It felt so natural this time as he pulled her into his chest. 

As she broke away, she asked, “ready?”

He nodded, and she walked over to the ticket window, “I have a reservation for two under Roberts.”

The teenager working looked up from his phone. His gaze drifted past her. “You’re Quinn Hughes,” he said, mouth falling open.

Sarah glanced over her shoulder. 

“Hey, what’s up man?” Quinn said as if someone hadn’t just told him who he was. 

The employee - who couldn’t have been more than sixteen - was still staring at Quinn, even when he didn’t say anything else. 

“You’re coming to the show tonight?” he finally asked. 

Sarah had never felt so looked over in her life. It wasn’t that she was jealous. She would never want that kind of attention, but there was common decency not being met here. 

“We’re trying to,” she said, not unkindly, nudging him back to her reservation. 

The boy started. He blinked a few times before he said, “sorry, what was the name?” 

“Sarah Roberts.”

As they walked into the foyer. The ticket clerk slipped out of the booth, and came up to them, “hey man, I’m sorry to interrupt, but could I get an autograph? My girlfriend is a huge fan.” 

Quinn nodded, and reached for the paper and pen he held out. 

“Thanks so much, enjoy your show!” 

As soon as they turned around, a harried looking woman with flyaway strawberry blonde hair came rushing up to them. “Mr. Hughes, we’re so glad you can be with us tonight.” Apparently, Mr. “you’re Quinn Hughes” had spread the news. 

He gave her a polite smile. 

“I just wanted to let you know, we upgraded your reservations to one of our more private love seats in the back.”

“That’s very nice, but it’s not necessary,” he said, feeling embarrassed. Sarah was never going to go out with him again if their first date was under this much of a microscope. 

“Oh, no,” she said with a strained smile, “I insist.” 

Sarah looked up at him, wondering what was going to happen here. 

“Well, thank you,” he said, knowing that arguing would only draw more attention. So far, the other patrons were ignoring them, and he wanted to keep it that way. 

“Let me show you to your new seats.” She led them to a plush couch tucked into the back of the theater. No neighbors and a perfect view of the screen. No one would even need to walk in front of them to get to the bar or the bathroom. 

“Thanks so much,” Sarah said. 

The woman walked away, and she turned to Quinn with wide eyes, “that was wild.” 

“I know, I’m sorry,” he said, his hand going to the back of his neck. 

“Does that happen a lot?”

He shrugged, “sometimes. Most people are pretty cool, though.” 

“I actually thought about reserving this, but it was like triple the price, and I’m on a grad school budget, so…” she trailed off, her cheeks flushing as she clasped her hands together.

“The seats we had before would have been great,” he said, “people make a fuss.” He knew this woman was probably hoping he would share the theater on his social media, but finding a place like this was hard enough. He didn’t want to ruin that by announcing it to the world. 

Desperate to change the subject, he said, “Thanks for finding this. I didn’t know it was even here.” 

“I didn’t either,” Sarah admitted, deciding they may as well enjoy the upgrade and sat down on the sofa. It was plush microfiber - incredibly soft to the touch - and very comfortable. It wasn’t like she was going to demand they go back to the standard seats she’d booked.

“How did you find it, then?” he asked, sitting next to her. 

“I overheard someone talking about it on the train and looked it up. It looked cool, so here we are.” 

He smiled at her, and her heart did a karate kick into her lungs. She sucked in a deep breath. 

They made their way to the bar to order dinner and drinks. Everything was on theme, including Sarah’s cocktail that came out glowing bright blue with smoke billowing off the surface. She laughed, looking truly delighted with it. It made Quinn want to kiss her. Not that he hadn’t been thinking about that since they’d met, but something about the pure joy in her face when the bartender handed it over made the impulse even stronger. 

The problem, she soon discovered, with the couch arrangement was the fact that their food and drinks ended up on the end tables - on opposite sides of the couch, making it nearly impossible to eat and have a conversation the way she wanted to. 

After turning around for her drink for the third time, she let out a frustrated sigh. “Here, will you hold this?” she asked, handing him her glass. 

Quinn accepted it and watched as she put her plate on the table, and moved it in front of the couch. She then tucked herself around it, and sat facing him, with one of her legs bent at the knee between them. 

“At least for now,” she said, taking her drink back and setting it on the relocated table. 

Quinn smiled. He never would have moved that table - too afraid to upset someone. He admired Sarah’s willingness to solve the issue at hand. 

Her drink was still smoking when he set his beer bottle next to it. She'd let out the most adorable giggle with the first sip, scrunching her nose at the feel of the smoke. 

“So, what made you choose Vancouver?” he asked, “I’m sure there are places in the States where you can study Marine Zoology.” 

She was instantly impressed that he remembered her degree. Most people got the marine part right, but assumed she was a biologist.  

“That’s kind of a long, complicated story, but basically, my mom died a year and a half years ago and -” 

He cut in, “I’m sorry, Sarah.” 

“Thank you,” she gave him a sad smile. 

“Anyway, there’s a little more to it, but I ended up here because my uncle lives here. I wanted to study the ocean, but I had to be close to family, and the only family I had close to the ocean was here, so that kind of made my decision for me.”

Bracing herself for sympathy, she looked into his eyes, only to find a more open, understanding expression on his handsome face. “That sucks about your mom. My dad lost his mom when I was like two, and he still talks about how hard it was. I know it was really devastating for him. I can't imagine how it felt for you." 

She was so young - too young. She’d been his age. Even considering how long he'd been living away from his parents, it would be awful to lose his mom. She was the person he called for almost everything.

Tears pricked at her lower lashes. She blinked them away, busying herself with her drink to shut down that topic of conversation. 

He laughed when her nose scrunched up again. 

“I promise it’s really good,” she said, giggling, “the smoke just tickles.” 

“Sure,” he teased, then added, "it's actually really cute."

Her gaze caught on the amused set of his mouth, and lingered there for a beat too long. Tearing her eyes away, she asked, “what about you? Why Vancouver?” 

“Well, I was drafted here,” he said after swallowing his bite of salad. 

“So you didn’t have a choice?” 

“Yes and no. I toured and interviewed with a lot of clubs, and I liked it here along with a few other places. They knew how I felt, so they knew it would probably be a good fit. But the draft is always kind of a gamble. My brothers both went to New Jersey, which is pretty unheard of.” 

“Your brothers play hockey too?” 

He nodded. 

“How many of you are there?” 

“Just the three of us,” he said, “and a whole mess of cousins. What about you?” 

“I have an older sister and an older brother. They still live in Nevada, and they both have a bunch of kids. My brother married my sister's best friend, so they’re all really, really close.” 

She said it with a kind of sadness that Quinn knew well: a specific feeling that stemmed from your siblings being together while you were apart. Even though everyone was doing good things, it was still lonely to be the odd man out. 

“I get that,” he said. “My brothers live together in Jersey, and my grandad’s there too, so I feel pretty separate sometimes.”

It was strange to Sarah how much they had in common. Both from families of three siblings, both in Vancouver because of a mix of circumstance and choice, both understood familial loss to at least some extent. She had never met a man like him. 

The bartender announced the movie would start in 5 minutes. 

“I’m going to use the restroom,” she said. “Do you need anything on my way back?”

He shook his head. 

When she came back to their little corner of the theater, she found a refreshed drink on the end table. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

“Of course.” 

The movie started and it was instantly calming to her. Being there with Quinn felt like a special treat, like something out of a daydream.

