#two buckets short a barrel
Note
Hey! Since your requests are open, may I request opla!Zoro x reader (established relationship) where the reader has a lot of self doubt (not only in their looks, but their abilities and their place in the crew) since it’s, unfortunately, been shoved done their throat by pretty much eveyone they knew, even their parents, that they would never be good enough? Maybe Zoro figures out that they have sort of been spiralling lately and they have a talk about the readers past and the problems they’re facing and he comforts them? Maybe it ends sort of spicy or turns out full on spicy, if you’re comfortable with that!
daybreak
ABOUT
alternate title: some fluffy established relationship hurt/comfort to save my soul
rating: teen & up
characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader
pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader
word count: 2.9k (short; sorry!)
description: zoro notices you've been seeming off recently, and you confide in him your insecure feelings of self-worth. he comforts you.
tags: strawhat!reader, established relationship, fluff, emotional hurt/comfort, kissing, no use of ‘y/n’, soft zoro, ridiculously stupidly absolutely horrifyingly fluffy.
author’s note: thank you so much for the very lovely request! i hope i did your prompt justice; i ended up not writing any spice at the end (just slightly suggestive) since i didn't think it fit the story but i hope you like it anyway ^^
it feels slightly ooc, but i also wrote it in the span of two hours at 1:00 am so can you really blame me.
It was morning on the Going Merry, and you were cleaning up the wreckage that had been scattered along the deck in your last battle. The crew had gone up against some other pirates; it’d been late at night, and the attack had come suddenly, what you’d thought would be a peaceful docking turning combative quickly.
You barely remembered the fight. One moment, the warning bell had sounded, and the next Zoro was rolling out of bed beside you, grabbing his swords and darting out of your bedroom before you could even register what was happening. The fight had gone in the Straw Hats’ favor, thankfully; Zoro, Luffy, and Sanji had fended off most of the threat, and you were back on the open sea, safe from enemies for at least a little while now.
You let out a sigh as you swept shattered glass into a dustpan, shaking out the collected trash into a nearby empty barrel. None of the men usually bothered to start cleaning up—typical—so you’d pulled yourself out of bed as early as possible to get the ship looking a little more like normal.
Zoro had left some corpses on the deck for you to deal with, and you’d had to toss them overboard, a grimace tugging at your lips as blood stained the white of your blouse. No matter. You’d finished sweeping, at least; all you had left to do was mop, right as everyone else was waking up.
You filled a bucket with warm water and soap, and were just grabbing the mop from the closet when you heard footsteps. You glanced up, surprised to see Zoro heading towards you, one hand grasped loosely around his sword handle as always. “You’re up early,” he said, casual as ever. “Woke up and you were gone.”
“Figured I should get a head start on cleaning,” you answered quickly, not meeting Zoro’s eyes as you dunked the mop into the bucket. His brows creased as he watched you start mopping, pushing the handle along the deck to wipe it clear of bloodstains.
“How long have you been doing this?” Zoro asked, after a few seconds of delayed silence. You shrugged, dunking your mop again before going for another few swipes. “We can help clean too, you know.”
“It’s the least I can do,” you protested. You moved past him, trying very hard not to meet his eyes—but Zoro didn’t let you pass, one hand going out to grab the mop rod and stopping you in your tracks. “What?”
“What do you mean, least you could do?” Zoro asked blankly.
“I mean—” you shrugged, muscles limp like your entire body was sagging you down. “You and the others were the ones to deal with the pirates, so I figured I could at least—”
Zoro still looked confused, brows pulled together, forehead taut with a frown. “I distinctly recall you throwing a pirate twice your size overboard. Unless I was imagining things.”
You sighed. “Not what I meant.” You tried to push past Zoro again, but he didn’t let you, hand still tightly grasped around your mop handle.
“Okay, what did you mean, then?”
“Nothing. Will you just let me finish cleaning so there aren't blood stains all over Luffy’s ship?” You sighed again, even as you attempted to keep the sound inside—but you couldn’t help it. It was like there was an anchor stuck inside of you, pulling everything from your feelings to your body down, the weight of gravity tugging at your features.
“Luffy’s ship?”
You shrugged. “The Straw Hats’ ship. Whatever.”
“Our ship,” Zoro said. There was a certain twinge of something in his words; still blankness, but laced with a dawning realization that you weren’t sure you liked. “You’re upset.”
“Nope.” This time you really did manage to get free of Zoro’s grasp, yanking your mop out of his grip and starting back on cleaning the deck. The acrid smell of iron hit your nose as you scrubbed the dried blood off—you’d have to go back in later with a sponge to get all the cracks and crevices, but for now this would be okay.
Zoro followed you, unceasing with his interrogation. “Yes, you are. I know when you’re upset, and you’re upset. What happened.” It was more of a statement than a question—Zoro didn’t often doubt himself, really, which was one of the many things that’d helped make you stumble into falling for him. “Was it about last night? You know the cook's just making fun when he keeps a counter, right? It doesn’t matter if he brought two or five more men down than you.”
“It’s not about that,” you insisted.
“So you admit you are upset.”
You groaned, finally turning to look Zoro in the eye. He’d stopped walking, the dawning sun glinting hazey gold onto his skin in the early hour. There was still an overcast of blue from the night in the sky, and it made the heavens look ethereal, watery and glittering.
“Come on,” he urged. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s really nothing you need to be concerned about,” you attempted, but your voice was weak now. Zoro stepped closer to you, gently pulling the mop out of your hands. Your fingers let go easily. “It’s silly.”
Zoro gave you a look. “Out with it.”
“I don’t know, I just—” your fingers clenched, like your hand was trying to find something to do now that Zoro had rid you of your mop. “Comparatively I just don’t do much. So I want to help out as much as possible.”
“Who said you don’t do much?”
“What?”
“I don’t think I need to repeat myself,” Zoro said. He let the mop fall to the ground, arms crossing over his chest as he watched you. “Who said you don’t do much?”
“I mean, nobody. It’s just true.” You shrugged, distinctly uncomfortable with the way Zoro was looking at you—all attentive, like he was trying to strip you raw with his eyes, uncover whatever secrets might be hiding in the pores of your skin and the gaps of your teeth. “Luffy’s the captain, we wouldn’t be able to do anything without Nami, you and Sanji are the fighters, and Usopp’s everyone’s favorite. I’m just kind of… filler?”
The more you spoke, the worse your words got, your tone turning more desperate as the sentences fumbled out of your mouth. Zoro’s eyebrows raised higher as you went on, and you flushed, red prickling all over your skin.
“First of all,” he started, “Usopp is not my favorite. That’d be you. And—where are you getting this from?”
You shook your head, trying to backtrack. “Nothing. Nowhere. It’s not that import—”
“Yes, it is, and we’re talking about it.” Zoro pulled a nearby barrel by the side of the ship, plopping himself down atop it and gesturing for you to sit. You didn’t, but you did move over to the railing, hands curling around the painted wood. “Speak.”
“I have nothing to say,” you tried. Zoro just shot you an unimpressed look, and you squirmed. “Fine. I don’t know. I joined last, so I just figured… you were all kind of already set without me, right?”
Zoro shook his head. “We’re a crew,” he said, voice strong but somehow still gentle. “You’re part of us for a reason. What, this entire time did you think you were—expendable?”
You fidgeted uncomfortably, weight shifting from one leg to the other. “No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Last night—I only got, like what, two guys? And you reacted way faster to the situation than I did,” you started, words flailing around on your tongue as they rushed out. It was indelicate, for certain, and you yourself couldn’t make sense of most of the words—but once you started, you couldn’t stop, even as they slurred together. “I was still getting out of bed and grabbing my weapon when you’d already dealt with half the enemy crew.”
“Don’t compare yourself to me,” Zoro said with a shake of his head. “That’s not fair. I’ve been training since I was eight. It’s different.”
You huffed out an exasperated breath, trying not to let your frustration get the best of you. “I can't help it sometimes. It’s a bad habit.” You loosened your grip on the ship railing, staring out at the golden clouds hovering over the sky. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Zoro answered. He didn’t say anything after that—giving you a space to talk, you supposed, in case you wanted to. But his hand did reach up to press against yours, pinky brushing against your finger as he held onto the railing beside you.
“I guess I just always had these standards back at the village,” you managed out eventually. Your island had always been one of the more traditional places in the East Blue, and there were plenty rules and guidelines abound. One of the many reasons you’d left the place in favor for Luffy and the Going Merry, really. “So I just… always want to do more. It’s not that bad.”
“Right.” Zoro’s pinky looped around your finger, now, holding it close in a soft kiss of the hands. You sighed.
“My parents were kind of rough on me, I guess,” you tried, sneaking a glance over at Zoro’s face to see if it satiated his curiosity at all. His expression remained as steel as ever, so you just continued. “They wanted me to be the best I could. But their standards were too high, even when I was little.” You found yourself rubbing circles into the back of Zoro’s hand with your finger, more so to comfort yourself than for any other reason. “Just normal stuff, like being upset about my school grades or my combat training levels being too low. Nothing that terrible.”
“But…?” Zoro asked, tilting his head up to look at you. You smiled, but the action didn’t reach your eyes—it was all mouth and jaw, cheeks lifting but eyes glinting with the same glazed stare.
“It just affected me a lot, I suppose,” you answered. “Always trying to get better. Never satisfied. And I guess now—I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll ever be good enough.”
“For?” Zoro asked. His voice was low, soft, all hollow and empty inside. There was a tinge of roughness lacing it, like he’d forgotten to clear his throat, and the scratch of his vocal chords had surfaced up along with the words.
“Myself. My parents. Luffy. You.” Your lips tightened into a line. Vaguely, you could feel the warm pinpricks of tears starting at your waterline, and you tried to will them back, letting out a little laugh. “Everyone, I guess.”
Zoro’s hand had come to hold yours fully, fingers woven in between yours, thumb pressed firmly against the joint of your thumb. Somehow, that one motion managed to force the last of the words out of you—all wet and soft, eyes glued fiercely to the horizon in fear of seeing what was etched on Zoro’s face.
“We do arranged marriages back at home,” you started, trying very hard to keep your voice from trembling. it worked only marginally—there was a tiny quaver in your tone, but it was soft, not noticeable unless you were really listening hard. “And my mom used to tell me I’d die alone. Because I wasn’t pretty enough, or smart enough, or anything enough for any of the boys there.”
“Oh,” Zoro said. It was quiet; barely a whisper. You tried for a wry smile.
“I like helping, though. I don’t mind cleaning up or whatever. It makes me feel more useful.” You tried to tug your hand out of Zoro’s grip, but his fingers tightened, keeping you in place. A nervous laugh escaped your throat. “And I know I’m part of the crew and all of this is just silly. So it’s really fine—”
Zoro tugged your intertwined hands to his chest, causing you to stumble and glance down at him in surprise. His expression was nearly unreadable. It’d darkened, and there was a contemplative gaze in his eyes, lips parted with invisible words perched on his tongue. “Don’t do that,” he whispered, and your stomach dropped, the nervousness that had gathered inside during the conversation tightening up into a hall. “Don’t say it’s okay or that it’s not important. If it’s making you upset, then it matters.”
“I guess,” you tried, and Zoro’s gaze lifted to fix you with a glare. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, I just…” Zoro shook his head. “Look, whatever your parents used to tell you, whatever you have ingrained in your head—it’s not true. And there’s nothing wrong with wanting to do more, but… you don’t have to do it. You’re enough already.”
Your gaze softened, lips falling open to say something, but Zoro wasn’t finished yet. “You shouldn’t come out here and force yourself to clean up just to make up for your—waste of space, or something. You’re not a servant. And you’re not wasting up any space. I think everyone would agree that you’re a very important and vital part of the crew.”
“Thanks,” you whispered. Zoro’s hand was warm around yours, and you felt the threatening droplets of tears start to rise up at your waterline, ready to fall at any moment now. Zoro just nodded.
“You’re a great fighter, and way smarter than what you give yourself credit for,” he said firmly. He raised your hand to his mouth, then, leaning over to press a feather-light kiss to your knuckles. “And the boys on your island have to be blind, because you’re pretty enough. You’re more than pretty enough.”
He whispered the last words, all soft and sacred on his tongue. “You’re beautiful.”
That was enough to drive your tears over the edge. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to stop the flow as the warm sensation of liquid streaking down your cheeks began. Droplets caught in the crevice of your lips, and at the hinge of your jaw—Zoro brought a hand up to wipe them away. “Are you okay?” he whispered.
“Yeah, I just, um.” You shook your head, sniffing. “Thank you. That… helped. I think.”
Zoro bummed out his response. “Of course,” he said easily. “You’re my girl. It’s my job to cheer you up.” He kissed your knuckles again. “And you can talk to any of us. I’m not really the best at this, but everyone else…” he shrugged.
“You’re doing just fine,” you assured him. Zoro nodded, tugging you down until you finally took a seat on a crate beside him. “I think it’s just been worse lately.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I think you’re better than the waiter,” Zoro said. You just laughed.
“I think you’re biased, but thank you,” you said. “Here, I, um, I promise I’ll let you know if I’m feeling down, I guess. If you don’t mind.”
“Definitely don’t mind,” Zoro answered. This time he placed a gentle kiss on your neck, somewhere at the bottom near the back. “Leave the mopping for someone else. You’ve already done a lot.”
“Okay,” you whispered, eyes fluttering closed as Zoro kissed the rest of the way up the back of your neck. He placed a final one right below your earlobe. With that, Zoro stood up, sweeping one arm under your legs and hoisting you up. You cracked open an eye to regard him with a blank look. “What are you doing?”
“Bringing you back to my room,” Zoro answered. “You didn’t get much sleep tonight. And I doubt anyone wants to watch me kissing you on the main deck anyway.”
That was fair enough reasoning, so you didn’t complain, letting him carry you all the way to his cabin and gently lay you down onto his bed. He leaned over to press a gentle kiss to your lips—you could still taste the saltwater from your tears from before. “Want me to stay?” Zoro asked.
“You don’t have to,” you said automatically, and Zoro raised both his eyebrows. You let out a sigh. “Okay, I get it. Yes. Please stay.”
“All you had to say,” Zoro said, shedding himself of his shoes and swords before leaning over the bed to watch you. He didn’t slip under the covers or anything, just propped an arm up on the mattress, kneeling beside the bed. There was tender silence for a few moments before Zoro spoke again.
“I love you,” he said abruptly, voice rough but somehow still soft. Your heart beat too fast in your chest, ribcage squeezing in on the organ and making it skip. His hand slid along the mattress to find yours, and you took the offer, fingers clasping around his palm.
“I love you too,” you whispered back. Zoe leaned over, then, the hand not intertwined with yours tilting your jaw over just so to allow him better access to your mouth. He kissed you full-on, tender but firm, mouth working against yours in a way that unraveled you entirely. Your grip on his hand tightened as he deepened the kiss, a soft sound emitting from low in your throat. Finally you broke apart, heaving for breath, exhales mixing together midair. An exchange of souls, you’d heard once, somewhere.
“Come on,” you murmured, tugging Zoro closer to the bed so he got the hint. He slipped beside you onto it, turning your head again to meet you in another kiss. His hand drifted down to your waist, holding you securely in place.
“I don’t think anyone should need us for a few more hours, right?” Zoro asked, and you laughed. He swallowed up the sounds with his mouth, tongue licking languidly into you as he rubbed delicate circles into the skin of your waist. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, and then he was kissing you again.