When she lay her hand, palm up, in the small bit of love seat between them, Quinn was quick to pick it up, entwining their fingers. It felt a bit like he was fourteen again, just excited to hold a girl’s hand. He wanted to touch her all the time, but knew they weren’t there yet. He couldn’t wait to get to the point in the relationship when he could rest his hand on her thigh, or put an arm around her shoulders without it being a big deal. It felt so close, he could almost taste it. 

Leaning progressively closer throughout the movie, Quinn finally put his arm around her. He had to stop himself from celebrating when she rested her head on his shoulder. 

When the movie started winding down, Quinn began to wonder how exactly the end of the night was going to go. He wanted to kiss her so badly, but he didn’t want to do that in the theater or the foyer, where prying eyes and cell phone cameras were in abundance. Maybe he could ask her if they could walk to his car so he could kiss her there? Or maybe he could take her to her building's parking garage? Every way he thought about asking her sounded fucking creepy.

He was still caught in that internal debate when the movie ended and the house lights went up. How was he going to do this? He could just come out and tell her, but it made him sound paranoid and more than a little full of himself. 

“Could you walk me to the train station?” she asked, effectively ending his internal argument. 

He bit back the suggestion that he could just drive her home. “Yeah. Sure, of course,” he said. Maybe there would be a dim corner he could tuck them into and kiss her. 

The night air was cool, and humid when they stepped outside. Heart pounding, Sarah hoped he couldn’t feel it through their clasped hands. 

“You’ll have to lead the way,” he said. “I don’t really take the train.”

“No?” 

“Too many people.” 

While holding his hand was nice, Sarah’s mouth had felt empty with yearning all night. A deep longing to kiss him had been purring in her chest for over a week now, and seeing him made it rumble even louder. From the way she caught him glancing at her mouth throughout the night, it seemed like he felt the same way. 

There was a small, clean alleyway she’d spotted on her walk to the theater. As they passed it, she tugged him off the sidewalk, turned around so she could slide one hand over the back of his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. 

Quinn sucked in a sort of shocked breath at her forwardness. 

She pulled away just as he was registering what was happening and sinking into the kiss. 

Taking her hands back, a blush searing her cheeks, she said, “I’m sorry, that was really presumptuous of me.” Hoping she hadn't just ruined everything, She tried to not feel rejected. Had she been reading the signs wrong? 

“No,” Quinn said, his voice a little too loud. 

It was so strange to him that their physical connection, which had always been the easiest part of his past relationships, seemed to be the only thing they fumbled over. 

He cleared his throat, and slipped his hand up to cup her jaw, "no. I was just a little surprised.” 

Seeing the longing in his face when she looked into his eyes kicked hers back into gear, ready to squeal off the pavement. 

Leaning in closer, his breath caressed her lips as he whispered, “I’ve been thinking about this all week.” 

A shiver raced down her spine at his confession. “Me too." 

Pulling back just slightly, he looked into her face. It felt like he was standing at the edge of the most beautiful view he'd ever seen. He couldn't wait to jump over it. 

She tipped up, and he leaned down, and when their lips met, a gentle sigh passed between them. 

There was no awkwardness, no questioning of who would tip which way, or if it was too soon for tongue. No, Sarah just took advantage between kisses, and swept her tongue into his open mouth. He responded in kind, sliding his tongue along hers. 

Her hands found their way into his hair in an attempt to pull him closer. The soft noise he gasped into her mouth made her fingertips tingle with a heady sense of satisfaction. Molten desire dripped into her veins.

Quinn let all his other thoughts fall away in favor of savoring this moment. He wanted to commit every second of it to memory. She tasted like the tart syrup used in her cocktail, and the smooth sweetness of the rum. Coupled with the vanilla, woodsy scent of her perfume, and her soft, skilled tongue, it was the most intoxicating thing he'd ever experienced. He never wanted to stop. 

The world fell away. 

Then, it came crashing back. 

"Get a room!" someone yelled from the group of teenagers walking by. 

He pulled away, just enough that he could feel her panting breaths rushing over his lips. He didn't want to let the moment slip away. Not when it had been so perfect. 

"Can I make you dinner on Saturday?" he asked, still feeling a little breathless.

She paused, and he realized what he'd just implied. God, he wasn't thinking straight. 

Pulling back, he rushed to explain, "I can bring it with me to a park or something. I just want to see you again." 

A smile broke over her face, "I want to see you again, too." 

Simple, straight to the point. Quinn felt some of his anxiety drop away. 

"I'll think about where, but definitely yes to dinner." 

He beamed. 

Want more Quinn & Sarah? Check out the Snapshots Masterlist

To read all my fics, check out the Fanfiction Masterlist

[luveline]

For the zombie AU with Steve, maybe a night of survival in the cold? Reluctant cuddling, bonding?

YESSSS tysm for ur request i owe u my life

You pull your coat closed around your middle and shiver.

"Come here," Steve says, tucking the map under his arm.

You move to stand in front of him because he's slipped into his caretaking tone. A nice change. Usually he's just mildly annoyed.

He takes the zipper of your coat into his hand and scolds as he tries to fix it for the fiftieth time today. It's awful timing for it to break because it's cold as winter and you're on the road. A fire, as you've learned, would be a mistake. You close your eyes at the thought of such blistering warmth and listen to him cuss under his breath.

"Sorry," you say eventually. His quiet makes you nervous.

"Not your fault, just..." He gives up and steps away from you. "Bad timing."

You hide your hands in your sleeves.

"Maybe we should stop anyways. We're not exactly moving fast," he says bitterly.

You like the sound of that.

There's a tarp at the bottom of your backpack for occasions like this. You shed your bag and dig for it as Steve drops his own. It's not great, your having to carry blankets with you — they're heavy and take up a lot of space — but it's worse to freeze to death outdoors.

The sun creeps down low in the horizon lazily. You think it's as reluctant to go as you are for it to dissapear, its rays the only thing keeping the tip of your nose from freezing and falling off, no doubt.

You search for a stick. It's harder than it sounds.

Steve doesn't like walking along the road and you don't blame him, often there's cars or bikes weaving through the carcasses of cars picked clean, so you hide in the tree bank. A road block or something similar to the south must've broken recently, and the sound of engines revving at night gets more frequent. Better to stay hidden, even if finding somewhere to camp at night proves difficult.

The stick is necessary to build a makeshift tent, but the trees here are all spindly and thin-branched.

You return triumphant with something just long enough to keep the tarp from your bodies to find Steve's already found a better, chunkier stick and established a camp.

"Don't tell me, or anything. Just let me look for sticks for an hour."

"Your perception of time is getting worse."

"Some of us don't wear watches, 'cos we aren't rich, privileged babies."

He actually manages to laugh at that one, which is odd. It's one of the weakest insults you've ever thrown at him.

"That was bad," he says.

Oh. He's laughing at you.

"Jerk."

"What do you want? I have tinned peaches or a chocolate granola bar-"

"Obviously the granola-"

"With laxatative properties," he finishes, holding it between his fingers like a guy from the commercials. He shakes it at you enticingly.

"I'm not that hungry."

"Too bad."

You both sit near the makeshift tent in your heavy clothes. Steve stretches the blanket over your legs with a warning, "If you get peach juice on this I'm not gonna talk to you till Michigan."

You take the open can of peaches and pretend to tip it toward the blanket. "Don't tempt me, Harrington."

You have to keep talking because if you don't you'll cry. Really cry. Eating dinner like this from a can in a bed of leaf litter makes you want to cry. Every mouthful is sweet and sticky and your eyes get heavy with tears.

Steve understands what you're like by now. "I really fucking hate peaches," he says grandly. "I know you're surprised."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"No?"

"Do guys eat fruit?"

It's a talent.

"'Do guys eat fruit?'" he quotes seriously, pensive, like the answer escapes him.

He leans back against his rucksack and crosses his arms behind his head. He could be shooting the breeze, that's how relaxed Steve Harrington looks.

You laugh reluctantly into the can of peaches as you take a little sip of the juice and almost choke.

"I gotta eat that too, you know? Don't spit in it."

"Sorry," you say genuinely, wiping your sticky face with the back of your hand.

"You should be. Gross." He doesn't sound very bothered.

Steve eats his own peach slices with a shiver and tosses the can overhead. It goes really far, hitting the base of a tree across the way. You can imagine him in his gym clothes rather than what he wears now. Prim yellow shorts. Clean gym t-shirt with his name written in pen across the front.

"You can sleep first," he says.

You don't argue, sliding under the tarp with your blanket.

It's easier like this. The sun hasn't quite set but there's really nothing else to do. You'll sleep, Steve will wake you up in a couple of hours and then you'll swap. You'll wake Steve up when the sun rises, and another day on the road will begin.

The floor is very, very cold.

You try your best to stop from shivering and bring the blanket up to cover your face. The sun goes down and the last of its heat goes with it.

You stick it out. Complaining won't make it warmer. Steve doesn't even have a blanket.

"Y/N?" he whispers.

Leaves shift.

"Are you awake?"

You lift your head to see him where he sits at the opening of the 'tent'. It's difficult to make out his features now.

"I can hear your teeth," he says, eyes impassive as they scour your face.

"S-s-sorry," you shudder.

He stares at you for a while before stretching out his legs and shuffling across the dirt toward you. His hands are like ice as he works them under your shoulders and arms, dragging you into his lap.

You're tired and cold. "Steve," you grumble miserably, "what are you doing?"

"Body heat."

He doesn't stop until you're settled, slouching down so you can lean comfortably against his chest. He pulls the ends of your coats together tightly, readjusts your blanket, and covers your hands with both of his.

He yanks the tarp down and covers you with that, too, the both of your engulfed in plastic.

"What if it rains?" you ask.

"On our frozen corpses, you mean?"

You cringe and turn in his arms to hide your face in his scratchy jacket. His head drops toward his chest, chin gracing the top of your head. It's like a hug. It is a hug. You wrap your arms around his waist and try not to think about it.

It's not the most comfortable position in the world. Your back doesn't quite want to turn right, and his thigh probably hurts from your left elbow. Honestly, it's a pretty pathetic excuse for a hug.

"Why don't you just lie down with me?" you say into his coat.

"And get eaten?"

"There's no geeks around here."

"You say that," he murmurs, hands beginning a slow journey down the length of your back, "and then I'll wake up missing one of my legs."

Using the tarp as a blanket was a good idea. Already you feel warmer. Your face defrost where it's hidden in his front.

"Anymore stupid questions tonight?" Steve asks, voice low and amicable.

"Har-har," you mumble.

He rubs your back. Your eyes well up and you bite your lip to stop from crying. It's really, stupidly nice to be close to someone, to him. You miss comfort and music and eating enough, but you miss hugs most of all. You miss hugs from the people who loved you.

"Do you like me?" you whisper.

As soon as you've asked, you wish you hadn't. He doesn't answer, and you think Good, he didn't hear me.

"No more stupid questions," he says finally, tightening his grips on you. "Go to sleep."

-

more steve zombie!au

[604to647]

Hat Trick - Part 2 (The Playoffs)

3.4K / Safest with You AU Retired Mob Enforcer!Din Djarin x fem!reader

Summary: Din eats you out while you watch a playoffs game. That’s it.

Warnings: 18+ content (MDNI please) F!oral, fingering, nearing overstimulation, dirty talk, pet names as usual (pretty bird, baby, sweetheart, etc.), m!masterbation, established relationship. Inadvertent hockey double entendres, possibly.

A/N: Vancouver won last night so I thought I should post this while they’re up 😂 Inspired by @beskarandblasters’s I Want It, I got It and @swiftispunk’s ask(s) from @arainbowsiren - thank y’all and your respective mens for their service 🫡🫡🤗. You can if you want, of course 😊 but no need to read Part 1, as it’s not a direct continuation. Anyways, go Canucks go! 🏒🏒

If dread is defined as “painful agitation in the presence or anticipation of danger,” then for the entirety of your relationship, Din has never dreaded seeing you.  Not when either of you has had one of those bad day at work where you just need to vent for hours afterwards, or when Jimmy had accidentally used a sweater you left in Din’s office to towel off after a sparring session, or even that time Din took Al to the dog park by himself and didn’t realize the other dog moms were flirting with him until one of them shoved her number into his hand.  Nope, it didn’t matter what nonsense was going on while you were apart, the moment he looks upon his pretty bird’s face, Din’s day automatically takes a turn for the better.

But these past few weeks, Din feels like it’s possible he’s being tested in this regard.  Still not dread… maybe some mild foreboding?  That sounds bad, he thinks.  He’s worried is what he is.

Your hockey team is in the playoffs, and at first you were thrilled.  But your excitement has quickly given way to a much more volatile emotional cocktail of anticipation, nervousness and agitation.  If anything, you’re the one who’s been in a state of dread.

The first round was okay.  Your team won the series 4-1; it was a little nerve-wracking after Game 2, but the team rallied and after some nail-biting overtime games, they prevailed.  At your encouragement, he had hosted the series at his place since neither of you were able to get any tickets for the home games.  You had readily cooked up a storm in the kitchen to work out your pregame nerves, and your friends and the Mandos came over to reaped the culinary benefits of your stress. 

Your friends already knew this about you, of course, but Din is learning that playoffs you is very different from regular season you.  Regular season you loves hockey.  Playoffs you loves winning.

You’re the personification of nail-biting anxiety during every game; eyes glued to the screen, barely eating or drinking except during commercials or intermissions.  Every missed shot on goal results in shouting and arms raised in frustration.  Ever unanswered check on your players, vexation and name calling.  Power plays or offensive drives that can't be capitalized on have you covering your face in defeat.

His pretty bird stresses.

It’s not all bitterness and disappointment, thankfully.  Your face when your team scores lights up entire the room.  Every save your goalie makes has you cheering in elation, high fiving everyone in sight with enthusiasm.  When your team wins, your cute butt won’t stop wiggling with victory dance moves.

But the good cannot come without the bad.  Penalties called against your team trigger a spitting of expletives Din didn’t think were possible from your sweet mouth.  Holes in your defense that the other team exploits have you calling for someone’s head (the coach? The team captain?  Din’s??!)

Every game is a rollercoaster of emotions.

Oh.  And if your team loses… it’s like a dark cloud materializes over your head.  Your mood is already gloomy when the final buzzer sounds, improving only to pouty and restless by the time you start nearing the next game.

Din doesn’t like to see you so stressed (over a game, he might add, if he didn’t seriously fear the repercussions of saying that out loud to you).