You let him siphon the soul out of your lungs, knowing you were getting his right back.
© halfvalid 2023
#opla zoro#opla roronoa zoro#opla#roronoa zoro#roronoa zoro x reader#roronoa zoro x you#reader insert#x reader#one piece live action#one piece netflix#opla zoro x reader#opla fanfiction#opla fanfic#one piece live action x you#one piece live action x reader#kiki writes!
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i think i already requested this but i’m not 100% sure so i’m doing it again 🫶😭 ellie getting hired as a farm hand and sneaking around with the farmers daughter
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+. rushed writing, smut, oral!e recieving, dirty talk
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: I JUST CAME EVERYWHERE!!! sorry this req took so long. i went a bit overboard. plz tell me if u want more of this trope, 3.2k words.
The farm was never quiet. Not the always loud stables and garden, not the chicken coop that always raised choruses of sounds. Never was the creaking door of your front porch door silent, nor was the gravel road that led across the expansive farm. Your father waking early in the morning, before the sun had even risen, boots stomping down old stairs— that was never quiet either. So often, you found your arms pressed to the ledge of your window, peeking through the white curtains to watch as the sun rose and your father trudged around to tend to everything by himself.
One day, when your cheek was pressed against your arm, knees tucked under you as your bed acted as a cushion to watch out the window with sleepy eyes, someone else showed up. Their hair was short and messily cut, shining a deep sort of auburn in the early flashes of the sun. They wore flannel and jeans that you had to squint your eyes to see were definitely too big for whoever wore them. Your father had mentioned hiring a farm hand for some help, but you assumed to be met with an older man like himself. Not whoever this was. They tilted their head up, meeting your searching eyes through the window above the farmhouse. It was a girl, definitely one your age, early twenties or so. Before she could look too long as you continued being nosy, you ducked down under the window and let out a breath of embarrassment.
A few days later, you learned her name. Carrying metal buckets full of feed for the chicken coop, you were met with this new face again, holding the same bucket. “Oh,” she had said, “are you going to feed the chickens? I'm sorry, don’t mean to get in the way..” she had rocked on her heels nervously, but you just smiled. “Oh! my daddy always has me feed the chickens; he must’ve just forgotten to tell ya’.. you’re the new farm hand, right?” The girl had nodded, very obviously following the braids in your hair as you tilted your head a bit. “Yea— uh, I’m Ellie..” she eventually introduced, holding out a hand for you. It gave a clear visual of the flannel pushed to her elbows, revealing a beautiful tattoo on her lower arm. You shook her hand, grinning as bright as the damn sky as you introduced yourself. “We could just go feed them together? Then I’ll get outta your hair,” you offered. That was the first day you and Ellie spoke, over the loud clucks of the chickens, introducing them each by names you had given them, asking simple questions about herself. That was when you decided you had to have her.
Your father didn’t love how the next few weeks were spent with you stealing glances at Ellie as she carried hay barrels or led horses to a different side of the farm. He mumbled for you to ‘let the girl do her job’ whenever you brought the two of them lemonades or snacks as an excuse to spark up a conversation under the summer heat. You liked to watch the way Ellie always focused on you, sweat building on her forehead that she always wiped away to speak with you. You enjoyed how she stumbled over her words whenever you complimented her work or mentioned how your father didn’t like how interested you were in distracting her.
“My daddy says I'm a bad influence on you, Ellie; you think that's true?” You had asked one day while leaning against the barn door, watching as she shuffled animals back into their pens. “He thinks I distract you too much,” you add, fingers digging into the pockets of your overalls. Ellie swallowed harshly, searching for her words carefully, “I think I’d be lying if I said you didn’t distract me just a bit,” the girl admitted, pushing a grin to your face. “Only a bit?” You pouted, nearly giggling out loud at how Ellie had blinked so hard and so many times, unable to conjure up words for your pointed comment. That was the first time you had dipped your toes into the pool of flirting with Ellie, and you never went back.
After a few awkward breakfasts of your father digging into you for your infatuation with his new farm hand, begging you just to let the girl work, you got more careful about your trips to Ellie. You would wait until your father was off in one of the stables before you would sneak to the garden Ellie was kneeling in, hands covered in dirt as she tended to the plants. “You look good like that,” you would mumble. Ellie always fumbled with her tools, looking up at you with eyes that always begged you not to keep pushing this. You always did. Your feet always found a place in the area of the farm she was in, digging into the dirt as you asked about her day and slid in compliments.
Ellie tried her best to be a good worker; she really did. She did her best to ignore those pretty eyes of yours, did her damnedest to look away when you bit your lip and watched her work. But she was only human. Every human had a breaking point, a trip-wire that only took one wrong step to set off and blow everything up. That breaking point had been your pretty sundress on a Wednesday afternoon as you lounged on your front porch, a book tucked in front of your face. Ellie had been standing there, waiting for your father to return from his quick ride to get more supplies for a broken fence. It was too hot that day to even debate standing out in the blistering sun, though the shade of the porch gave little comfort when you raised one of your legs and exposed some of your thighs.
“I love that flannel El,” you said as your nose poked above the paper pages, fingers dipping in between the chapters as you paid little mind to the words. “Come sit with me,” you patted the small sun chair next to you, and Ellie couldn’t help but follow your motion. A few strands of her hair were sticking up as she took a seat next to you, and you didn’t fight the urge to reach forward and press them down. “You gotta stop doing this,” Ellie said suddenly, turning your hand back to your lap. You knew exactly what she meant, but you still blinked as if you were confused. “Doin’ what?” You let your ponytail rest against the back of your chair as you leaned back, heart jumping to your throat as Ellie leaned over from her own space. Those green eyes you had wanted to see up close finally focused on your lips. “Tempting me, I can't..” Ellie swallowed, “Can’t do this.”
You had leaned up a bit, “You think I'm tempting El?” your voice came out slow and sweet, like molasses on her lips. Ellie and you both knew that trip-wire had been stepped directly on. The explosion had been Ellie’s lips crashing into your own, harsh enough that you were left with puffy lips for the rest of the day. She was just as sweet as you imagined, and you were hooked from the first bite against her lip. The two of you only pulled away when you heard the wheels of your father’s car. You knew if he caught you two, all the fun would end.
From there, Ellie was just as bad as you. Her hands found your waist whenever you passed by her in the barn, sneaking behind the buildings to meet you for a few handsy kisses and calloused hands pressing up shirts. Ellie became louder, a more mouthy side escaping her. Usually, it consisted of tumbling swears when you wore something she liked or loud jokes whenever you two were alone. You liked this side of her, always skipping away from your small meetings just as giddy as the first time, cheeks red from laughing.
Ellie began staying a little past sunset, knowing your kind father would invite her for dinner each time. You both knew it was just so she could watch as you and your father set the table, enjoying how you floated around the room only to always land in the seat next to hers. You both enjoyed how her palm always found your thigh under the table, usually rendering you the babbling one for once. Ellie stuck around till the very last minute, and the excellent daughter you were, you always offered to walk her out. The thrill of how easy it would be to get caught only made the goodnight kisses even more, mind-numbing, pressing through the window of her car to find her lips. “G’night, Ellie,” you always whispered through flushed cheeks. “Goodnight, angel,” Ellie always replied.
You often found yourself with a hand over your mouth, pressed against a door or any other surface you found acceptable and quiet. Ellie was talented with her fingers and mouth, and you had fallen victim to being a little too loud many times. It gained this recurring theme of her hand pressing against your lips and cheeks. Ellie hushed you repeatedly, demanding you two couldn’t be caught. The farm was only ever quiet when you two snuck around, mouth against your ear, sweat sticking to both of your bodies as she dragged too many orgasms to count from you.
One particularly sweltering day, your father had packed his trunk and left for the summer farmers market. It left the land to be only occupied by you and Ellie, who worked on the broken wood of the stairs outside your porch. You pushed your window all the way open, drawing the blinds back to let in more air. The heat was sticky in the way you hated— pressing down on your body with its humidity, grasping around your arms and legs like a grabby human, wrapping around you with a blanket you couldn't remove. It drew the hours of the day at a much too slow pace, swearing the minutes on your clock ticked a little slower in the muggy day.
It led you to peer out your window, enjoying the sight of Ellie’s muscles flexing against the white wife beater she wore a little too much. The way, even from up here, you could hear the small grunts of effort she let off had you shifting around in your spot, suddenly even more bogged down with heat.
You could only imagine how hot she must be stuck under the direct sunlight. You debate hollering down to her in a request to distract each other from the heat. Instead, you decide to have a little fun, standing up and directly in front of the open window as you pull your shirt off your body. The excuse you tell yourself is that it’s too warm to deal with the itchy fabric, much cooler in the bra and shorts you now dawned. You could feel a gaze on you from the ground below, and you stretched your arms up and above your head to cure the ache as you turned away from the window. You barely had five minutes before hearing the creaking of your front door.
It didn’t take long for you two to find each other in your room, Ellie pressing through the door. “What are you doing?” she questions, kicking off her boots to keep your pristine floorboards free of dirt. Your arms crossed over your body, shrugging. Watching as her breathing seemed to slow, the white wifebeater she wore just looked even more handsome now that you could see the subtle way it was crumpled and off place from working.
“It’s hot; I'm alone, so I got comfortable. Didn’t think peeping tom would see me,” you tease, stepping a bit closer as you wipe a bead of sweat from her freckled cheek. “You knew I would look,” Ellie muttered, slumping gently into your palm. “Maybe I did,” you nod in agreement, a mischievous smile finding its way to your lips. “Maybe I wanted attention..” you offer, hand moving from her face. The pad of your pointer finger runs over the low collar of her shirt. “Need somethin’ to distract me from the heat while daddy’s still out..”
Ellie huffed, her own hand coming to grip at your hand, pulling it off her chest. “So you teased me, hoping I'd come up and play with you?” She asked, dipping against your cheek to press a soft kiss there, pressing more small pecks until they reached your lips, humming when you pushed needily toward her. “Put me to work in your own way?” she chastises, pulling you close enough for a hand to find your ass, digging her fingers into the fat.
“No,” you shook your head, tilting your chin up. Today you wanted to try something different. Reward Ellie for all the hard work she did for the farm. It was an idea that had been building in your mind for a while, and you licked your lips as you began to describe it, “Wanna make you feel good, Ellie. You’re always makin’ me feel good..”
Ellie chuckled softly, her cheeks already red from the sun outside only worsened at your request, palm moving from the swell of your ass to skim over the small of your back, leaving your skin tingling in its wake. “How would you like to do that, pretty girl?”
Instead of answering her with words, you dropped to your knees in front of her, “want you to let me do this for you,” your comments dragged out, pulling the same way the all-encompassing heat did in your room. The bone of your knees find comfort on the small white rug on the ground as you shuffle. You blink up at her, reveling in how she sucks in a breath.
“Fuck- alright—” Ellie fumbled with her hands on the buckle of her jeans, dropping the dirtied fabric down to pool at her feet. Ellie stepped out of them, and you pushed them away, scrambling to be directly beneath. “You ever done this before, baby?” Ellie questioned, petting your hair softly as you made your own move to tug at her boxers impatiently. You shook your head; eyes focused on the small wet patch of her underwear. “I'm a quick learner, though.”
Ellie huffed in response, unable to meet your eyes when your cheek pressed against her slightly spread thigh. You didn’t mind how the heat only pushed further down on your body at the contact, enjoying this humidity too much. Your lips found her thigh, trying your best to recreate the teasing Ellie often enacted on you when the current roles were reversed. Your teeth scraped over the flesh of her inner thigh, tongue following the indents as you spent a few minutes kissing over each thigh, enjoying how you could tell her center was growing weepier by the second. “Don't fuckin tease,” Ellie breathed eventually, her hand finding your head, guiding it up between her more.
Always looking to please, you don’t put up a fight— tongue poking out to lavish over her pussy, collecting the wetness built there. You pressed your neck into an uncomfortable bend, fingers pulling her thighs apart for a better angle. Taking time with the feeling of her shaking chest reverberating on your face, of the only smell and taste you could feel was her, you licked lazily. You searched around her folds to your content. Only had you sped up when that mouthiness of Ellie returned to the silent house.
“Fuck, such a good mouth on you, angel,” Ellie groaned, tugging harshly at your roots as her hips rocked slightly. “You sure you haven’t done this before?” She asked as if you could reply, pressing further down into you as another wave of wetness spread across your lips and cheeks. “Too fuckin good,” she muttered, head tilting back to let a ragged breath out into the air.
The tongue dipped over her clit, causing another swear out of her lips. “Right there, do that again,” she asked, rewarding you with another soft pet over your hair before fingers wrapped in it again. Your body listened before your kind even could, wet lips wrapping around her bud. “Jesus-” Ellie whined. It sends signals straight through each nerve in your body, raising a deep seeded want to hear that sound again, sucking harshly at her clit and then licking up the slick dripping from her slit again, a fast-paced pattern following. You didn’t mind how sticky you felt, how beads of sweat built where your knees folded, how sore your neck was becoming. What you did care about was the now constant groans falling from Ellie.
“What if your dad could see you now, angel?” Ellie spoke, causing you to press your thighs together at the mere thought of being caught. “His pretty little daughter on her knees for the farm hand, acting like she’s starved for my cunt,” Ellie grits, a harsher grip on the locks of your hair. “What would your daddy think, baby?”
If Ellie had told you her words were magic, you would have believed it with the next set of sounds you both heard. Heavy boots stomping up the stairs. Maybe you had been too focused on your current desire to listen to the gravel road crunching under tires or the flimsy porch door opening in the wind. When a harsh knock comes to your door, a hand yanks you from her thighs, neck tilting to look up at messy auburn hair and flushed cheeks. Ellie’s eyes danced around your glossy lips and cheeks, nearly folding to her own knees when you licked at the wetness on your bottom lip.
“You in there, darling? You seen Ellie? All her tools are here, but I can’t find her. The farmer's market ended early cause’ of the heat.” Both of your bodies froze completely, though Ellie’s legs shook in what you assumed to be nervousness.
Ellie gave another sharp tug to your hair, mouthing for you to answer. Your voice struggles to find a footing that makes it sound steady in your throat as you answer your father, “I'm here, Daddy, just takin a nap. I think Ellie’s out in the south barn, remember her saying she forgot some wood for the stairs there.”
Before you can even consider answering again, Ellie is forcing you back between her thighs, and you happily go back to lapping at her despite the way your heart was falling into the pit of your stomach knowing full well one twist of the doorknob would ruin everything.
“Alright, I’ll let you rest. Gonna do some work in my office,” your dad answered. It's a relief when he doesn’t search for a reply, the creaking floorboard sounding at the same time Ellie can't bite back a softer moan.
The sound of his office door shutting has Ellie a little more confident when her rasping voice sounds, “Want you to make me come before he finds us.” She sighs it out, cheeks almost as wet as yours from the sweat building against the freckles there. You were positive there was nothing prettier.
“Want to soak your face while he’s right next door.”
#rins reqs ❀.#ellie williams x reader#ellie williams x y/n#ellie williams x you#ellie williams x female reader#ellie williams x fem reader#ellie williams smut
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Lifeline
ship: opla luffy x reader
summary: Luffy sees you hanging over the edge of the ship, holding nothing but a piece of rope in your hand.
a/n: remember when I said my meltdown felt finished? So that was a fucking lie. I wrote a comfort fic instead.
tags: sfw, one piece live action, reader is a devil fruit eater, suicide attempt, angst/comfort, friendship, the Strawhat crew is a found family, Luffy fulfills the caregiver role
--
Everything was set into place. After such a long time, you finally controlled one part of your life.