Round 2 has been… interesting.  No, that's too forgiving.  It’s been… a nightmare.  You team is down 1-3 in the series and tonight is Game 5.  The make-or-break game that will either eliminate your team from the playoffs, or let them live to fight another game where they can attempt to claw their way to a decider seventh game.  After winning the series opener, the team’s three consecutive losses have left you nearly despondent - your mood getting progressively worse with every loss.  It’s not that you were mean or snappish – you were still kind and helpful, and all sweetness with Din and his friends.  But you smile a lot less and your playfulness is missing; you tell less jokes and your laughter, if any, is shorter and less vibrant than it is normally.  This past week, there’s been an ever present tension in your body that doesn’t seem to melt away no matter how much affection Din shows you, and you’re constantly furrowing your brow at things you read on your phone. 

When you start to make the grocery list for what you need to prepare the spread for Game 5, you call out to Din, “Baby, is Mayfeld going to come over for the game?  If he is, I’ll have to get parsley for the garlic knots.”

“Oh… pretty bird, I think most of the guys are going to go to a sports bar for Game 5,” Din says with a bit a trepidation.  He doesn’t say that he was the one who had made the suggestion that they do so, thinking it was unnecessary pressure for you to host a viewing party.  When Woves and Mayfeld had complained, Din reminded them about how they had both spilled beer all over the carpet during a goal celebration during the last game.  He had found you at 2 a.m. taking out your frustration over the loss with a brush, scrubbing the carpet vigorously on your hands and knees until he had managed to coax you back to bed for what was ultimately a night of restless tossing and turning.

“Did you want to go too?” you ask, wide-eyed.

“Nah, let’s just relax and watch here, baby,” Din’s smile is easy going, “I’ll order in, okay?  No need to make food.  It can just be a relaxing time.”  He hopes he isn’t emphasizing the word relax too much.

You look at him for a beat and nod, before going back to the grocery list.  Din exhales a little breath of relief. 

Game 5 is not going well.

Your team is leading in shots on goal, but just can’t seem convert shots to goals.  Din thinks it’s almost worse watching your body tense up in excitement, just to deflate in disappointment, over and over.  The opposing team doesn’t seem to have the same problem – scoring two goals in quick succession during the first ten minutes of the game that have you flopping back onto the coach, heels of your palms pressed to your eyes as you groan in pain. 

At the first intermission, your team is trailing 0-3 and Din hides (?) in the kitchen while you call Rory and Katie, and the three of you bemoan and rant about the last period over speakerphone.  You pace the same route throughout the apartment so many times, Din wouldn’t be surprised if you actually wore a path. 

He reemerges from the kitchen just as the second period is about to start and sees that you’re already perched on the edge of the couch, elbows on your knees, hands holding your own face as you stare at the television intently.

The puck drops just as Din places a plate of food on the coffee table in front of you, and you look at him with a calm expression and soft, sweet smile that he doesn’t think he’s seen for weeks, “Thank you, bab- WHAT THE HELL!?!?!?”

And like that, it’s gone – replaced by an expression of disbelief as you point agitatedly at the screen.  Din turns to see your team captain skating towards the penalty box, and looks back to see you shaking with fury and muttering, “Hooking my ass...  Barely tapped him…”

“That’s it,” says Din firmly.

“Hmm?” you’re not even looking at him, too busy throwing dagger eyes at the ref on screen who’s announcing the penalty details, getting ready to boo when he’s done.

“Stand up please, pretty bird,” commands Din, not really asking as he slips his paw like hands under your arms and hauls you up gently before you even process his request.  Your eyes narrow as you register something happening, but your attention is still on the game.

It’s not until Din yanks down your leggings and kneels to start pulling your feet through the legs that you snap your head down, “Din!! What are you doing?”

Left in just your pink lace trimmed panties and your “I just hope both teams have fun” sweatshirt, you look at Din with a confused expression. He rises and towers over you purposefully, crowding you back against the couch so that you’re forced to sit down with a bounce when it hits the back of your legs.

“I don’t like seeing you so stressed, sweetheart.  So, I’m going to help you relax, and you’re going to remember that this game is supposed to be fun.”

You screw up your face, unimpressed, “I know it’s supposed to be fun!  I’m having tons of fun.  Look at me, I’m- OH!!”

Din’s had enough.  It wasn’t supposed to be a negotiation anyways.  With one hand, he presses against your chest, forcing you to lean back into the couch, and with the other he spreads open your legs and lowers himself to press a firm kiss right on your clit.

“Din!!”

“Relax, baby,” he mouths against the fabric of your underwear, dipping his head and nuzzling your bud with his strong nose.  He spread your legs wider and holds them open as he starts his slow torture.

The other team’s powerplay starts and you try to keep your eyes on the game.  Normally you would be yelling at the screen for your team to clear it, but right now all you can think about is how Din’s slowly tracing over your folds with the tips of his nose and tongue.

As the powerplay clock starts to wind down, your favourite right winger intercepts a pass and tears down the ice on a breakaway.  Chased by his own teammates and the opposing team, he sets up, shoots and scores!!  Usually a short-handed goal would have you jumping up and down, cheering, but Din’s holding you down and at the exact same moment he gives your mound an open mouth kiss, tonguing your clit with a deliberate flick that has you grabbing onto his hair instead, “Yesssssssss!”

Din pays the goal no mind nor anything else that’s happening in the game, he just continues mapping and teasing your cunt through your underwear with his mouth, tongue and nose until the fabric is soaked through.

You go back to watching the game, half listening to the commentators and half following the players on the ice, all the while whimpering and softly moaning as Din works you up until you’re leaking down your ass, about to make a mess of the couch beneath.  Slowly, slowly, as Din continues to massage and prod at your dripping hole, you start to melt, stress and tension lifting from your body, replaced with a warm, buzzing pleasure emanating from your core.

The period’s half over, and you haven’t yelled at the screen once. 

“Feels so good, daddy,” you whine, when Din’s tongue presses your panties into your seam, forcing the fabric pulled tight and wet to stay tucked between your folds, finally revealing part of your pretty cunt to his gleaming eye.

“Fuck.  Pussy’s so pretty, baby.  So wet for me,” Din growls, and the vibration of his tenor works it way in, riding that same buzzing wave that’s coursing through your body, straight to your throat where it escapes as a tight wail.

“Oh Daddy!”

“Keep watching the game, pretty bird.  And remember… relax,” Din’s last word muffled as he dives face first into your pussy, open mouth kissing your slit - licking every crest and wave he has access to with a low, burning sensuality that’s driving you insane. 

“More, please – Din, I need more.  Ngggh!”

About to pull the damp gusset of your panties to the side and really starting devouring you, Din pauses with a wicked idea.  He pinches the fabric between his fingers and gives it a little tug so that the hem of your panties glides over your clit – the unexpected friction has you yelping in surprise, “Oh, fuck!”

Chuckling, Din tugs the fabric over your swollen bud a few more times and drinks in your heady moans before finally pulling it all the way aside to display your glistening cunt.

“Eyes on the game, baby.”  You look down to see Din’s face buried between your legs, but his eyes are locked onto yours, dark and blown – you nod and flick you eyes back to the screen.  Three more minutes left in the second period.

“Good girl,” Din rumbles against your slick coated seam; he licks a hot stripe from your tight hole all the way up to your throbbing clit, then back down, pushing and swirling his tongue through your arousal.  He hums as he repeats this pattern over and over as you start to pant above him.

“Close baby?”  You look away from the face-off on screen to nod at Din, he’s been eating you out for nearly the entire period of play, building you up from nothing and now you can feel yourself approaching the edge of euphoria, ready to teeter over.

“Daddy will take care of you, pretty girl.  Just relax and watch the game, kay?”

When he sees your hazy eyes flick back up to the tv, he presses in deep, opening his mouth to consume as much of your pussy as he can, tongue dancing through your folds before it burrows into your clenching hole.  His nose nudges your slippery clit as he tongue fucks you with vigor.

Above him, you’re faintly cheering on your team.

“Oh yes!  Press them!  Press them hard!”

“Nice pass!  Fuck, such a good pass!”

“Shoot it, shoot it, shoot it – yessssss!”

You come just as the team’s star rookie scores a top shelf goal, crying out So good, so good, so good as your orgasm washes over you in never-ending waves.  Apparently, you had a lot of pent up stress you needed to release.

Closing your eyes, you rest your head against the back of the couch and listen to the announcements celebrating the goal, coming down from your high as Din continues to press butterfly kisses to your pussy.  Only when you hear the buzzer signalling the end of the period do you open your eyes and smile down at Din, “Thank you, daddy.”

Making a movement to get up so you can dispense a little love of your own to Din, you’re bewildered when Din holds you down with a forearm across your stomach and shakes his head, mouth still latched to your heat. 

“Din.”

Shake, shake.

The movement of Din’s head restarts a warmth in your belly.  Your laugh is featherlight, “Din, I have to get up!  At least let me get up to buy the 50-50 tickets.”

Without releasing you, Din feels behind him blindly with his free hand until he finds your phone on the coffee table and places it in your waiting hands; he then reaches into his back pocket and takes out his wallet which he also hands over before mumbling against your slit, “Buy your tickets, baby.”

“Din, you don’t have to!  I have my ow- ah!”

Having given your clit a playful snip, Din soothes it with a soft kiss, “It’s for charity, sweetheart.”

Dreamily, you sigh in agreement, “For charity.”

Din licks you lazily through the second intermission, cleaning up your spend and using his tongue to spread the fresh slick trickling from your cunt up to and around your swollen clit.  He rests his head against your thigh and chuckles as he watches you take over ten minutes to purchase your charity raffle tickets; you used to only be able to buy 50-50 tickets if you were in attendance at the game, but the team’s charitable foundation had recently started selling them online during the game as well – and it’s taking all your concentration to navigate the site without being distracted by Din’s slow teasing.

You have to enter Din’s credit card number five times before you get it right and you think you accidentally buy twice the number of tickets you mean to.

By the time the third period starts, you’ve lost your underwear; eyes glossing over while you resume watching the game, you’re spread bare for Din as he adds his fingers to his efforts, all in the name of ‘relaxation’.  When your team can’t capitalize on their first power play of the period, he inserts one curling finger, and you concede that the missed goal opportunity isn’t the end of the world.  When your goalie has to make four heart-stopping saves in a row as the other team piles on, Din adds a second, and you passively sing encouraging praise at the TV while dissolving into the couch.  When your coach deploys his special teams, your heart rate speeds up, but not because your offensive line is absolutely dominating in the attacking zone, but because Din squeezes in a third finger, stretching your fitted walls to their limit.

“So fucking tight for me,” Din hisses, looking absolutely hypnotized as he watches his thick fingers disappear into your cunt.  The vulgar wet slaps and squelches your pussy is making nearly drowning out the commentary from the game; you moan and writhe against Din’s hand, begging him for more, “Daddy, so fucking good!  Love your fingers, please… need your mouth, dadddyyyyyyy….”

The onslaught on the ice and against your pussy continue without reprieve; Din nibbles your puffy clit between his teeth before pulling it in between his lips and sucking.  He builds and builds as the team presses and presses, no relief for your poor aching pussy or the opposing team’s goalie.  You think you might float away if Din wasn’t still holding you down, your body tingling right through to the finger tips that you have buried in Din’s hair – you pull him closer, grinding against his mouth seeking, more, more, more. 

“Soak me, pretty girl,” you feel rather than hear, Din’s command echoing deep to that spot inside you only he can reach and the vibration sets you off.  You come, a fresh wave of arousal hits Din’s chin as you chant out his name until you’re hoarse.  Trailing off with a whimper, somewhere through your thick fog of pleasure, you hear the buzzer of the second goal your favourite right winger scores tonight.

The game’s all tied up and you’re spent.

Glassy eyed and fully blissed out, you beckon Din to come kiss you with a weak smile and curl of the fingers on the hand you’ve released from his hair. 

Din’s taking out his cock from his sweatpants and lubing it up with your cum, but he doesn’t rise, “Give me one more, pretty bird.  Let’s make it a hat trick.”

You whine in protest, “Can’t, Din.  It’s too much.”

He fists his hard length and presses the barest of chaste kisses to your still pulsing clit, “Be a good girl for me.  One more, baby.”

There’s nothing, not even winning this game, that you want more than to please him so you give him a brave little nod – even though his feathery touch made you jump.

His thumb brushes gently over your slippery bundle - light pets at first, mindful that you’re nearing overstimulation.  In contrast, his other hand pumps his cock with increasing pressure and speed – already throbbing and painfully hard just from eating you out for the last 40 minutes.  Seeing how turned-on Din is just from pleasuring you has another wave of want coursing through your veins; pushing up your sweatshirt above your braless breasts, you start to play with your tits - pinching and rolling your nipples between your fingers as you throw you head back and moan, low and throaty.

The raunchy sight sends Din into overdrive.  He starts to draw gentle but consistent figure eights over your clit then bends down again to inhale the smell of your honey before pressing a series of sweet tender kisses to your still leaking hole.  All the while, choking his dick and keeping his eyes on you as you touch your perfect tits.  He stays the course with his mouth and thumb, letting you decide how much you can take when you start to buck your hips lightly.

Your third orgasm approaches faster than you anticipate, body already halfway there after that last brain numbing high.  Din reads the tensing of your stomach and your quickening breaths, “Give it to me, baby girl.  Give it to me and I’ll come all over this pretty pussy.”  With Din’s dirty promise ringing in your ear, you come with a shuddering arch of your back and a soundless scream.  Just as you’re completing your hat trick, in an arena across town your right winger is completing his.

But your eyes aren’t for him, they’re for the man who’s now milking his impressive cock, splattering rope after rope of white, glossy cum over the lips of your overwrought cunt.  You giggle as Din runs the tip of his cock through your folds, pushing in as much of his spend as he can before he heaves a heavy, satiated sigh.

Looking at you with a smirk, he chuckles, “How you feeling, pretty bird?  Relaxed?”

You laugh a genuine, musical laugh before pulling his face to yours, kissing yourself on his lips – so euphoric and peaceful from Din’s magical touch.  After a quick cleanup, you rest cozily in Din’s arms, kissing sweetly as the two of you watch your team successfully defend their lead for the final minutes of the game.  Final winning score for your team, 4-3.

Resting your sleepy head on Din’s shoulder, you confess, “I didn’t realize I was being such a stress ball about the playoffs, Din.  I’m sorry.”

Kissing your temple, Din gives you a reassuring squeeze, “No need to apologize, pretty bird.  It’s okay if you get stressed.  Just know I’m always here to help, okay?  I love you.”

You lift your head to nod and mouth the same words back to him, nearly getting lost in the dreamy eyes of the man you can’t quite believe loves you the way he does.  In a little voice you cheer, “We won, yay!”