Ending it.
You were going to do it during a clear night sky. There was the sounds of the winds against the sails of the Going Merry, and the lapping of the ocean waves against its magnificent hull. Usopp took great pride in keeping the ship in peak condition― it was easy to keep filling his mug with booze as he boasted about the ship, and it didn't take long for him to weave belowdecks to find his puke bucket.
Nami and Zoro were more difficult to put under, until a comment misheard by one of them led to another drinking game that ended with both of them unconscious under a table. Sanji helped you get them to bed, but when Zoro wrapped a massive arm around him, he was as good as pinned to the mattress with them. You ignored his pleas as you slowly exited the room, moving two barrels of dried meat in front of the door. Sanji's kicks are strong enough to break through wood, but the idea was to delay his movement, not stop him.
The rope in your hand strained as you lean further over the portside. Your feet remained on deck, but the rest of you teetered dangerously beyond the edge. As a Devil Fruit eater, you had a death wish, setting out to sea. Now you were proving everyone right.
"What are we looking for?"
Goddamn Luffy. You couldn't think of how to put him under, and now you were out of time. Luffy descended the ratlines at your right, eagerly squinting into the inky black ocean. "Are there any dolphins? Are they awake at night? I couldn't hear them from up at the crow's nest."
"Luffy..." you loosened your grip on the rope, the literal lifeline that kept you anchored to the ship. "Leave me alone for a bit, please. Sanji needs help with Nami and Zoro. They've been drinking."
"Sanji can take care of them." He planted his sandaled feet on the bulkhead, detaching from the ratlines. "He takes care of all of us. Even you."
Oh, the bastard. A forced, empty laugh escapes your mouth. "I feel the need to ask. Can you tell what I plan to do?"
He blinked slowly, and that's when you suspected he might succeed to persuade you against it. "Yeah. By the way, if you jump, I'm jumping in after you."
This time, you laughed more genuinely. True; in the short time that passed since you first joined, you knew Luffy had that type of personality.
Luffy smiled, simply happy that he heard your real laugh. The you that was his friend was still in there somewhere. "Y/n, please give me your hand."
He lifted his own, palm facing up. All things considered, he could use his ability and yank you back. But he wasn't that kind of captain―wasn't that kind of person.
"I'm out of place, captain." You keep your attention fixed on the ocean. It was easier than seeing Luffy's face. "I don't have much to offer anyone on this ship, least of all you. Joining you was a mistake."
"You don't mean that." Luffy had seen a similar devastation before. Nami, back when they helped free Coco Village from Arlong. "We like having you here. We all want to keep sailing with you."
A scoff splintered your throat on the way out. "What's your point?"
Luffy shifted on his feet, confused. The point? "You said you're out of place. Then, we'll make a place for you!" He thought they were already doing that, anyway.
He watched your grip on the rope slacken further. Only an inch of rope left before you fall to your death. Luffy scowled. "What about your dream?"
You roll your eyes, even as they prickle with tears. You say over your shoulder. "Someone else will be born and have the same dream. Let them fulfill it."
Luffy stopped himself from complaining about how lazy, how defeated of a thinking that was. Think like a captain. He told himself. "Y/n, no one else will pursue your dream the same way you would. That other person will do one thing differently than you, and you wouldn't be able to scold them for not following your lead. Because you chose to jump tonight."
The stars shimmered on the ocean surface tonight. You couldn't see where the sky ended and the sea began, only that it was dark. And Luffy was a red and blue and orange beacon within your reach.
"They won't..." You swallow the image that formed in your head. A child who didn't know any better, deciding to change one key element of your dream for the hell of it. "They won't pursue it how I would."
"Right." You heard Luffy take two steps closer. "So come on, Strawhat. Take my hand."
You find the strength to turn your head. Luffy's hand remained lifted, open and welcoming. Especially to the undeserving.
He offered you a tender, genuine smile. The softness reached his eyes. "We both know that when you take my hand, I will help you. All of us will help you, Y/n. But only after you reach for my hand."
He was cruel, your captain. This was him asking you to continue living. To continue suffering, to continue feeling pain. With him. With everyone. The annoying thing about Luffy was that he believed his crew has each other's backs, and actively made sure it became true.
Zoro was half asleep, but he still protected the back of Nami's head when they both fell on their asses under the table. Sanji complained about Zoro's weight on him, but still made sure his and Nami's necks were at comfortable angles. Usopp embraced everyone good night and sang garbled songs about how he found his courage with the crew, on his way belowdecks. When the singing stopped, the puking began. Sanji and you had chuckled to overhear it.
Goddamnit. You think to yourself, twisting fully and grabbing Luffy's hand.
Your captain grinned, pulling you close. His arms were solid as they braced around your middle, hand grasping your shoulder from behind. His face was buried in your hair, his next words muffled. "There we go. The crew is complete again."
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Belly of the Beast: Part I
Dark!Dave York x F!reader
Warnings: it’s Dave, so…buckle up! No use of y/n. Homicide with a gun, reader is shot and grievously wounded and dying, graphic descriptions of murder and gore, use of medical equipment/terminology, amateur triage and medical care, Dave is a voyeuristic creep, Stockholm syndrome?, physical restraints, partial nudity, divergence from EQ2 plot and major character deaths mentioned. No mention of wife or kids. No smut this time! (Shocking, I know.) Dark themes obviously, I mean, Dave DOES kill for money, after all.
Summary: You’ve been Dave’s housekeeper for two years. When you arrive for your morning shift, the last thing you expect to see is Dave standing over a body.
This was going to be a one shot but I decided it worked better as a two parter. Enjoy!
Word Count: 4,700
Taglist: tagging the people I know for sure want to be tagged. If you want to be tagged for part II, lmk!
@ohheypedrito @kateispunk @survivingandenduring @kellybelly1978 @awilderi @oberynslady @natdeandar @daddy-dins-girl @heavennumber2 @guelyury
—
The sky is still dark, a faint slice of jagged light cast across a slate colored horizon, when you arrive for the day at Dave York’s home.
You notice his car parked in the driveway as you pull in, checking your messages to make sure you hadn’t missed anything from him, finding nothing. You frown.
Normally, he would tell you when he would be home if he knew you were also going to be there that day. He simply must have forgotten to mention it this time. It wasn’t a big deal; you could just work around him like you always did.
He was gone for work more often than not. What that entails, you aren’t entirely sure of; all you knew was that he worked in D.C. Something bureaucratic, most likely.
What was even more curious than his unannounced presence, however, was a second vehicle parked behind his.
You pull up next to aforementioned vehicle and get out, gathering your bucket of cleaning supplies from the backseat. Dave provided most of what was used, but there were a few items you preferred for various reasons, with his approval, of course. You had been his housekeeper for the last two years, servicing his home bi-weekly, and he paid you well, plus tips. You had few complaints.
Although the home was large and stately, he lived alone as far as you knew. You couldn’t recall seeing anyone there before now.
As you walk along the edge of the driveway to the side door, you note the pale illumination filtering out through the kitchen window onto the concrete, which makes sense considering the time of day. He’s most likely just sitting down to have his coffee and breakfast. You hope you don’t startle him too much.
The sun is ascending rapidly, already burning brighter in the short walk from your car to the door, providing you with enough light to get your key out.
You unlock the side door, which steps directly into a small utility and mud room. The interior door to the kitchen is drawn shut, which wasn’t unusual, but an unfamiliar noise registers as you enter, immediately followed by what sounds like chair legs scraping along the tiled floor, and Dave’s voice saying what sounds like a name. Mac? Is that what you heard?
Your mind fumbles over the original sound, knowing it’s familiar, but that you can’t quite place it, trying to trace its source. You can best describe it as a muted pop, loud enough to notice but not so loud as to sound any alarm bells. Or so you think.
You smell the strong waft of coffee and eggs cooking as you enter. And something else.
The scene that is laid out before you as you push open the kitchen door is the last thing you would ever expect or want to find, and the realization of what the unidentified sound was hits you like a freight train.
What you discover is Dave standing above a body, pistol clutched tightly in his right hand, knuckles turning alabaster, with what you’re certain is a silencer screwed to the end of the barrel.
The body sprawled across the floor belongs to a man you don’t recognize, a pool of fresh blood spreading rapidly from a single gunshot wound to the front of the skull, bone and brain matter studding the kitchen island and wall, the stink of crimson iron filling the air.
Dave’s head snaps up when he hears you enter, his face gone pale, but otherwise completely blank and devoid of emotion.
Your eyes lock.
You think you say his name. You aren’t sure, and the only reason you know you’ve said anything at all is because you feel the muscles in your esophagus stretching and vibrating, your heart thundering inside your rib cage.
You’re smart enough to deduce that this isn’t some home invasion gone awry. The unknown car in the driveway and the trained, emotionless nature at which Dave currently presents himself is testament to that.
The only option left is that Dave killed a man. And now he has his sights trained on none other than you.
You drop the bucket of supplies, the hollow sound of plastic hitting ceramic reverberating in your skull as you turn, your brain screaming at you to run, run.
In hindsight, running was a bad idea. But panic doesn’t always create rationale.
You feel your legs pumping, your lungs sucking in air. You want to scream for help but when you attempt it, the only sound that comes out is a small, strangled croak of terror. You feel like a damsel in distress in every horror movie you’ve ever seen, almost as if you aren’t actually moving at all, like you’re just running in place while the villain slowly catches up to you.
If you could just reach the neighbor’s house. If you could just… reach…
You manage to make it to the driveway, but you’re barely a few steps onto the concrete when that same muted pop registers again, and you instantly feel a sharp, burning, agonizing sting that rips right through you like a hot knife through butter, knocking you ass over teakettle just paces from Dave’s car, your face slamming hard against the ground.
You look down to see the spreading circle of blood on your shirt against your lower abdomen, a geyser of red bubbling up from the wound. And Dave is on you in an instant, hovering above you, gun trained right at your head.
You know you’re a goner. Abdominal gunshots are frequently fatal, at least according to the kind of shows you like to watch. And at the rate you’re seeing your blood spill out, you know it’s anything but good.
Before you fully comprehend what is happening, your vision already waning, you’re pleading for Dave to end your life as quickly as possible, ‘please, please Mr. York, I’ve been good to you. Please do it fast’, you choke out.
But Dave doesn’t kill you. His dark eyes bore into you, through you, and he hesitates. He’s watching you die and beg for him to put you down and yet he can’t bring himself to actually do it, regardless of how many names he’s scratched out of his ledger without remorse. Maybe because you’re just an innocent, wrong place wrong time, but he can’t seem to do it.
“Please, don’t let me suffer,” you sob as you lift a single, quaking hand that is slicked deep burgundy, and still he doesn’t put you down, only lowering the gun to his side, and you can’t help but wonder what you did to deserve to suffer slowly like this.
Finally, some sense of self preservation washes over you, and even as you’re dying, in your final throes of desperation, you start ripping and clawing at your shirt, managing to somehow tear a sizable chunk out of it, in order to make some kind of makeshift tourniquet that could potentially save your life.
Your hands shake and slip, blood pressure dropping rapidly, and your vision wanes more, the edges of the lightening sky fading and blotting away. You suddenly feel very cold and you can feel your heartbeat gradually ebbing to a slow, dull throb.
The last thing you see before your vision goes completely dark is Dave crouching over you, his face screwed up in regret.
——
God damn it.
When Dave had found out only days before that McCall was still alive, and that his old compatriot had sniffed out the details shrouding Susan’s death, Dave had lost all sight of anything else, completely forgetting you were scheduled to clean his house that day.
Had he realized, he would have canceled. It would have made things far less complicated.
But God fucking damn it. He didn’t want to kill you, his militaristic training and instincts piloting his actions when you fled instead of surrendering, intending to put a round in your skull but changing his mind at the last possible fraction of a second so that he totally FUBAR’d the shot and hit your abdomen instead. A gut shot wasn’t much better. In fact, it was worse. Way worse.
You’re still breathing when he finishes applying the crude tourniquet that you had started, which didn’t completely stop the bleeding but slowed it enough to make a difference. That way, he could get you down into the basement where he could apply proper triage.
His medical training was rudimentary and archaic at best, but it was better than nothing. And it was his best chance at keeping you alive.
Your blood soaks through the light blue dress shirt Dave is wearing as he carries you through the house draped in his arms, the one you once told him looked nice on him. He takes you into the basement and places you on his work table — which isn’t sterile — noting no exit wound as he sets you down, which can be good or bad, all things depending.
Thankfully, he locates the bullet readily enough, fishing it out with a narrow pair of forceps, discarding it into a medical pan as he lets out a sigh of relief when he sees the bullet didn’t strike anything crucial, an incredibly lucky feat.
He grabs a skin stapler to close up the wound; a messy and rushed method of closure that would leave behind a pretty significant scar, but he didn’t have the luxury of time to close the wound properly with a needle, especially considering the rate at which his hands were already shaking.
He takes in a deep breath when he finishes stapling you back together and leans over you, examining your face and body visually, his mind racing as to what he should do now. You still had a pulse. You were breathing. But you had lost a lot of blood, and your prognosis wasn’t good.
Frowning, the crease deepening between his brows, he cleans and sterilizes the wound, wrapping you up in proper dressing, which he hopes is enough to stave off any infection. He can’t risk taking you to a hospital. Especially when there’s still a dead man to deal with only a floor above.
The good news is that he knew no one would come looking for McCall, the majority believing him to already be dead, so disposal would thankfully be swift and painless. You, on the other hand, he was unsure of. He knew your parents had passed and you didn’t have siblings, but he didn’t know if there was a boyfriend or girlfriend in your life, or friends who would notice your absence.
His mind reels with every possibility. Dave isn’t a man who enjoys loose ends. Loose ends make his ass itch.
Your shirt is shredded and bloody, so he removes the remainder of it, leaving you in a soft black cotton bra. He doesn’t let his eyes wander, although, at the back of his mind, he realizes he has always found you attractive. Just as quickly as it dawns on him, he shakes the thought from his mind; it is neither the time nor place for such endeavors.
He removes your shoes but not your socks, knowing you would be cold from having lost so much blood. He might actually put one of his pairs over your own, for good measure.
After a long beat of silent contemplation, Dave scoops you up into his arms once more.
——
You wake up from a fitful sleep some hours later, in a bed you’ve never slept in before. The room around you is dark, shades drawn, a faint light flooding in from beneath a closed door.
When you attempt to sit up, pain lances through your torso and you cry out, your back hitting the mattress. You immediately realize, much to your horror, that you’re also handcuffed to a bedpost. Even if you could move without effort, you aren’t exactly going anywhere.
Your memory suddenly comes flooding back in a tidal wave of images, recalling all of the events that lead up to this point; the body on the kitchen floor, the gunshot, Dave staring down at you with a pistol in his hand.
But you aren’t in a hospital and this isn’t a hospital bed. You’re in Dave’s bedroom. In Dave’s bed.
The door clicks open and a familiar silhouette steps into the room, regarding you in steely silence. You recognize the broad shoulders right away, the thick arms, the short cropped hair.
Your pulse quickens, your body and mind telling you to flee again, even though you know you can’t, causing you to flinch with a choked whimper when he takes a step toward you.
“I wouldn’t move, sweetheart. You lost a lot of blood,” Dave explains, his voice low and soft to your ears as he approaches the bed.
Your body is trembling hard. So hard that it makes the entire bed vibrate.
He’s no longer wearing the blue shirt or black slacks from before, now dressed in a slate gray t-shirt and Adidas sweats. His dark eyes study you as he sits next to you on the edge of the bed. If you weren’t so weak, you think you would strike him.
He lifts the back of his hand to your cheek and you flinch again.
“Shh,” he tuts, “I’m not going to harm you.”
His hand presses to the soft round of your cheek, your forehead, checking for fever.
“Y-you— you s-shot me—?“ you croak.
“I reacted poorly,” Dave agrees with a small nod, his lips parted softly, “but you also shouldn’t have run.”
“You k-killed… that man…”
“I did, indeed.” His eyes grow a shade darker, his brow knitting together, lending him a sinister appearance. “But that man was threatening me. That man was going to kill me…” Dave explains, an edge of malice and contempt to his voice. “I was left with few options.”
You stare back, unblinkingly, trying to decide what to say next, if anything.
“My family will come looking for me,” is what you settle on, a wash of bravery suddenly welling up within you.
To that, Dave smirks, eyes remaining dark, hand lowering to the bed by your hip.
“What family?” Dave asks, smirk slanting even more, his tone semi-mocking. “Do you really think I would hire someone to come into my home without doing a full investigation on them?”
Your jaw drops open, hanging slack in the air, as it dawns on you that a trained killer has been right under your nose this entire time. You would scream if you had the lung capacity to do so.
You should have seen the patterns. Noticed the signs. The constant travel, the lack of personal touches to his home, the pinpricks of blood you occasionally found on his clothes that you excused for other things. That one room in the basement he forbade you from entering.
But you hadn’t, causing you to nearly pay with your life.
Truth is, Dave had picked you for good reason, and it wasn’t just because of the exemplary reviews. You were naive and trusting, you had no family, no criminal record, you didn’t work for an agency; you worked solo. Your work ethic and reliability were just cherries on top.
You look down to notice the IV needle in your hand, and you lift it in examination, your hand shaking and sputtering weakly. No… no, you really had no clue who this guy was at all.
Dave watches you for a beat before he gently grasps your hand and places it back down on the bed, regarding you with uncharacteristic softness and empathy.
You feel your consciousness starting to drift then as Dave pulls the covers back to check the dressings, finding they’re still intact and that the wound hasn’t reopened from what he can tell. He’ll clean and redress everything in the morning. For now, you need rest.
“I’ll be right back,” he tells you, stepping out of the room for what feels like only a meager blip of time to you, but when you open your eyes again, he’s hovering above you once more with a thermometer and an ice pack.
“Open up,” he instructs, and you do so obediently.
“Good girl,” Dave praises as he checks your temperature, and you close your eyes.
When the thermometer beeps, which feels like an eternity later, he frowns, exhaling a long sigh. “101.5. Here,” he says, leaning to the side where he opens a drawer on the night stand, a bottle of aspirin rattling somewhere next to your head. The sound is grating, making your head throb, and suddenly the lamp seems too bright.
He feeds you some pills and gives you a drink of water from a nearby tumbler, which you guess was also on the nightstand, but aren’t too sure.
He pulls the blanket back up all the way to your chin and places the ice pack on your forehead, staring down at you. Although Dave was the reason you were even here at all, he is treating you with a surprising amount of tenderness.
“You need to eat,” he says after a moment. “Dinner is almost ready.”
——
You must pass out again, because when your eyes reopen, Dave stands next to you with a small tray table filled with food.
“Chicken and dumplings,” he explains. “It will keep the cold away.”
You nod your head weakly as he places the tray over you. When you reach for the spoon, he stops you, blocking your hand with his own.
“Let me,” he says, picking up the spoon. “I don’t want you moving anymore than necessary.”
You have to keep reminding yourself that he’s the one who shot you. He’s why you’re in this mess in the first place. Why you’re here, injured, with a hole in your abdomen, chained to his bed.
The way he’s acting shouldn’t be trusted.
You try to resist, but he grabs your jaw with the other hand and forces it to pop open, pressing the spoon past your lips as he ladles the soup into your mouth, much to your displeasure.
“Eat,” he says softly, but sternly, his features darkening in regard.
The food is warm, as promised, and delicious. You aren’t sure of the last time you ate, not knowing what time or even what day it is, but you soon realize you’re starving. Because of this, the second spoonful is not met with as much resistance as the first, your mouth hinging open in resignation and acquiescence.
Dave’s eyes zero in on your soft lips. The way they twitch ever so slightly as they divide. The way your tongue looks so velvet and inviting…
He feeds you slowly, thoughtfully, watching your every move, his own lips parted in concentration as you take in the much needed sustenance.
By the end of it, you’ve managed to polish off about half the bowl. Seemingly satisfied with that, he makes you drink some Gatorade.
“Why are you doing this?” you ask weakly as soon as you swallow down a couple gulps of the blue liquid, your consciousness ebbing and flowing by the second. Dave looks at your face, but he doesn’t give you an answer. He doesn’t have one to give.
Part of him wishes he did.
“I have to pee,” you tell him suddenly when you notice the familiar stab of discomfort in your lower region. A realization that sends a jolt of anxiety rushing through you, your pulse racing when you watch his face fall. He hadn’t even thought of that…
His skills and equipment were limited to wound care, so of course he hadn’t put a catheter in. He wouldn’t know how even if he did happen to have one.
He deliberates on what to do. He didn’t have a bed pan. But, he was sure he could find something comparable to use.
Or he could help you to the bathroom. He has an en suite, it was literally only steps around the bed. But the space was tight. It would take some maneuvering. And he would have to be close to you the entire time. Not to mention uncuffing you from the bed.
In the end, that’s what he settles on.
“Let me help you to the bathroom, sweetheart,” he says to you, pulling the blankets back, and you are cold. So cold. Your flesh pebbling with the lick of cool air against your skin.
He unlocks the handcuffs and you massage your sore wrist and shoulder the moment you have full motion of your arm again.
“Slowly,” he instructs, his voice low and even. “Grab the IV stand.”
You do as you’re told, gripping the cool steel in your hand as you grasp his forearm with the other while he gingerly manipulates you into a sitting position. You cry out at the sudden dagger of pain that slices through your lower gut, and he does his best to steady you against him.
He did this to you, you keep reminding yourself. He did this to you.
He lifts you carefully, slowly, and you groan at the swell of pain when he places you on your feet.
“Easy, easy…” he murmurs, one arm circling your waist to keep you upright. You flinch at the contact.
You make it to the bathroom easily enough, light flooding the small room as Dave flips the switch. A bathroom you’ve cleaned countless times. There was rarely much to clean in here, save for the occasional whisker in the sink, or some light trash in the bin.
Dave was neat and fastidious, and not frequently home. You often wondered why he needed someone to clean his house in the first place.
The space looks no different than usual, but right now it feels… different. You shouldn’t be here.
He guides you to the toilet, and when you get there, you stare down at it, pondering to yourself how this is going to work.
He seems hesitant to leave your side.
“Go ahead,” he tells you softly, “I won’t look.”
You freeze. The last thing you want is to expose your body to him when he already has several advantages on you. But your bladder is screaming at you to go, especially now given your proximity to the porcelain bowl, and you can barely stand on your own, your arms and legs wobbling.
You watch as he turns his back, placing himself between you and the exit. You bend just slightly to tug your bottoms down, but it’s too much, more pain coursing through your body. You yelp, unable to even budge the fabric.
“Hey,” Dave says, turning back to face you, “Let me help you.”
“No, I—I got it,” you protest, your arms shaking, attempting it again, only to end up with the same result. “Fuck—“
“Hey,” Dave says a second time, more sternly than before, as he moves in to your space. “Let me help. I promise I won’t touch you.”
You tremble. You’re cold, you’re frightened, you’re weak. So weak. You’re in your bra, partially exposed to him already. Yet, you concede with a nod anyway. You’ll piss yourself if you don’t.
He mirrors your nod in silent confirmation and moves closer, crowding into your intimate space, his fingers finding the waistband of your leggings and underwear. He slides them down your hips and legs in unison, all the way to your knees. As promised, he doesn’t touch you more than he needs to.
But he has to look. He needs to see where his hands are in relation to your body in order to keep himself from accidentally breaking his promise of touching you in a way you didn’t consent to, and another part of him just can’t help it, either. He is a man, after all, and he wasn’t currently seeing anyone. Romance wasn’t exactly optimal for someone in his position, his attention honed in on his work above all else.
When the nights were long and lonely enough, he would, on occasion, share his bed with a sex worker, but aforementioned nights were few and far between. He enjoyed his job. He got off on it. Romance was often placed on the back burner.
But there’s just something about you. Especially now, with how vulnerable you are, that he finds irresistible.
His gaze only lingers on your bared skin for a moment, big brown puppy dog eyes roving over your soft curves, holding on to you as he lowers you down to the commode. And, god, you’re just as beautiful as he imagined, his skin heating at the sight of your soft folds.
“Call for me when you’re done,” he grates quietly as he takes a step out of the bathroom, blood rushing to certain parts of his body, shutting the door to give you a modicum of privacy, which you’re more than grateful for.
His eyes on you had not gone unnoticed. You weren’t stupid and you weren’t seeing anyone either, currently; his attention, regardless of how brief, had made your skin heat and your core pulse with need. You clear your throat and try to discard the thought.
Dave is why you are here. Dave is dangerous. So dangerous he can’t even take you to a hospital to get proper medical attention. Stop it.
It feels like you pee for ages. You aren’t totally convinced you’re awake for most of it. Eventually, you finish, even managing to wipe yourself, in spite of things, which you’re relieved for. You wouldn’t want him to do it for you; that would be humiliating and degrading.
You call for Dave when you’re done and he returns in an instant, hoisting you to your feet as he pulls your pants and underwear back up and over your hips, trying not to think about your soft cunt. You can see how hard he’s trying not to look at you.
“Good?” he asks. You nod.
Bracing yourself against him, he helps you back to the comfort of the bed. It smells like him, despite how little he’s actually in it. You hiss through your teeth as he manipulates you into position, adjusting the pillows and covers until you’re as comfortable as possible.
You’re cold. Freezing, in fact, despite it being the swell of summer.
“I’m c-cold,” you lament to Dave, crossing your arms over your chest beneath the blanket.
Dave’s lips pinch to the side in thought. “Hold on.”
He returns a moment later with an extra blanket, tossing it over you, tucking the edges neatly around your form, taking extra care to be gentle, noteably around your abdomen.
As you watch him, his face and eyes soft, his hair mussed and unkempt, you ask yourself once again why he’s doing all of this for you.
Guilt? Shame? Something else?
You don’t have much time to ruminate on it for too long before your consciousness peters away once more.
——
Dave sighs as he watches you slip back into listlessness. You’re doing better than he anticipated, but you aren’t out of the woods yet. He knows how much blood you had lost; he’d spent hours cleaning it. Not to mention McCall, the remains of which he had delivered to an acquaintance who works at the industrial incinerator on the outskirts of town, after tending to you.
He loops your hand back through the cuff on the bedpost and peers down at you. You’re so beautiful; he hopes you make it. He wishes you hadn’t run from him. God, why did you run? He doesn’t want you to meet the same fate as McCall. He doesn’t want to know what your incinerated body smells like.
Every body has a different smell, in his experience.
He gives you another dose of morphine to reduce any pain you may be feeling and to keep you knocked out for a few more hours, checking for fever again, which is currently holding steady. It was good that it wasn’t going up. Any higher and you could potentially be in trouble. He’ll keep checking throughout the night to be on the safe side.
He sighs, knowing he’ll have to stay in town for weeks, which he detested doing. He hated staying in one place for longer than required. But he didn’t have much of a choice at this point.
He turns off the light and shuts the door behind him as he leaves you to rest.
Part II coming soon!
#dave york#dave york x reader#dave york x female reader#dave york x f!reader#pedro pascal#writing#fanfic#romance#dark romance#pedro fanfic
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Life on board a 17th century warship
The sailing crew was divided into two watches under the two lieutenants, each working for four hours while the other rested. While off duty, they were expected to stay below decks and out of the way, but could be called to work at any time if all hands were required, such as when anchoring or making a major sail change. When below, they probably tried to sleep as much as they could, since the four-hour schedule is not natural and quickly leads to fatigue. When not sleeping, they probably used much of the time off watch to mend their clothes and shoes, but they might relax with games, music or a popular new pastime, smoking, although this was only allowed in the cookroom.
War Ships 17th Century, by Jefferys, Charles W. 1942 in: The Picture Gallery of Canadian History Volume 1, p.99
Food was also prepared in the cookroom, a brick-lined hearth in front of the mainmast in the hold, and carried up to the gundecks in buckets, where it was doled out into big wooden bowls. Depending on the ship, food could also be prepared in the galley, which was located in the forecastle or midships.
Each man had his own wooden spoon, and some had wooden plates, but most ate from the bowl shared by a mess, a group of six or seven men who ate and lived together. They drank weak beer, "ship's ale," from a shared wooden tankard. The base of the diet was salted meat for protein and dried peas and bread for carbohydrates. Barrels full of bones found in the hold show that the meat was mostly beef, with a little pork and mutton, as well as fish and poultry. Interessting fact was that some of the crew were prepared to supplement this, as fishing equipment and hunting weapons were found in shipwrecks like the Vasa, as well as the bones of roe deer, moose, and grouse. The skeletons of chickens suggest that a few fresh eggs were available.
As in other navies, they did not issue uniforms in that time, the men had to buy or make their own clothes. In some cases cloth was provided as part of their salary, but the typical sailor's clothing was the same as the clothing they arrived in from the farm or town: a linen shirt, a short, skirted woollen doublet (jacket), wool trousers that ended below the knee, woollen socks, and leather shoes. Many had broad-brimmed hats or conical caps. The cloth varied from coarse homespun to imported dyed fabrics, but almost all sailors sewed strips of contrasting cloth or even lace down the outside seams of their trousers in imitation of the clothing worn by the well-to-do. Clothes had to be hard-wearing, since most people could not afford more than one set.
The senior officers lived aft in the cabins of the sterncastle, where they had more space, glass windows, proper furniture, and ate their meals from pewter or earthenware table service. They had finer clothes, but as more than one visitor to Sweden from the continent remarked, it was difficult to tell the nobles from the peasants, since they dressed alike. The officers also had to share their accommodation, sleeping in pairs in narrow double beds, but the cabins were built to resemble the interior of houses ashore. The great cabin, where the king or an admiral would stay, was fitted out like a room in the royal palace, with fine panelling and carved sculptures that emphasised the power of the people who lived there.
The 17th century was a violent period, and both on shore and at sea brutal punishments were prescribed for even minor crimes. Conscripts often came from rough backgrounds, but discipline was essential for the smooth and safe functioning of a ship. In crowded conditions, small disagreements could easily blow up into fights, grumbling could turn to mutiny. Officers had to earn the trust of the men they commanded, but needed the option of punishment for the intractable. The articles of war specified that a person causing a fire was to be cast into the same fire, a person starting a fight was to be stabbed through the hand with a knife, blasphemers and those speaking ill of the king or his officers were to be keelhauled, murderers should be tied to their victims and thrown in the sea. In practice, a captain who had to use these punishments too often risked losing the respect of his men and his fellow captains and could not rule for long.
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—come running; kaz brekker.
ʚ kaz brekker x reader | grishaverse | 1k words.