“Yay!” chuckles Din.

Suddenly, a look of epiphany washes over your face as you pan to the screen where the winning score is displayed in bold font beneath the post game show hosts.  You turn to look at Din, then slowly again to the TV and back.  Sitting up straight, all business-like, you grin, “Seriously, Din - I’m going to need you to do this again.  Every game until we win the cup.”

“Done.”

[whencyclopedia]

Jay Treaty

The Jay Treaty, formally known as the Treaty of Amity, Commerce, and Navigation, Between His Britannic Majesty and the United States of America, was a controversial treaty signed by representatives of the United States and Great Britain in November 1794. It sought to resolve issues left over from the American Revolution (1765-1789) and establish trade between the two nations.

At the time of the treaty's signing, the United States appeared to be on the brink of war with Great Britain. Believing the United States to be reneging on agreements made in the Treaty of Paris, Britain refused to evacuate its troops from forts in the Northwest Territory and attacked American shipping in the French West Indies, seizing over 250 American merchant vessels and impressing their crews into service in the Royal Navy. Although many Americans clamored for war, President George Washington (served 1789-1797) believed the young republic was not strong enough to withstand another war with Britain. Instead, he dispatched John Jay, Chief Justice of the United States, to negotiate a treaty that would, hopefully, avert an armed conflict.

Jay succeeded in avoiding war, and even managed to strengthen commercial ties with Britain; the US was granted 'most favored nation' status at British ports, and American merchants were given limited trade rights in the British West Indies. However, the treaty came up short in many respects, as it significantly did not protect American sailors from future impressment. But the most controversial aspect was that the treaty created stronger political and economic ties between the United States and Britain, something that many Americans feared would lead to a re-emergence of aristocracy in the US. Riots broke out in many cities, and Jay was often burned in effigy. Even President Washington was abused in the press. A new political faction, the Democratic-Republican Party, emerged to combat the growing power of the pro-British Federalist Party. Revolutionary France, meanwhile, interpreted the Jay Treaty as an Anglo-American alliance and also began attacking American shipping, eventually resulting in the brief Quasi-War (1798-1800).

Background: The Threat of War

The Treaty of Paris of 1783 ended the American Revolutionary War, creating a state of fragile and uneasy peace between the fledgling United States and its former mother country, Great Britain. The treaty was generally regarded as favorable to the Americans: it more than doubled the size of the United States, whose borders now stretched as far west as the Mississippi River, and the British promised to evacuate their soldiers from these boundaries. In return for these concessions, Britain expected that all prewar debts owed by American borrowers to British lenders would still be paid and that state governments would stop confiscating the properties of Loyalists (Americans who had remained loyal to the British Crown during the Revolution). These were among the main components of the ten articles of the treaty, signed by American and British commissioners on 3 September 1783.

The ink on the treaty was barely dry, however, when troubles began to sprout. For much of its short existence, the United States had been plagued with economic difficulties; indeed, its recent attempt at a national currency, the Continental Currency, had failed after depreciating to the point of near worthlessness. State governments were imposing high taxes to begin paying off their own hefty war debts while Congress – under the terms of the Articles of Confederation – could not raise any taxes at all. Burdened by high taxes and inflation, many American debtors were unable to pay back their British creditors in a timely fashion. Additionally, many state governments were loath to take any pity on Loyalists, who were regarded as traitors; few were compensated for the properties that had been confiscated during the Revolution, with some states even continuing to seize Loyalist estates. Britain pointed to these two examples as evidence that the United States was not holding up its end of the bargain. In retaliation, the British maintained garrisons of troops in a series of forts in the Great Lakes region, which had been ceded to the US in the treaty. When the US complained, Britain promised that it would indeed evacuate these troops as promised – but only once the Americans had paid off all their debts.

Tensions between the two nations continued to simmer for the next decade. Then, in February 1793, Britain declared war on Revolutionary France. By this point, the French Revolution was in full swing; a French Republic had been proclaimed, King Louis XVI of France had lost his head, and hundreds of thousands of French citizen-soldiers were pouring into Europe to deliver liberty, equality, and fraternity at the points of their bayonets. Many Americans were quick to express their support for Revolutionary France, donning tricolor cockades, singing revolutionary songs, and opening political clubs called Democratic-Republican societies, in which they toasted the French Republic and denounced aristocracy. President George Washington, however, was more hesitant to offer support to the revolutionaries; such an act would certainly bring the US into conflict with Britain, a conflict that Washington knew they were not ready for. Instead, he issued a Proclamation of Neutrality on 22 April 1793, in which he promised to keep the United States out of the French Revolutionary Wars.

It did not take long for Britain to disregard this neutrality. Without offering so much as a warning, British ships began seizing American merchant vessels in the French West Indies, considering any ship carrying French cargo to be a valid prize. Over the course of the next year, around 250 American ships were captured and their crews were impressed into service with the Royal Navy.

Impressment of American Sailors into the British Navy

Howard Pyle (Public Domain)

At the same time, the British used their forts in the Great Lakes region to offer support to the Northwest Confederacy, a loose coalition of Native American nations currently at war with the United States. These were blatant acts of aggression that could not be ignored; many Americans, particularly those associated with the Democratic-Republican societies, began to demand war. Other Americans were not so hasty. The Federalist Party, a nationalist political faction led by Alexander Hamilton, was horrified by the chaos and bloodshed of the French Revolution and did not want the US to fall under the influence of Revolutionary France. On the contrary, the Federalists viewed Britain as the natural ally of the United States; they believed stronger ties with the former mother country were vital for the survival of the US. Influenced by these Federalists, and still desirous to avoid war, President Washington agreed to send an envoy to London to hopefully reach an agreement and pull the quarreling countries away from the brink.

Continue reading...

[morbidology]

Reynella is a city located in the southern suburb of Adelaide in South Australia. It developed from a small settlement into a thriving suburb.

Its history dates back to the early 19th century when it was first settled by European colonists.

The area is named after John Reynell, who arrived in South Australia in 1838. Reynell was a pioneer in the region, establishing one of the first vineyards in South Australia.

As the 20th century progressed, Reynella saw industrial growth alongside its agricultural roots. The establishment of the Reynella Brickworks in the early 1900s marked a significant shift.

The post-World War II era brought significant changes to Reynella. The population boom and expansion of Adelaide's suburbs led to increased residential development.

Today, Reynella is a well-established suburb known for its blend of historical charm and modern amenities. It features a mix of residential areas, commercial centers, and green spaces.

On the morning of the 4th of December, 2008, Roger Zadow was preparing his morning coffee in the kitchen of his home on Somerfield Avenue in Reynella.

As the kettle boiled, he glanced out the kitchen window towards his neighbour’s home, where 83-year-old Vonne McGlynn lived alone.

Something immediately caught Roger’s eye.

The bins, which were typically emptied that morning, were still full and not in their usual spot by the fence. Instead, they were placed haphazardly near Vonne’s shed.

This small detail sparked a sense of unease in Roger, as Vonne was meticulous about her routine. Curious and concerned, Roger stepped outside to get a closer look.

As he walked towards the fence separating their properties, he noticed something even more alarming. Several tiles were missing from Vonne’s roof, creating a conspicuous gap.