ʚ slightly inspired by this prompt. | after your payout, you decided to leave everything behind. the gang, the jobs. until your old crew is in a bit of a pickle and you come running back.
ʚ set roughly in crooked kingdom; mild spoilers; light angst.
ʚ a/n this is a short one and i wasn't sure how to end it.
“You should not be here.” Kaz rasped, visibly confused that you were standing at the Black Veil instead of being at Ketterdam University. You should be in your cramped dormitory room, perusing thick textbooks to cram for your tests. You shouldn't be with them—the most wanted people of Ketterdam.
The rest of the Crows were running errands, taking their gondels off of the island. Aside from a sleeping Kuwei, Kaz was the only other living person there.
You swallowed. “I heard that you're forced into hiding from Rotty.”
“He shouldn't run his mouth to anyone.”
You winced. You were just anyone now. “He didn't tell me where, Kaz. You did, back then. Remember?”
He did. Before a particularly risky job, if anything went wrong, he told you to come to the Black Veil. No one ever went there anyway. An island housing the tombs of the wealthy wasn't a point of interest to both locals and tourists.
“You shouldn't be here.”
His name fell from your lips pleadingly, simultaneously familiar and foreign. It had been seven months since your last job with the Crows. Seven months since you left and enrolled at the University. The payout was abundant—it would support you until your graduation and then some. You had even taken a job. An actual part-time, away from the Barrell and the pubs and the scams. Kaz had pulled a lot of strings, getting fake documents for your application, creating a whole new persona for you to be.
He made you promise to stay away from the Barrell. For seven long months, you did. Jesper would swing by occasionally. He was supposed to be a student here anyway, before the gambling and the sharpshooting. You usually got the news about the Crows' happenings from him. Until Jesper stopped coming, so you had to ask Rotty.
Once a liar, always a liar. You had lied through your life in the Barrell. You lied to get into the University. It didn't seem far-fetched that eventually you would break your promise to come back here.
“What happened, Kaz? Rotty only said something about Van Eck. I thought we were supposed to stay off of Van Eck.”
Kaz clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Again, I should tell Rotty to shut his trap. Leave, ___. Go back. This doesn't concern you.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Kaz recognised your stubborn quality. He had always found it endearing, your relentless approach to life. The two of you were alike in that sense. What he disliked was that you didn't know when to step back.
“No. Why are you here, ___? You can't have forgotten already. Stay away from the Barrell.”
You picked at your cuticles. “I don't know. I just—”
“You don't know?” He asked incredulously. “You know that I'm a wanted man. We all are. Do you not find University to your tastes anymore? Are you trying to be a criminal, again?”
He was being unfair. “What was I supposed to do then? Go and study my textbooks, not knowing if any of you would still be alive tomorrow? Should I wait for the newspapers everyday to see whether or not you had kicked the bucket?”
“Yes! You should. You should've kept your word and stayed away.”
Kaz was at the edge of telling you everything, despite everything logical in his being telling him no. Ghezen knew he was at his limit, especially after Inej had been taken and everything else. What if you were spotted when you came? What if someone found the two of you right now? What if Van Eck took you as well?
You were supposed to get out. He got you out of this Ghezen-forsaken place. You gave him your word that you would stay out. Why were you so eager to return?
“I don't know, Kaz,” you admitted. Your voice was quiet. “Old habits die hard. When I heard that you were in trouble, I wanted to immediately come running. The way we used to have each other' s backs. It was foolish of me, but you can't seriously expect me to turn back and continue on as if everything is alright.”
He pursed his lips. “You chose to leave.”
It was as much your choice as it was his. “You encouraged it. I said that I wanted to go to Ketterdam University in passing, and you got me enrollment forms. You made me a whole new identity."
The inside of the tomb was hollow, your voice echoed through the chamber. Kaz leaned back against the mossy stone wall, closing his eyes and taking a frustrated breath. He slid down to sit, and then patted the empty space beside him.
“How's university? Is everything to your liking?”
You sat down, not close enough for him to be uncomfortable. “It's a routine. Repetitive weeks. It's funny how the only thing everyone is excited for is the weekends.”
It was definitely all the death in the air on the Black Veil Island. He swore he didn't mean to say anything. He had a thousand thoughts going through his brain, but instead he said, “I can feel the lack of your presence.”
You wanted him to say it. “Feel what, Kaz?”
He turned his head to look at you. “You know.”
This was what it always came down to, wasn't it? You were picking up breadcrumbs that he left, treating them as if they were a feast. Then, he would vanish, leaving you yearning for more until eventually—as always—he would do it all over again.
“Say it, Kaz,” you pleaded. “Say you want me to stay or leave forever and never come back.”
It should've been easy. Leave. Leave and don't look back, but his hand twitched and his heart leaped at the word stay.
“Stay,” he rasped out, tasting it in his mouth tentatively. “Stay in this dump. Stay with me.”
“I will stay.”
His eyes widened. He was envious of how easy it was for you to say things that you really meant and held your heart out in the open. For the first time in months, the constant weight in his chest was lifted, the worry lines in his forehead whenever he thought about you were smoothed out.
“For as long as you like,” he whispered.
You nodded vehemently. “For as long as you want me to.”
[ ]
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No Vacancy
When Eddie Munson arrives at the Buckingham Beach Motel to spend the summer with his BFF Chrissy and her business partner Robin, the last person he expects to see waiting in the lobby is former king of Hawkins High and asshole extraordinaire, Steve fucking Harrington.
ao3
CW: Smut! light now, more in later chapters
Chapter 1: Checking In
Eddie grinned as he pulled his trusty van, the very same rust-bucket he’d been driving since high school that he liked to refer to as Van Halen, if only to elicit the groans of both friends and strangers, into the small parking lot beside the Buckingham beach motel. He hadn’t been on vacation for, well, okay, he’d never been on a true vacation before, and sure, he was going to be working a part time job while he was visiting his best friend in this seaside paradise, but it was still the closest thing to a holiday he’d ever had. Needless to say, he was hell bent on thoroughly enjoying himself. Sun, sand, and shirtless men in speedos? Sign him up!
He hopped out of the car, relieved to finally stretch his legs after the long drive, and threw open the back doors. He stared down at the collection of boxes, duffel bags, and one large black trunk, that made up the entirety of his worldly possessions, and sighed.
The day after he finally graduated from Hawkins High, back in 1986, Eddie had cut and run and never looked back. He’d been living as a sort of nomad ever since, never feeling comfortable enough to stay in one town or city for too long. He was usually able to find work as a bartender or bouncer to fund his stay at whatever hostel or efficiency he could find, and when all else failed he slept in his van. It wasn’t all bad, he’d seen a lot of cool places and met a lot of interesting people, but lately he’d been missing the stability of a home, of putting down roots. He craved the support and community that could be found with friendships that lasted longer than a few months. He still visited Hawkins on occasion, a necessary evil to be endured only so he could spend time with his beloved uncle, but that place would never be home for him again.
He grabbed the two largest bags that held the majority of his clothes, and the backpack that held the rest of his essentials and headed towards the lobby. He could come back out for the rest later.
The first thing Eddie noticed when he walked in the door was the spectacular pair of legs and delicious ass in too-short shorts that belonged to a man who was leaning over the counter talking to Robin. Unfortunately, the second thing he noticed was that same man’s oddly familiar swoop of chestnut brown hair. Eddie’s stomach dropped. What in the world was Steve fucking Harrington doing here?
“You made it!” Chrissy squealed as she came barreling out of the office door, having spotted him through the window.
Eddie knew what was coming, but he was a little slow on the uptake in his current shocked state, and only just managed to drop his bags in time to catch the former cheerleader as she launched herself at him, wrapping her legs around his waist. He held her tight, letting go of all thoughts about former jocks and high school rivalries for a moment, and just enjoyed the fact that he was here with his best girl, finally seeing her in person after six long months apart. He inhaled deeply, appreciating the familiar scent of Ex'cla-ma'tion. He used to hate her perfume, but it’s amazing what you start to miss when you're separated from your loved ones for so long.
“Missed you.” Eddie whispered into her hair before finally letting her down.
She giggled as he swung her to the floor, and then proceeded to punch him in the arm as hard as she could, which was pretty fucking hard for such a tiny little thing.
“Hey! What was that for?” Eddie sputtered.
“For waiting so long to come visit this time! I missed you too, jerk.”
He rubbed at the spot where she’d hit him. It didn’t actually hurt all that much, but he liked to play along. “Jeez, Chris. Funny way of showing it.”
“You love it.”
“Keep it in your pants, lady, you’re not my type.” Eddie teased.
“Freak!”
“Priss!”
The two of them dissolved into hysterics, falling into another hug just to keep eachother upright.
When they both finally calmed down enough to behave normally again, Chrissy’s expression turned serious. She spoke low. “So, as I'm sure you noticed, we have another hometown guest joining us.”
“Yeah, what's he doing here anyway?”
“He’s visiting Robin for the summer.” Chrissy said it as if it should have been obvious.
It wasn’t.
“...Why?”
Chrissy rolled her eyes. “He’s her best friend! I’ve told you this a million times, how do you always forget?”
She was right, he did always forget that when Robin talked about her friend Steve, that it was Harrington she was talking about. It was such an odd pairing that Eddie just sort of blocked it out. He couldn’t reconcile the Steve from Robin’s stories with the guy he remembered from Hawkins.
“Right, fine, sorry. What about him?”
“Well, you know this is our first season, and the booking system is so new and confusing. We… might have accidentally overbooked, but it's okay! Because the three of us were talking about it, and since the one room we do have left is a double queen we thought.. ”
Eddie interrupted, grabbing her by the hand and tugging her roughly across the lobby as far from the other two people as he could.
“Are you crazy? You want me to be roommates with King Steve?!” Eddie hissed. “Have you completely forgotten what a giant asshole the guy is?!”
“We’re not in high school anymore, Eds. He’s always been nice to me, and if what Robin tells me is true, then Steve isn’t like that anymore. Maybe he never was.”
Eddie's jaw tightened. “Right.”
“Look at me! I changed, and we became friends. Why couldn’t Steve be a good guy underneath it all too?”
“That’s different, you were always a good person, you just ran with a bad crowd for a while, not to mention the boyfriend we do not speak of.”
“Exactly! So isn't it possible Steve is the same?”
“No!”
“I’m serious! Think about it, do you remember him ever doing or saying anything shitty to you directly? Or was he just there in the background while his friends did?”
Eddie crossed his arms over his chest. “Assholery by proxy is still assholery.”
“I don’t think that’s a word.”
“Come on Chris!” Eddie whined. Had they been alone he might have even stomped his feet. “Don’t make me do this. Can’t I share with you?”
“You know I live with Robin.”
“Okay, and? It’s only for the Summer. She can stay with Steve, since they are apparently best friends, and I can stay with you! It’s a perfect solution.”
Chrissy shook her head. “Our room is a single and I love the shit out of you, but I draw the line at sharing a bed.”
Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, does that mean you finally got your act together and told her how you feel?”
Chrissy turned bright red and threw her hand over his mouth. “Oh my god. SHUT. UP. Of course I haven't told her!!” She whisper-shouted.
Eddie scrunched his face and tried to talk, but Chrissy refused to move her hand. So, naturally, he licked it.
“Gross!” Chrissy yanked her hand back with a look of disgust.
“Jeez, I know it’s not the tongue you were hoping for, but it wasn’t that bad!” Eddie said, cackling.
Chrissy whirled around, probably worried that Robin had overheard them, but Eddie was a good friend. As much as he liked to mess with her, he’d been keeping a close eye on the other side of the room, and Steve and Robin were too engrossed in their own whisper-shouting match to pay them any attention.
Eddie leaned forward, speaking close to her ear. “Are you telling me that you and Robin run this place together all day, and share a bed every night, and you still don’t think she likes you back?”
“It’s not like that!” Chrissy insisted. “We make more money from the doubles. Financially it made more sense for us to live in one of the singles. We’re just…two really good friends having a never ending sleepover.”
Eddie wasn’t convinced and honestly it didn’t sound like she was either, but he’d drop it for now. “Whatever you say.”
“So, what do you think about sharing with Steve?”
Eddie groaned. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”
“C’mon, it’ll be fun! I’m sure you two will get along fine. Who knows, maybe you’ll discover you have some things in common.” She sounded so optimistic, it was her one flaw.
Eddie rolled his eyes. “Yes, I'm sure we’ll come out of this as the best of friends.”
“That’s the spirit!” Chrissy cheered.
“I was being sarcastic!!” Eddie hissed.
Apparently Steve had also agreed to this outrageous living arrangement, reluctantly Eddie guessed, though he did an excellent job at hiding how unhappy he must be about it. The guy was all smiles. It made Eddie want to punch him in the face.
Eddie, on the other hand, would not be making any effort to hide his true feelings. Partly because he didn’t care, but mostly because he’d never been any good at it. For better or worse Eddie lived his life as something of an open book. From the time he was a small child he was told by friends, family, and teachers that they could practically read every thought as it crossed his face.
Chrissy had to leave for a meeting with the bank, nothing bad she assured him, they were just looking into an additional small loan to make more improvements on the place, but that left Robin to show him and Steve to their room.
Eddie liked Robin well enough, but he’d only ever hung out with her and Chrissy. He worried that she might act differently or something with Steve around. It became clear, however, when he heard her call the guy dingus for the 3rd time during their 5 minute journey, that his worry was unfounded. Robin was Robin, and she changed for no one. He appreciated that, and kept his guard up, ready to defend her if need be. He expected Steve to finally have enough and lash out, to be the mean girl he remembered from years ago, but it never happened.
Man, this guy was good.
The Buckingham was the kind of motel where all the doors opened to the outside. Some towards the front street, giving a beautiful view of the ocean, others opened up to the pool area in the backyard. Eddie wasn’t sure if it was a perk of being friends with the owner, or a consolation for the mix up, but he and Steve were given a room on the second floor, ocean side. There was even a cute little wooden bench next to their door, "In case you two ever want to sit out and watch the sunrise,” or so said Robin.
Eddie hadn’t woken before 10am voluntarily since he graduated and he didn’t think the lure of a few pretty colors in the sky was going to end that streak, but he politely kept that thought to himself.
“That’s a nice thought, Robs, though I think I'll get to see plenty of sunrises at work too” Steve chuckled.
Robin shuddered. “You’re a better man than me.” She said.
“What does that mean?” Eddie asked, unable to quell his curiosity.
“I’m working as a lifeguard on the beach, so I'll be up at the crack of dawn nearly every day anyway.”
Eddie grimaced. Jesus Christ, a prick and an early riser. Lovely.
“Don’t worry.” Steve added quickly. “I'll be careful not to wake you up. I know how to be stealthy, like a ninja.”
It was the dorkiest way he could have said it, and Eddie almost cracked a smile, but he held firm in his grumpiness by the skin of his teeth. “You’d better.”
Steve performed a little cross-your-heart gesture. “Seriously, my roommate in college was a really light sleeper, so I have a lot of practice being quiet.”
Eddie’s lip nearly betrayed him, twitching upwards like a traitor. Luckily, Robin drew Steve’s attention away, allowing him a moment to regain control.
“Oh, I’ll just bet you do.” Robin teased.
Steve’s cheeks flushed, but he ignored her and turned back to Eddie. “What about you? Are you getting a job, or just hanging out?”
“Hate to break it to you, Harrington, but I got a part time gig bartending at a place a few blocks over. The guy even said he’d let me play sometimes when the regular live acts are on break. Looks like we’ll be living on opposite schedules. We may never see each other awake.” The last part was said almost gleefully.
Steve’s smile wavered for a second, but quickly returned to its full power. “Well, lucky for you I’m a very heavy sleeper, so you don't have to worry about waking me up when you come home. Even if you did, I usually have no trouble going back to sleep, so it’s not a big deal.”
Eddie grit his teeth. He was annoyed. What did he have to do to get a rise out of this guy, huh? To get a peek behind the mask? And who did he think he was, saying ‘lucky for you’? The only person it was lucky for was Steve, because he would be damned if he’d be tip-toeing around his own place.
Robin handed them each a key to the room and left them to it, once she confirmed that both keys worked and that they didn’t have any questions.
The room was small.
Two queen beds made up the majority of the space, with a single nightstand wedged between them. A T.V. sat on top of a small dresser with six drawers. There was a tiny closet, and an efficiency kitchen consisting of a small sink, mini-fridge, microwave, two burner cooktop, and a little table with two chairs.
Eddie dropped his bags in the middle of the floor. As much as he would have liked to just keep ignoring Steve, the space was tight enough that they would have to dance around each other the whole time they were unpacking. They also needed to figure out how they were going to split everything.
“Alright, how do you want to do this?”
The only thing Steve expressed a preference for was taking the bed closest to the door, which sounded like some alpha male bullshit to Eddie, honestly. As if Steve needed to be the first line of defense if someone were to break in while they were sleeping. The idea was ridiculous and definitely not at all sexy.
Eddie wanted the bed by the window anyway, so it was fine.
Once that was negotiated, they began to put their things away. It was all too easy, Steve kept deferring to him, even offering to give up one of his drawers when he realized how much stuff Eddie had. It was infuriating, borderline suspicious. What did he expect to get out of all this politeness and generosity? There was no one here to impress!
Eddie curtly refused the offer, which Steve only shrugged at, saying there would be plenty of extra closet space anyway, as he only had a few dress shirts to hang up. Eddie gave up then, leaving about half of his band tees in one of the bags and kicked it under the bed before throwing himself on top of it. He watched through barely open eyelids as Steve pulled his extensive collection of very tiny swim trunks out of his bag, and contemplated the injustices of the world.
He laid there quietly brooding as Steve found a home for every single item he’d managed to squeeze into the small suitcase. It was frankly impressive, not that Eddie would ever tell him that.
Finally, Steve picked up a rather large toiletry bag and wandered away. Eddie followed. This was something he had to see, the guy hadn’t been called ‘The Hair’ for nothing.
He stood in the doorway and watched through the mirror as Steve hummed softly to himself, arranging his plethora of hair and skin care products in their small bathroom, being ever so careful to only take up half of the counter space.
For some reason, that was the final straw.
“What’s your deal?” Eddie snapped. It was more of an accusation than a question, and he prayed Steve would rise to the bait.
Of course he didn’t, remaining frustratingly calm and collected as he asked in return, “What do you mean?”
Eddie growled. “I just don’t appreciate the nice act, okay, King Steve? I’d rather you be real, and be a dick, than this fake polite bullshit.”
For half a second Steve looked almost sad, like Eddie had hurt his feelings, but it was gone so quickly that he assumed he imagined it.
Steve smiled and shook his head, finally looking up to make eye contact with Eddie’s reflection. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. What you see is pretty much what you get. King Steve? Now that shit was an act.”
Fine, if Steve wanted to pretend he was a good guy now, Eddie would just have to see how far he could push him. Sure his BFF was an out and proud lesbian, but how would he react knowing that the guy he was going to share a room with for the next 12 weeks was gay?
“Y’know, we should probably work out a system for when we want to bring dates home. I remember your reputation for getting around with the ladies, and I know I'm hoping to bring more than a few guys back for a nightcap after the bar closes, if you catch my drift. So, what do you think?” Eddie had started out his little speech feeling brave and a bit cocky, but by the end of it there was sweat pooling on his upper lip, and he was thinking maybe this wasn’t the best way to come out to a former jock who could probably snap him in two with half a thought.
It elicited exactly zero reaction. Steve didn’t miss a beat, didn’t even bat an eye before he asked, “What, like, putting a tie on the door or something?”
Eddie wanted to scream.
“I’m sure we can do better than that.” He huffed, looking erratically around the rest of their room until he spotted the set of hang tags sitting on the table in the kitchen area.
Eddie beamed.Most hotels just had the standard ‘please service’ or ‘do not disturb’ messages on their tags, but of course the girls would try and get creative with it.
“Here, these’ll work.” Eddie said, barely managing to hold back a laugh as he held the first one up for Harrington to look at.
Steve read aloud. “Out to sea. Cute.”
“Right, so we can use this one when the coast is clear, and this one when one of us has a guest.” Eddie’s eyes sparkled as he raised the other sign.
“My boat is docked. Do not disturb.” Steve said, cheeks turning pink as he read.
“See?! It’s perfect.” Eddie beamed.
As it turned out, Eddie was right. He and Steve had been cohabitating for 4 days already and he hadn’t seen the guy awake since they went to bed that first night after a meal of chinese takeout and a bad movie.
Steve was already asleep when Eddie got back from the bar at 2am each night, and he was long gone by the time Eddie rolled out of bed in the morning. Though, in his continued campaign to act like a good person, Steve had made a habit of leaving half a pot of coffee on the warmer for him. Eddie thought about dumping it out of spite, but it was…nice.
It brought back memories of Wayne doing the same, leaving coffee and often food out on the kitchen table for him to easily grab on his way out the door, because his uncle knew he wouldn’t have anything otherwise. It was comforting, and though he knew Steve didn’t really mean it that way, it made Eddie feel taken care of. He’d take that feeling where he could get it for now, even if it came from someone he couldn’t stand.
Work was busy that night. It was his first Saturday night behind the bar, and the place was absolutely heaving with sweaty bodies grinding themselves together to the tune of whatever shitty top 40’s cover the band played. Anytime he had a moment to breathe he found himself scanning the crowd. Chrissy had assured him that their part of town was queer friendly, though there was no actual gay bar to speak of, but he had yet to notice a single guy that set his radar off, until now.
He was tall, blonde, insanely tanned, and sure, Eddie usually preferred brunettes, but when the pickings were slim, beggars couldn’t be choosers. He was cute enough, and he was looking at Eddie like he wanted to eat him alive.
Perfect.
Eddie knew he looked good. He’d put a little more thought into getting ready than he had on previous days, knowing that the weekend crowd would give him a better chance. His black jeans were skin tight, and the boss had let him cut his white uniform t-shirt into a crop top, showing off a strip of pale skin and trim waist anytime he raised his arms. To top it all off, he’d worn his hair up today with just a few tendrils falling around his face. Honestly, that had been mostly to ward off the heat, but he also knew it was one of his best looks. He met the nameless man’s gaze from across the room and held it firm as he dried a pint glass, raising his eyebrow in question.
The man smiled glancing at his friends, who were far too busy chatting up a group of barely legal young girls to pay him any mind, before sauntering up to lean across the bar.
“What time do you get off, gorgeous?”
Eddie smirked. “Meet me by the side door in an hour.”
The streets were quiet as Eddie and his new friend walked the few blocks from the bar to the motel. A fact they took full advantage of, stopping to shove their tongues down each other's throats at regular intervals along the way.
So caught up in finally getting a little action, it wasn’t until Eddie was leading the way up the stairs to their floor that he remembered Steve. It was late, guaranteeing that he would already be in bed fast asleep. Somehow, Eddie hadn’t considered this little problem when they’d worked out the whole do-not-disturb sign system. Oh well, he’d just have to wake Steve up and tell him to get out for a while.
He told his date to wait outside while he got rid of his roommate and slipped inside the dark room. He looked down at Steve’s sleeping form and almost changed his mind. It didn’t feel right to kick him out of his own bed just so he could get off, but then Eddie remembered the way Tommy Hagan, Steve’s second in command, used to spit the word queer in his face as he shoved him into the lockers, and he found all the motivation he needed.
“Hey, Harrington?” Eddie murmured as he shook Steve's shoulder.
Steve stirred, waking slowly and frowning up at Eddie with heavy eyelids.
“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” His voice was thick with sleep but also with worry.
Eddie’s breath caught in his throat. Oh.
He hesitated to answer for a moment, but quickly shook himself out of it.
Don’t start feeling bad about this now, Munson, get your shit together.
“Nothing, I, um, just need the room for a bit?”
Real smooth.
Steve frowned harder. “What? I don’t…”
Eddie saw the moment it clicked.
“Oh. Ok, I'll just take a blanket down to one of the pool loungers.”
“Great. I’ll let you know when.. he’s gone.” Eddie said, opening the door and moving aside to let Steve pass.
He had expected to feel a sense of satisfaction for managing a hook up before Steve did, but as Eddie watched him shuffle off wrapped up in a blanket after giving the blonde an awkward nod, he just kinda felt like a jerk.
Bar guy hurried inside and shut the door behind him, kissing Eddie hard and crowding him into the wall before dropping to his knees right there. He made quick work of the fly on Eddie’s jeans and had them pulled down around his thighs in a matter of seconds. Eddie moaned as his length was engulfed by the warm wetness of an eager mouth, and all thoughts of feeling bad about Steve drifted away under the attention of a stranger's talented tongue. Eddie came quickly and eagerly returned the favor. After a quick cleanup and no cuddling, blondie was gone, and Eddie went down to the pool to wake Steve.
Chapter 2
Tagging a few folks who I think were interested, just let me know if you want to be removed. If you'd like to be added to the tag list, i'd be more than happy to do so!
@penny00dreadful @every-aj-needs-an-angel @manda-panda-monium @hellion-child @dreamwatch @brbsoulnomming
#steddie fanfic#no upside down au#steddie#buckingham#steve harrington#eddie munson#robin buckley#chrissy cunningham#stranger things#no vacancy#it was the 90s#double idiots to lovers#platonic hellcheer#platonic stobin
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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐖𝐀𝐏 | L.JN | PART ONE
— Prologue: “Holy shit i have a MAN THING.”
— Summary: Kim Gauel is your typical smart girl who doesn’t mess about and Lee Jeno is your typical hot sports player on the hockey team. One night their bodies swap and are forced to be each other.
— Genre: SMUT SMUT DNI. SERIES. Crack comedy(?) with romance. Body Swap trope. Swapping identities trope. Bickering to lovers. Coming Of Age. Dirty jokes incoming. Jeno is a fucking horny ball of fire. Gauel is a good girl type meanwhile Jeno is your typical frat into sports with actual personality.
— Notes: I love identity swapping trope with comedy.
— Tag List: @baehaechannie @devinitysann @toroufriteh
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When Gauel thought about renting a house with a bunch of roommates she didn’t really think it would be a bunch of losers who are guys.
Every Wednesday night they open up the tv and have a whole gaming night until freaking midnight or sometimes past midnight until the sunlight comes up.
She is currently trying to study so it’s not very helping hearing screaming guys at each other.
Trotting out of the bedroom Gauel encounters a heinous sight of football obsessed boys with another gaming obsession to add on to their life bucket list. These types of people have the lowest ambitions and she hates to admit it, they don’t have anything going for them in her eyes they might be the low scum of the barrel but nonetheless the only sole reason as to why she is currently living under one roof with them is because they split the rent up.
It makes the situation easier and more adorable to split the high rent together into eight sections. Nonetheless Gauel not only feels like a freaking outcast now, she feels like she’s about to live through a nightmare now.
She steps in front of the tv causing the boys to combust loud groans complaining. “Come on move out my way my freaking Mario kart will become tenth place!” The blonde boy with a strong jawline and piercing black eyes, that would be Lee Jeno. The hockey star playing and an absolute menace on the high school team.
Jeno and Gauel never see eye to eye and whenever they talk it’s usually a bunch of misshaping insults thrown at one another.
They come from such different backgrounds it’s like comparing two different universes together. Gauel came from practically nothing with a single father who works hard labour fishing jobs and goes on sea explorations leaving his daughter to look after herself.
Meanwhile Jeno comes from a very rich part of Incheon where his father invests in truck companies and actually owns the most used truck company in Korea right now.
The young girl pushed her glasses on the bridge as she stands in front of the screen. “Can you guys keep your voices down? Seriously some of us are trying to pass our history test tomorrow.”
On the side a boy with black hair and a very noticeable accent. “Yeah — that someone being only you in this world.”
Gauel glares when the boys collectively laugh finding Mark’s side comment hilariously true. Which it is but that was no need to invalid her freaking complaint.
“Ha ha very funny.” She dryly replied and Jeno smirks widely checking her up and down. Now noticing the attire of what Gauel wore it was a simple pairs of shorts and a tank top which reveals enough cleavage and the sheer thin looking legs.
He whistles looking down. “You wouldn’t mind giving us a little twirl if you’re going to stand there looking pretty,” he soft leans adding. “Right?”
Gauel forms a display series of disgust and anger on her beautiful face as she wore the glasses reflecting the expression quite well. “You’re disgusting.” She spat turning around to leave going back inside the room.
The boys collect their laughter again together she can hear their voices finding this so amusing to see how reactive she became.
Donghyuck exclaims. “Good one Jen!” Renjun chuckles. “I’m still surprised she hasn’t kicked us out yet.” The Chinese boy with lavish split dye hair with the bottom being blonde spoke.
“Ehh. She was desperate and she knows we are loaded so who wouldn’t? On the plus side now we can party as much as we want without our parents being on our asses.”
Chenle whistles grabbing the remote controller of the Mario kart they were playing for hours now. “Just saying. If you’re not going to hit that soon, I might.” He retorts mentioning an emphasis on Gauel’s door as he widely smirks.
Donghyuck widens his eyes wowing again. “What no way?” He screams a little unable to contain the shocking truth from his friend. He leans whispering to Chenle. “You mean HER?”
He gave a strong nod smirking at the thought of actually hooking up with the smartest girl in their high school who’s known for a strict ‘no dating policy’ considering she puts on more focus on the studies than actual socialising or having fun per say. To have a popular boy want to actually do things with her was a surprise — but to have Zhong Chenle say that? Geez his friends were bewildering.
Jeno frowns. “I don’t know what you see exactly in her Zhong. I mean let me get this straight.” Turning around the blonde boy faces his friend with a serious expression unable to shake the idea even out. “You’re wanting to sleep with Kim Gauel the girl who’s never kissed a guy probably in her entire freaking life, only knows how to study and become a teacher’s pet — and has no friends. At all.”
“And she doesn’t even look that good!” Jeno shrugs not quite getting on the couch yet but still moving a lot.
Chenle cockily responds shaking his eyebrows in pleasure. “The innocent and smart ones are the way to go.”
“Trust me boys on this one.” Chenle said convincingly.
Donghyuck blurts out. “As long as it’s not Jaemin’s type in girls I think you’re good on my part.” The boy looks over to him with a side-glare enough to burn a hole into Donghyuck. “Elaborate on what my type exactly is?”
“Whores with chlamydia.” He says with a fake smile. Jaemin the one with a side part on the hair gets up rolling up the sleeve to the shirt as he darkly exhales. “Yah Lee Donghyuck.”
“Your type isn’t any better. You’re the one who slept with a woman over the age fifty.” Jaemin smartly puts out causing Donghyuck and him to play punch each other and near-strangle themselves on the floor.
Jeno laughs watching his friends fight knowing they will make up in a bit or two only you had to wait it out to see their stupid faces come together once more. Mark taps on Jeno’s shoulder as he would point the daggers to the door opening when looking over Jeno saw the young girl coming out going to the bathroom with a towel in arm and a bunch of products in the other.