The hole was large enough for someone to enter…

This week’s episode covers the case of Vonne McGlynn. You can listen to episode 268 of Morbidology across all podcast platforms:

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞: https://bit.ly/3WS9H7d

𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲: https://bit.ly/4dxUbD7

[handeaux]

For Cincinnati’s Dandelion Hunters, Harvesting Weeds Was Often An Adventure

It was the spring of 1913. Cincinnati Police got word a craps game was operating in the shadow of the Fairview Incline. The gamblers picked a good location, with clear views all around. They could spot any police interference with plenty of time to conceal all the evidence. The cops determined that subterfuge was necessary to put a lid on this game.

It is likely Police Lieutenant Thomas M. Hall came up with the gambit, or maybe it was Officer William B. Meyer or Office John H. Rabe Jr., the two patrolmen who assisted him, but the strategy proved flawless. The three policemen disguised themselves as dandelion hunters. The gamblers paid no attention to three men in mufti filling baskets with spring greens. They were caught red-handed and flat-footed and all five of them ended up in the hoosegow.

Dandelion hunters? Who would have thought? Today, there would hardly be any cover story more suspect. Who goes out hunting for dandelions these days? A hundred years ago, dandelion hunting was a very big thing and dandelion hunters figured into some of the biggest mysteries in Cincinnati.

In November 1904, the body of 18-year-old Alma Steinigeweg was found, brutally murdered, in the field between the foot of Winton Road and the Mill Creek. An investigation dragged on for years, but no one was ever charged with the crime. For months, investigators didn’t even have a murder weapon. Then, in April of 1905, Joseph Raison of Madisonville took a break from his job at a lumberyard on Spring Grove Avenue to pick some dandelions for dinner. He found a splintered pickaxe handle with hair matted on one end just 150 feet from where the victim’s body had been found. It matched the victim’s wounds.

Then there was the case of Edmund Grossmann of Cumminsville. He was a grocer and butcher who one day walked out of his house and never returned. Grossmann’s family scoured the area for a week with no luck. And then, according to the Cincinnati Commercial Tribune [26 February 1906]:

“Saturday, while picking dandelions on the side of Roll Hill, with her two children, Mrs. Maggie Markle, 3631 Borden Street, noticed the prostrate form of a man lying in the bushes close by. She thought it was that of a sleeping man and avoided the neighborhood.”

Returning home, Mrs. Markle described the incident to a neighbor, John Pherson, who walked over to Roll Hill expecting to chase away a tramp. He found Grossmann’s body. The grocer had strangled himself with a handkerchief and his own suspenders.

Vernon Presley, of 1504 Elm Street, found a much less macabre bit of criminal evidence when he and his wife parked their car along the Mary Ingles Highway in Daytona, Kentucky. According to the Cincinnati Enquirer [13 April 1955]:

“A dandelion hunter was $100 richer yesterday because, instead of finding dandelions, he uncovered a box containing stocks and bonds valued at $62,000.”

The box was part of the loot carried off from the home of William Peebles of Silverton, who had been robbed a week earlier while the family was out of town. Peebles gave Presley $100 for his acuity.

And then there was Viola Nolan of 1578 Baymiller Street, who told the Cincinnati Post [28 September 1923]:

“While picking dandelions on Price Hill, I cut one flower and found a plain gold ring on the stalk. The stalk had grown thru the ring which had been dropped.”

But dandelion hunting had its hazards as well as its rewards. In 1907 a good-sized hog escaped from the pens of farmer Henry Brink in Hartwell. The porcine fugitive established itself in Pfau’s Woods near the city infirmary (now known as Drake Hospital) and chased away children who came to the woods to hunt dandelions. The men of the neighborhood organized a posse to capture the beast. In another case, the Enquirer [14 April 1917] reported:

“Mrs. Mary Hurst, 55 years old, Rossmoyne, Ohio, was killed yesterday by a south-bound Dayton Express on the C. L. and N. Railway near her home. Coroner Bauer was informed Mrs. Hunt was picking dandelions at the side of the tracks and she was drawn under the train by suction.”

And some folks just didn’t cotton to random trespassers picking dandelions on their property. In 1909, George Wasser sued George Weyman in Campbell County Court because, while Wasser was picking dandelions on Weyman’s farm, Weyman shot him twice – in his hip and in a foot – permanently crippling him. Similarly, Denato Mariaus of California, Ohio, sued Jack Weiner for shooting at him while he hunted dandelions on Weiner’s property near Coney Island.

In the 1920s, with Prohibition settling like a wet blanket on the land, dandelions surged in popularity because of the ease with which they could be induced to create a sort of wine. The Cincinnati Post [18 July 1923] opined that dandelion wine had replaced beer as Cincinnati’s iconic beverage:

“Some Cincinnatians suggest adoption of the dandelion as the city’s official flower. How the mighty hops have fallen! Moreover, homemade dandelion wine isn’t bad, at all.”

So popular was this concoction, that the Enquirer [24 April 1930] facetiously investigated a mystery:

“We see a lot of people picking the dandelion blossoms without trying to dig the plants themselves out of the lawn. What can it mean d’ya suppose?”

Interestingly, the Volstead Act that created Prohibition allowed for modest production of grape or fruit wine at home. Since dandelions were not fruit, dandelion wine was strictly prohibited. Dandelion wine was so easy to make, Cincinnati revenuers generally ignored the law and looked the other way during the springtime harvest. If you want to try dandelion wine yourself, here is a recipe from the Cincinnati Post [7 April 1913]:

“To 4 quarts flowers, take 4 quarts boiling water, cover well with water, let stand 3 days. Add peel of 3 oranges and 1 lemon, boil for 15 minutes, drain and add juice of oranges and lemons to 4 pounds of sugar and one cupful of yeast. Keep in a warm room, strain again. Let stand for 3 weeks, then bottle and serve.”

[rjzimmerman]

Where Compassion and Conservation Meet. (Sierra Club)

Tango, a humpback whale calf, was killed by a ship strike off Juneau, Alaska. | Photo by Heidi Pearson

For 13 years, marine biologist Heidi Pearson has spent her summer weekends aboard a research vessel near her home in Juneau, Alaska—a long-lens, rapid-fire camera at the ready. The Iowa-born professor keeps tabs on humpback whales returning to their feeding grounds from Hawai‘i and Mexico. Her computer contains thousands of images of giant, dripping tails set against the backdrop of Sitka spruce and hemlock trees ringing Southeast Alaska’s bays.

Last summer, Pearson took pictures of things she didn’t want to see. A whale calf named Tango was swimming alongside his mother with bloody lacerations on his back from a ship strike. An adult named Manu was tangled in a crab pot. She spotted Herbert, another calf, trailing a jumble of twisted rope, making it hard for him to swim. Then, in August, Tango was struck again by a boat. His body washed up on a beach two days later with gruesome damage to his flank from the ship’s prow.

Pearson photographed Tango’s mother, Sasha, shortly after her calf’s death, feeding in her usual spots alone. “This summer has been a hard time to be a whale researcher in Juneau,” Pearson said at the time.

That expression of compassion reflects an ethos that some biologists are identifying as essential to their work. Known as compassionate conservation, the approach has a simple premise: It’s just as important to protect and live harmoniously with individual animals as it is to prevent the extinction of their species.