Mark smirks. “You can’t deny she has a cute face.” He said trailing as Gauel was no longer in the frame.
“Cute face but nothing going underneath.” Jeno said in a matter of insulting her as he looks away. “And not my type at all. I prefer — sexy girls. You know like Kim Jennie in class A3.”
“There’s nothing in this world that would make me feel anything for that annoying nerd.”
‘And there’s nothing that will make me love you, Lee Jeno.’ Gauel thought with determination with an ear to the door eavesdropping on the conversation.
‘They’re just a bunch of womanisers.’
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A new arrives just like any other but leaves a straining taste on the tongue surfacing soon to reality when waking up from the deep slumber in depths that felt like a heavenly surge dream but now deforms to a long lasting images of hell.
Rolling off the bed Gauel walks out of her bedroom groaning with half asleep eyes barely opening, only seeing blurriness and using hands to move around to get inside the bathroom.
And when she did she sat on the toilet sliding off the pyjama shorts and rubs the eyes with the palm groaning once again. “God I hate mornings.” She said reaching the toilet paper but once she did.
The legs spreading a little open she soon realised who she was. Gauel looks around gasping letting the toilet paper drop rolling on the ground completely leaving a trail of white toilet paper in a circular motion. She shakily looks in between the legs to see well something that shouldn’t even be logical possible —
A man thing, was all that came into her head as she stood up going to the mirror to check who’s identity it was.
She stood being Lee Jeno.
“Holy shit i have a MAN THING!”
But the minute she yelled out having a voice deeper octaves than before it sounded exactly like Jeno — it’s like SHE WAS Lee Jeno and no longer the girl she was before.
The bathroom door re-opens and she saw her own body now standing that has left her own very room shockingly watching Gauel with widen eyes pointing at her own chest.
“Holy mother-of-God I have TITS WOWSA!”
She glares shouting in absolute disbelief and shock to see what was happening; they swapped bodies.
They swapped lives out of nowhere, out of any triggering factor that could be causing this to happen.
Jeno was in her body and Gauel was in his body.
However the boy now stuck in a girl body was fondling the breasts in amazement he had widen eyes of fascination as he exclaims trailing a bunch of ‘Whoas’ and ‘Wows’ enough to irritate Gauel and come forward pointing at him.
“Yah don’t touch my breasts like that!” Gauel yells out reaching over to smack his hands off her own precious body.
Jeno looks down at Gauel seeing the shorts she wore that belongs to his a very vibrant bump on the crotch and he croaks out teasingly adding seeing one eyebrow wiggle.
“Oh look at you,” the blonde boy starts. “Something for you excited this morning or what?”
Gauel was confused what he meant but when seeing the boy’s eyes go down to the crotch area she hesitantly looking down puts up her palms on the crotch in panic rushing to her face.
“I- w-what is happening why are you getting hard?” Gauel fumbles upon the sentences beginning to stutter out and Jeno begins to smirk forward. “Oh no not me. You are getting hard.” He’d correct matter of factly.
“Why… Why is this happening to us. Why are you in my body? What is happening this can’t be real.” Gauel grabs her own head as she looks in the mirror finding this to be quite figuratively fucking impossible.
Jeno on the other hand turns around whistling. “I have no idea but honestly i did always wonder how it feels to be a girl.”
She glares pointing out. “I bet it’s your fault we are like this now! What have you done to me.”
“I didn’t do anything! I wouldn’t even want to be you if I wanted to be a girl I would’ve picked someone with a bigger ass and tits just saying.”
Gauel never felt so traumatised but as well as embarrassed and insulted at once it felt like a complete game loss to her and now Lee freaking Jeno has to be and act like her until they can figure out how to solve this voodoo mystery problem that’s going to absolutely be the end of her.
Another door opens causing them both to turn around and look at a boy coming in to use the bathroom but stops when they saw them.
Jisung’s ruffled up hair sideways he looks at them sleepily like he suddenly just woke up from a dream.
“What are you two doing here? Get out if you’re not using it.” He said going in.
Gauel begins to push Jeno and Jisung out now saying a repeating ‘No, No, No, No not yet’ causing the boys to be left shocked and behind the door as Gauel grabs the doorknob.
“I haven’t done my skin care routine yet.” She says seriously. This was her routine she has to continue or else it will damage her sensitive skin.
Jisung furrows at her. “Hyung you don’t have a skin care routine. The only routine you have is take a shower and brush your teeth in the morning.” It was odd to see his friend suddenly fall into a random pool of moisture and cleansing.
Jeno couldn’t help but mentally slap himself because she totally forgot she wasn’t in her own body — she was in fact IN HIS body now.
His friend is confused when the door slaps and he rubs the back of his head letting the hair run through the fingertips as his gaze turns to Jeno.
He awkwardly didn’t say anything because he usually doesn’t speak to Gauel, and she doesn’t usually speak to him either he was one of the quiet ones who did his own thing.
“Yo bro mind giving me back the tee shirt you owe me?”
He spoke freely because he knew that Jisung has his own shirt but he totally slipped out disregarding the fact that he’s a woman now and not himself which leaves him staring at a confused and broken down Jisung watching in fear.
What shirt does he own a girl?
“Uh what?” Jisung said back.
“Uhm never mind don’t… don’t worry about it… bro.” Jeno slowly trails look away and then turns around suddenly. “Wait,”
Jisung stops going back to stare at the girl who was scaring the living heck out of him.
Jeno warily questions.
“Why are you speaking informally to me?”
The taller boy with a younger baby face bows his head apologetically unknowingly he never once asked about her age and now he was scared. He assumed she was younger or at least similar age but apparently not?
“Oh… sorry… Noona.” Jisung added awkwardly.
“Ahuh better freaking be.” Jeno arrogantly said crossing arms grumpily.
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@onyourhyuck please refer from translating and copyrighting my work thank youu! Please reblog and follow me for more updates it helps a girl out .
#nct fanfiction#nct smut#nct x reader#nct u scenarios#nct hard hours#nct series#nct fic#jeno smut#nct recs#jeno headers#jeno fanfic#jeno oneshot#jeno x you#nct jeno smut#jeno hard hours#jeno layouts#jeno moodboard#jeno scenarios#lee jeno#jeno imagines#jeno angst#jeno drabbles#nct jeno#jeno#jeno au#nct dream x reader#nct scenarios#nct fanfic#nct dream smut#nct 127 smut
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i just found out you can add titles???
sort of art dump, i guess? it just occurred to me that i never shared Darleen and she's literally so fun to draw! i can't believe i forgot! Riggs (the sketch next to her) is also one of my OCs! he's a mechanic and he fixes up things for her sometimes,,, even though he doesn't necessarily get paid for it lol (he's also got a robo-tail that he uses as a wrench :D)
he's a bit of a weird character,,, troubled and basically scams people to get by
i had planned that he'd been the one to offer up "the bucket" to Scratch for Shrike and Beebs under the impression that the two didn't mind how beaten up it was (newsflash! they weren't lolol)
and then there's Darleen!
she's the owner of the club that Vicky, Lilah, and Tank work at! she's a bit overwhelming, though,,, i'm still working on other aspects of her, but in short: she's a big evil cat lady :] i wanted to finally try committing to a character being evil just to be evil
Darleen had two major designs i was considering: a hairless cat with a big poofy wig or a white, fluffy cat,,, originally, i was heavily leaning to her white cat appearance, as i loved drawing her big tail, but then i basically had a mini-breakthrough where i decided she'd wear accesories on her tail,,, (ex.: ribbons, bows, that kind of stuff,,,)
she used to work at the same club she now owns, but she went a little crazy and shot up the place,,, god forbid women have hobbies, amiright?
this end is just me experimenting with her some more and i liked the idea of her having a "cupistol" (a revolver that has a heart-shaped barrel), which you'll see more to the bottom of this post
and that's it!!! thank you for reading what bit of dumb OC shit i had, wahhh
here's a Bee to wave you off!!!
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The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea | Part Six
Masterlist
Summary: An attack on Arthur’s imprisoned brother Orm leaves him with no choice but to rely upon you, a friend made due to unfortunate circumstances nearly a decade ago, to provide safe haven while he restores peace to Atlantis. Suddenly tasked with sheltering a sullen former king results in a very different summer vacation than you had originally envisioned, but changes both of your lives forever.
Warnings: Bear Attack, Orm Injury, Blood, First Aid, Discussion of Atlantean Healing
Word Count: 2083
By the following weekend, the pile of logs to be split had dwindled significantly. Activity on the lake was picking up again, so you suggested you go on a walk into the woods, to both look for felled trees and get away from the racket.
Your planned route was not arduous, but it was hot in the thick of the trees and sunbaked granite, so you put your bathing suit on underneath your shorts and tank top to be ready to swim as soon as you returned to the lakeshore. You also applied sunscreen to your exposed skin, as he read the back of the bottle curiously.
“We can’t all be as perfect as you…” You teased lightly. “Sunburns are terribly uncomfortable.”
Making sure you each had a bottle of water, and a bucket to collect any blueberries there might be, you headed off with him down the path to the railway tracks. You stopped at the edge and let him take in the space without a freight train barreling through the landscape, before leading him across and deeper into the trees. You were by no means an elegant hiker, but you made your way up the slope of the path, avoiding the mud churned up by ATVs. The two of you noted some trees that had fallen as a result of wind or at the end of the life. He stated he would come back later to collect them.
You emerged from the thick of the trees onto a landscape of granite rocks and twisted jack pine trees. It was a rather foreign landscape compared to the woods or the lakeshore.
“Here is where we might find blueberries.” You said excitedly and headed over to inspect one of the patches of green. You crouched down and carefully ran your fingers through the leaves before picking a few triumphantly. “Aha!”
You enthusiastically began to pick a few more before putting them in your hand and rinsing them with a splash of water from your water bottle. You popped a few in your mouth and smiled as they were still warm from the sun and reminded you of a fresh blueberry pie.
“You enjoy the taste then?” He asked, much closer than you remembered.
You opened your eyes to see him crouching down right in front of you. You held out your hand and he plucked a few from your palm, the tips of his fingers sliding along your skin. You were powerless to stop the shiver that thrilled through you. You watched as he slid the blueberries past his generous lips before popping them with his teeth and nodding.
“They are sweet but not overwhelmingly so…and warm.” He commented.
His words brought you back to the moment and you nodded quickly.
“Exactly. It reminds me of a dessert my mom makes every summer. Blueberry pie.”
He smiled a little at the mention of your mother…And you realized you had listened to his entire life story without sharing any part of your own.
“I would very much like to try it…” He replied.
“Well then we need to pick a lot more of these.” You laughed and settled in to pick everything within your reach, teaching him to pick only the darkest of the berries, leaving the white or green ones to ripen a while longer. As you shifted around the patch, the bucket getting fuller between the two of you, you told him stories of berry picking with your family…of eating more blueberries than you put in the bucket…
As the time passed, however, you began to feel…unnerved. You found yourself looking across the clearing to the edge of the trees until the shadows moved. You inhaled sharply, and his focus was immediately on you.
“Bear.” You said quickly and quietly, and his eyes shot across the clearing to see the black bear emerge fully, sniffing the wind. The animal was startingly large…not like the females that came close to the cottage sometimes. No, this was a huge male that roamed a large territory, and you were now in it.
“Stand up slowly.” You spoke low and even, moving carefully. He followed your direction, shifting subtly to place his entire form between you and the bear. “Wave your arms slowly and talk to me, we have to show we are not prey.”
You both began to wave your arms.
“Are humans not prey for bears, then?”
“No. We are not. This type of bear is a scavenger…they like berries and fish and dead animals.” You peered around his torso and frowned as the bear started huffing defensively, pawing at the ground.
“It might charge.” You said with dread in your voice. You were doing everything the nature books said and yet the bear still seemed threatened. Orm was in and of himself a very threatening being. That may have been the issue.
“It is charging.” He confirmed with surprising calm.
You heard it roar and start across the clearing.
“Hit it in the face!!!” You managed to squeak out and pressed yourself fully against his back, admittedly terrified.
You felt Orm brace for the impact, holding his arms out to defend you as the snarling bear drew closer. It let out a bellow as it plowed into him, sliding the two of you backwards along the bare rock, but Orm kept his feet, and you were able to do the same by wrapping your arms around his waist. The bear reared up and snarled again as it swiped at Orm’s left arm with its wicked claws before you felt Orm shift and slam his right fist into its muzzle.
The bear let out a rather pathetic noise, one of pain mixed with surprise, as it tumbled back. It scrambled to its feet and scampered off into the woods. At least the books were right about that – black bears could indeed be scared off by fighting back. You unwrapped your arms from Orm’s torso and stood, immediately seeing the angry gashes on his forearm. He turned to face you once the bear was out of sight and seemed much more focused on your wellbeing. You grabbed your water bottle and quickly dumped it over his wound.
“Bear claws are filthy.” You babbled, adrenaline making your hands shake a little. You needed to stop the bleeding. You paused, trying to formulate a plan, before pulling your shirt up and off, folding it into a long strip. As Orm looked on curiously, you pressed the center of the fabric strip to this wound, wrapping it under his arm before pulling the ends back to the front and tying them tightly over the wound to put pressure on it. You picked up his hand and pressed your finger into his skin, pleased to see the blood flow replenish the colour quickly.
“We have to get you back to the cottage…” You turned to pull him back to the path, away from the bear, but he pulled you back to him, the fingers of his good hand sliding under your chin, raising your eyes to his.
“Are you alright?” He asked calmly, seemingly unfazed by what had transpired.
You blinked and nodded dumbly, forcing yourself to take a few calming breaths.
“Yes, sorry, thank you.” You murmured sheepishly.
“Then we can go.” He nodded and let go of your chin, leaning down to pick up the bucket of hard-won blueberries, before letting you lead him back down the path in your bathing suit and shorts.
Neither of you seemed inclined to break contact, and so you held his hand the entire way, taking him straight into the bathroom. You motioned for him to sit on the stool and took out the first aid kit. Your hands were thankfully no longer shaking. You unwrapped your ruined shirt and dropped it directly into the garbage bin. You grabbed some antiseptic and looked to him apologetically.
“This might sting a little…” You knelt on the ground to be face-to-face with the wound on his forearm as you very carefully cleaned it out. You could see right before your own eyes he was already healing; the bleeding had stopped. The bear’s claws had not been able to cut very deep into his Atlantean flesh, but the wound still needed care. You added anti-bacterial cream before closing each gash with sets of steri-strips, offsetting and trimming them with careful precision. You placed gauze over the wounds and wrapped it with bandages.
“Too tight?” You asked once you’d tied it.
“Not at all.” He murmured and you nodded before cleaning up.
“Between you and me, we’re going to use a whole first aid kit before this month is out.” You muttered ruefully as you changed the Band-Aid on your thumb. You looked back to him, still sitting on the stool. “Are you in pain?”
“I will be fine. Thank you,” he replied, making eye contact again. “for your prompt care and the sacrifice of your garment…”
You shook your head quickly.
“I would have died…the thanks are all mine…” You blinked as you remembered he’d just punched a huge land animal. You quickly picked up his right hand and examined his knuckles, putting gentle pressure on the bones of his hand. “Is your hand ok?”
He nodded as his fingers closed around yours, gently turning you hand and lifting your knuckles to his lips. “I am fine.” He confirmed again before pressing a kiss to your skin.