Compassionate conservation is not a new methodology, but it does differ from the established wisdom that drives most conservation efforts, according to Arian Wallach, an ecologist at Queensland University of Technology in Australia. Traditional conservation is focused on preventing extinction. If a species is not in danger, the thinking goes, then all is well. But for scientists like Wallach and Pearson, the well-being of individual animals, not just their species, is equally important. They argue that our ability to successfully protect a species hinges in part on our capacity to understand, relate to, and know individual animals and their stories. Humans, Wallach said, are naturally empathetic creatures. If we focus that empathy on the animals we study, we’ll learn more about their species and how to protect them.

This is not just sentimentality. Personal knowledge of particular whales, Pearson said, is essential to the study of behavioral ecology. Researchers need data on how a whale responds to its environment over time. After all, natural selection works at the individual level. Camera-trap images, cellphone videos, and GPS data from around the world make it easier to tune in to the lived experience of individual animals.

In addition to tracking humpbacks’ movements and behaviors, Pearson looks for underweight whales with their shoulder blades poking out. Climate change is altering the behavior and biology of prey, making it harder for whales to find the herring and krill that make up their diet. That’s one possible reason there’s been a spate of recent whale deaths up and down the Pacific coast.

Lawful commercial whaling ended with the International Whaling Commission (IWC) ban in 1986. But despite the ban and the decades of public affection showered on whales, humans have not stopped killing them. Ship strikes, fishing-gear entanglements, and noise pollution take the lives of thousands of marine mammals annually. Ropes and plastic webbing can tangle up and weigh down a whale to the point where it drowns or starves. The IWC estimates that fishing gear and other marine debris kill 300,000 whales and dolphins each year. As many as 20,000 are killed in collisions with boats.

[mariacallous]

As all journalists know fear sells better than sex. Readers want be terrified. And here in the UK, there appears to be every reason to frighten them.

A country that was overdependent on financial services has been in decline ever since the banking crash of 2008. Then, from 2010 on, the astonishing Conservative policy failures of austerity, Trussonomics and, above all, Brexit further weakened an enfeebled state.

I was a child in a happy family during the crisis of the 1970s. Like all happy children I just got on with my life. But even I picked up a little of the despair and hopelessness of the time. That feeling that there is no way out is with us again.

In 1979, Margaret Thatcher came to power, and with great brutality, set the UK on a new path as she inflicted landslide defeats on Labour.

Obviously, our current Conservative government is heading for a defeat, maybe a landslide defeat.

But there is little sense that Labour will transform the country.  The far-left takeover from 2015-2019 traumatised it. As recently as 2021, everyone expected Boris Johnson to rule the UK for most of the 2020s.  

Johnson’s contempt for the rules he insisted everyone else follow and the great Truss disaster are handing Labour victory. But the centre-left appears to be the beneficiary of scandal and right-wing madness, not an ideological sea change that might inspire it and sustain it in power

Desperate to drop its crank image, battered by the conservative media establishment, fashionable opinion holds that a wee, cowering and timorous Labour party will come into power without radical policies that equal the country’s needs.

Just this once, fashionable opinion may even be right

And yet, and I know I will regret this outbreak of commercially suicidal optimism, there are reasons to believe that the UK’s position is not quite as grim as it appears.

1)    The economy may revive

Although no one has been as wrong recently as the economists and central bankers who predicted that inflation would be a transitory phenomenon, it is finally coming down. Falls in energy prices may even bring it to the 2 per cent target this month. Interest rates will eventually follow suit.

Lower interest rates mean lower government borrowing costs. They will reduce the extraordinary debt bill Labour in power will have to meet.

Chris Giles of the Financial Times calculated this week that lower government borrowing costs improve the public finances five years ahead by almost £15bn (about 0.5 per cent of national income) for every percentage point reduction.

Meanwhile the Conservatives have raised taxes so high (by UK standards) a Labour government may not need to risk unpopularity by raising them further.  Under Conservative plans the tax burden has risen from 33.1 per cent of gross domestic product in 2019-20 to 36.5 per cent in 2024-25 with further rises planned, taking it to 37.1 per cent by 2028-29.

If the 1997-2010 Labour government is any guide, Labour will be reluctant in the extreme to play into its enemies’ hands by raising taxes

It may not need to if economic growth leads to the revenue growth that would take the UK out of the rolling crisis that has afflicted it since 2016.

I wouldn’t be doing my job if I did not add that there are some pretty large caveats to make.

Economists missed the post-covid inflation surge because they forgot about politics. Russia’s unprovoked invasion of Ukraine upended the European economy. An extension of the war in Ukraine or the Middle East, or, more terrifyingly, a US-China confrontation, or the return of Donald Trump could all derail a new government.

In any case the IMF predicts growth of 1.5 percent in 2025, which is nowhere near the 3 percent we need to fund the state.

And yet, with a bit of luck there is a fair chance that our fortunes may revive, albeit modestly.

2) Labour is not as scared as it looks

Near where I live in London is the Union Chapel, a vast neo-Gothic hall.

Will Hutton was there recently to launch his new book This Time No Mistakes: How to Remake Britian. I have interviewed Will for the podcast, which should be out in a couple of days. For now, I’ll just say his book is a classic combination of liberal and left thought, and makes the case for radical reform. Keir Starmer arrived on stage to the cheers of the crowd and endorsed Hutton’s findings.

The fashionable view is that Labour has abandoned difficult policies so as not to alienate frightened voters, and I can see why people think that way.

The grand plan for green job creation has been hacked back after fears the markets would not wear it. The majority of people in this country, and the overwhelming majority of people who vote for opposition parties, now recognise that Brexit was a disastrous error. Year in year out it drags the country down. And yet Starmer, who once argued for a second referendum, is terrified of mentioning the subject in case he upsets a minority in marginal seats.

There was a depressing little vignette a few days ago when the European Commission laid out proposals for open movement to millions of 18- to 30-year-olds from the EU and UK, allowing them to work, study and live in respective states for up to four years. Labour joined the Tories in rejecting the offer.

 It would rather squash the aspirations of young people than lay itself open to the charge that it was taking us back towards EU membership.

Yet Rachel Reeves, Keir Starmer and David Lammy talk about the need for cooperation. “Success will rest on forming new bilateral and multilateral partnerships, and forging a closer relationship with our neighbours in the European Union,” Reeves said as she explained her economic programme.

Meanwhile the UK has been ruled by Conservatives for so long our battered minds can underestimate how much the country will change when they are thrown out.

The new parliament will be filled with politicians who support renters, more home building and the EU. They will at least be interested in a land value tax and a universal basic income. Radical that ideas have been forbidden for years will soon seem normal.

3) The impetus for change

The last Labour government of 1997 to 2010 did not change economic fundamentals for what seemed at the time to be a very good reason.

 When it came to power neo-liberalism worked. Indeed, is easy to forget now how successful the ideology appeared before the crash of 2008. Politicians like Gordon Brown and Tony Blair accepted much of what Margaret Thatcher had done because they thought they had no choice. Everyone knew, or thought they knew, that this was how you ran an economy.

None of that certainty pertains today. The Brexit nationalism that succeeded neo-liberalism has failed. Starmer and Reeves will not be like Blair and Brown: they will have no good reason to cling to discredited ideas.

That does not mean they won’t cling to them for fear of the Tory press or swing voters or because of their own intellectual failings. There is no guarantee that countries will turn themselves round. The UK could go the way of Argentina or Italy.

But the Labour leadership is made of serious politicians, and I keep asking myself why would serious politicians want to preside over decline? I can’t see why they would.

As I said, maybe I will regret writing this piece. But for the moment I think we can enjoy a rare moment of optimism.