The air shuddered from your lungs, stunned that hands so strong could feel so soft…that a mouth that could speak so harshly had such tender lips.
“I…” You dropped your eyes and they looked around for something to focus on, landing on the bucket of blueberries. “I will get these cleaned up then.” You slipped your hand from his, grabbing the blueberries and fleeing to the kitchen.
The intensity of your body’s response to him was overwhelming, particularly when it mixed with the residual adrenaline. You rinsed the blueberries carefully and lay them out to dry on paper towel, before going down to the lake for a swim. You needed to cool off and calm down or you would absolutely embarrass yourself further.
You jumped in and dunked yourself a number of times before simply floating, the frenzied feeling leeching away into the water. As you climbed out of the lake, he offered you a towel…making you realized you’d forgotten to bring one with you.
“Thank you.” You smiled sheepishly and wrapped yourself up in it. “So.” You looked to him. “Blueberry pie?”
He nodded softly and you headed up to the cottage together. You changed into real clothes and worked with him to make the filling and crust before assembling the pie. Once it was in the oven, you pulled down a wine glass. “I am going to have a glass of mead, an alcoholic beverage made with honey. Would you like to try some?”
“Yes, please.” He answered and you grabbed another glass. You poured a tasting size portion for him and a proper glass for yourself, before bringing the bottle with you as you sat in the living room to relax while the pie baked. He sniffed and swirled the mead before tasting it and you were once again struck by the cultural similarities – though how beverages were serviced and ingested in the ocean was something you would ask him about later. He gave you a nod of approval and you added to his glass.
The warmth of the alcohol spread from the centre of your body out to the tips of your fingers and toes, relaxing you deeply. As you drank, you took the opportunity to tell him about your life – your family, your childhood. The timer beeped once the pie finished, and you pulled it out to cool. Together, you threw together some leftovers for dinner and continued drinking and talking over your meal and dessert.
Thankfully the pie turned out to be worth it effort he had put into collecting those blueberries with you, and you finished the night by cleaning the kitchen. The very close encounter with that bear had truly driven home the importance of keeping the cottage clean. By bedtime, the bottle was empty. You were both thoroughly relaxed, and he was also well-versed in your life in turn. Crawling into bed, it was not a struggle to fall asleep. You melted into the sheets boneless after the effort of the day and slept soundly through the night.
Read Part Seven
Masterlist
#orm x reader#orm marius x reader#orm imagine#orm fic#orm marius imagine#orm marius fic#ocean master x reader
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The Gray
Captain Rex x f!reader
masterlist | read on ao3
He’s had enough of black and white, so Rex leans into the gray.
18+ only | about 3.3k words | smut. umbara mention. rex is discovering how to cope with everything. kind of angsty. this was sort of inspired by the song The Grey by Thrice.
might throw out a part two someday / eventually.
There's the black, and there’s the white. But Rex has found another way – hands unintentionally grasping at something unprecedented. On the outside, and to all of his men, Rex isn’t known to or expected to stray from regulation, but something about the way you make him feel has him walking a dangerous line – dipping a toe into the gray.
On one end of the spectrum is his duty – the black – the reason why breath fills his lungs in the first place.
It's the undeniable truth that Captain Rex is one of a thousand upon thousands of others who were created for the sole purpose of soldier – men with genetic enhancements that make them qualified for such, long before their accelerated development. He can still remember the very first time he saw battle, which was also the first time he saw terrain that was the complete opposite from the planet–the home–where he’d been trained for a decade.
Sand – it was everywhere. In his boots, in the barrel of his blaster, in his lungs. The sunlight was harsh and hot, and the air was dry. It felt as if he’d entered another dimension, one alternate from the torrential, overcast, ocean world he’d come to call home, a place where he’d drank in a quenching air that had cooled his internal temperature with every breath. The sound of rain constantly crashing against the domes had grown on the up-and-coming captain, filling him with a sense of peace at the end of a long day training for the leadership role he’d inevitably play.
That sense of peace, the only one he’d truly ever known, hadn’t been present when he felt he needed it the most. That complete change of terrain, paired with the first tangible experience of firing at real hostiles, had been the very first eye-opener for the budding commanding officer.
Ever since that first battle, Rex has looked straight into the eyes of death more times than he can count. Blood and shouts and those final glances directed his way from beneath the buckets – the way his men look to their captain before meeting their fate – have been long ingrained in his bones. It’s something that can never be erased.
But the pain sure as hell subsides when he’s with you.
That’s the other end of the spectrum – the white – a glimmer of light that guides him through the dark.
You take his pain – his deeply buried fears, regrets, and treacherous ideas – and absorb it all so that Rex may feel a semblance of peace. Even if only for a short while, and even if it causes his eyes to open in the direction of something bigger than what he’s been told he’s fighting for.
Those treacherous ideas of his – they include life. The real thing, not in the way his heart began to beat because some government body had or hadn’t given the order to make it so. With you, Rex feels alive. He feels and even sees a life outside of everything. He could meet a fate worse than death should anyone become privy to his thoughts – his feelings for you and what they’re making him think – but he accepts the risk.
Nobody can know. Nobody can know just how good the two of you are together. Nobody can know how well you take him, how sweetly he speaks to you when in the safety of your arms, how your body accepts him like it was made for him. Rex may have been the one constructed in a laboratory, but he feels as though he’s met the one person who was created just for him.
You’re his escape. You’re the reason why Rex is able to stay so strong. When on the front lines–the absolute epitome of the front lines, with the Jedi general he serves under–he’s invincible. Even though you’re not physically there with him in battle, you’re an added layer of armor, stronger than the plastoid he dons. You’re there with him in the trenches – by his side when holding a fading brother’s hand as they take their last breath. That dying soldier could be Rex, but he makes it out every time because of you. He makes it out because he has to – to get back to you – to see and feel you again.
He could perish out there and no longer feel guilt for the tremendous loss – or how he’s in love with a civilian, someone he’d abandon duty for if at all feasible. His life could end with one blaster shot fired at him just the right way, that way he’d never have to come to you for consolation again, but it doesn’t. Rex continues on – lives with the pain that only you can soothe.
It’s not so simple anymore. Not only has Rex seen glimpses at what life could look like outside a warzone, he’s felt too much loss to want to come to the widely accepted justification of the war’s endgame.
What’s the purpose of all this?
Rex never used to feel so torn over his purpose. Maybe something’s wrong with him, he thinks. Maybe he is defective – a malfunction in his design that causes the trooper to dream of you and to miss you, and to think about things other than war.
One day, this war is going to end. But what will happen to us then? We’re soldiers.
From the outside, Rex is either loyal or a traitor – though Rex doesn’t truly believe those are the only two routes. Not anymore.
There’s more to life than this.
He’s had enough of black and white, so Rex leans into the gray.
-
He comes to you every time, without fail.
For a man burdened with the weight of massive allegiance and responsibility to his duty, Captain Rex always makes it back to you. It could be days, weeks, months – time doesn't matter. He’ll always message you from his private frequency, one he has encrypted and hidden behind multiple passkeys, to let you know when he’s back on-world.
Most of the time, he comes to you after finishing up hours and hours of reports and debriefings. He’ll come to you an exhausted, worn down soldier with armor muddied up or scuffed with plasma markings from baster fire that had just skimmed by him. Underneath it all, when the walls come down and his armor with it, Rex is vulnerable – tired. He’s tired of all the fighting, the loss, the guilt. In moments like those, he seeks only one thing:
You.
Sometimes he wants to talk. Other times, he wants to hold you, and to be held, wordless, laying there with all lights extinguished. And then there are times when Rex wants nothing more than to get lost in the way you feel – in the pleasure he can give you – the sounds and sensations you grace him with.
When he’s feeling the latter, it can be slow and passionate.
Rex will unclasp and remove all his armor, stacking it neatly in a corner you had designated for it all long ago. You’ll remove your clothing while he does that, and then gently remove the underclothes from his battle-hardened body. He’ll lean in to kiss you, deeply, and grab his favorite parts of you tenderly. Sometimes, the two of you make it into the shower, Rex letting you wash him, running your hands down his body, paying extra attention to his cock. You’ll get on your knees for him, taking care of the man you love with each inch passing between your lips.
He’ll cum down your throat –
"Gods, you're so beautiful like this, on your knees for me, taking care of me. 'M gonna cum, baby – and you're gonna swallow it all, yeah? That's my good, sweet girl."
– Or will stave it off so he can take you right there in the steamy stall of the refresher, your back against the moistened wall with your leg hitched up against his hip, your foreheads mashed together as Rex thrusts into you slowly.
"I wanna feel you cum, sweet girl. Please."
Two fingers strum your clit and his name is breathed from your lungs on repeat until you’re cumming around him, granting him his own release once he feels the way you tighten and writhe with your climax.
It'll be silent after that – wordless under the soft spray of water cascading over the two of you.
Rex will follow you into your bed, hands clinging to you in the dark room until you're both collapsing into the sheets, and you'll fall asleep like that, tangled in his warmth with Rex's head on your chest.
"Am I hurting you?"
He'll always ask you that question, softly with concern. His head is heavy, but you always adjust to where it's comfortably situated just above your breasts. Rex could never hurt you, your answer the same no matter how many times he asks.
"Not at all."
Followed by a gentle reassurance for Rex to rest – his body and mind.
"Get some sleep, love."
It depends on just how heavy the burden is weighing on him, but it can also be frenzied and desperate when he comes to you.
Rex can be intense – a tidal wave of fervor. He can be so incredibly hungry for you that his armor doesn't even make it off his body, save for the one piece that hinders his cock from the haven of your cunt. He’ll back you up against the wall by the door that he'd only entered through minutes prior, his lips finding yours in a crazed dance. While he’s ensuring nothing is in the way of him entering you, you’re doing the very same, making quick work of removing everything from your body, allowing Rex access to anything he could want.
"That's my good girl – all ready for me. You're probably soaked too, hm? All ready to take me."
After using the wetness of your cunt to slick himself up, he'll enter you in one motion then fuck you hard, right there against the wall, the armor that stayed on smacking against your bare skin almost painfully. It’s the sting that spurs you on – makes you arch further into him. Rex’s hands never fail to find your breasts, pinching and tugging at your pebbled nipples as his body moves quicker and more determined than any ordinary man would have the energy for.
"Fuck – you take me so well – take my cock like a good girl. That's it, mesh'la. Say my name, tell me who's fucking you this good, and I'll keep giving you what you want."
When Rex speaks utter filth to you, grunting and huffing out curses with abandon, you take it and run with it.
"Yes, baby. Just like that – ruin my pussy, Rex. It's yours, all yours, use me however you want – I'll take whatever you give me, baby."
Rex loses it when you talk back – breathes out a ragged groan as his thighs shake, his hands gripping your flesh like a lifeline when he cums deep inside you.
The armor will come off – but not until after he gets on his knees for you, his tongue dipping into the intoxicating tang of your cunt. He'll get you to cum for him again, because fuck, he needs it. He needs to taste you, to feel you, to consume you. You'll ride his face and fingers right there against the wall until he can no longer breathe.
"Rex, baby… it's too much. I– I need a break, love."
Those are the only words that can stop him, because Rex could eat your pussy for hours without a break for himself – tongue and lips having long gone numb.
It's easy for him to lose track of time when you allow him to use your body in any way he pleases – and the same goes for you whenever you take a semblance of control.
"Lay back. Let me ride you, Rex."
He never argues with you, though there's always something more to say, that much is evident by the way his eyes search your face for any signs of doubt. Rex is a selfless lover, always taking care of your needs over his own, even when he's the one coming to you, so it causes him to buffer when you make suggestions like those to him. It usually takes an added plea, one you back with reason.
"Please? You deserve to lay back and just watch. I wanna take care of you, baby – make you feel good. Please let me?"
Rex will lay back, his hands switching between running up and down your parted thighs, reaching up to squeeze your breasts, and holding steady at your hips as you bounce on his cock. His eyes always stay on you, never letting himself get whisked away to the throes of pleasure.
He wouldn't miss it for anything – how you look in those moments.
"You're so beautiful. Come here."
He'll sit up to hold you against him, hands splayed on your lower back and gently guiding your movements.
“I love you.”
Rex breathes out the words so softly, always almost as if he’s afraid someone else would hear, mumbling them into your skin or against your lips.
But it’s always just the two of you, bodies pressed together in the safety of your home. Shelter. Rex can find it with you, skin on skin, under your roof, in the sound of your voice and wordless sounds. So you’ll make him say it again, gently cupping his jaw and having him meet your eyes.
“No one’s here but us, Rex. Just the two of us. It’s okay.”
You’ve noticed in the past several times that Rex has been over he’s been more open. Emotions flow not as encumbered, though you sense there may always be a hesitance in what he chooses to share with you, knowing full well that not everything he experiences on the field of battle is appropriate to unload onto you. Rex spares you the horrid details, the ones that no doubt haunt him the most. Those memories sit on the tip of his tongue, a bitter, foul taste trickling down his throat – and you notice, taking over in the conversation or even switching to another means of consolation.
He’s given you names – hundreds of names – all of them unique, just like each of the men who owned them. Rex has taken his time speaking highly of each one of his men who’ve perished, throwing in a lighthearted, personal anecdote and genuine smile with the remembrances. He cares deeply, loves deeply, holds compassion and responsibility deeply. To have such depth in the way one feels can be beautiful – but also tragic.
Rex once showed you something he wrote in an addition to a debriefing, a personal grievance he hadn’t shown his superiors. It was the truth layered with guilt, the words typed out on his datapad, more things to say than were necessary for the official campaign reports. His personal report included a piece of information that would have been detrimental if the event had occurred the way it was meant to.
… The transmitter had been sabotaged. We were led into traps. We were ordered to fire upon our own men. As second in command, I followed orders and killed our brothers. I should have listened to Fives, Jesse, Kix, and the rest of them from the beginning. I should have realized sooner that I was being used, and because of my naivety, my brothers suffered greatly.
It became clear to all of us that General Krell was against the Republic, against us clones, and there was only one thing we agreed that had to be done. The traitor had access to vital information, all of our intel and defense codes, and would have turned it all over to Dooku and the Separatists if I hadn’t ordered his arrest and subsequent execution.
Even with his hands bound and a blaster pointed in his direction, General Krell was still able to get inside of my head, the same way he had throughout the entire campaign on Umbara. He could sense my fear and my hesitation. In truth, I felt conflicted, confused about my duty. What I was doing was for the Republic, for my brothers, but I knew then that it wouldn't have been seen that way after it was all said and done. With our Jedi General court-martialed, and without more men on the way, we would have lost the airbase that Hardcase had sacrificed his life for. The Umbaran insurgents would have freed the traitor Krell, and the Republic would have been hit with a crippling blow. As Captain, I had to act. I had to do what needed to be done, for my brothers and for the Republic.
But I could not go through with it.
It was CT-6922, Dogma, who fired the shot at General Pong Krell, effectively ending his life and carrying out the execution I had ordered. By doing so, Dogma spared me from having to take the shot, and consequently spared me from bearing the weight of committing a mutiny, and the murder of a Jedi.
Even though it was not on him to do so, Dogma did his duty to the Republic, as I failed to do mine.
Whatever happens to Dogma is on me, and I must live with that.
Somehow him surviving that campaign was even more detrimental than if he hadn’t.
As the months go on, Rex loses more and more of his closest friends. The war is really aging him quicker than he should be; you can see the creases in his eyes and sunken features on his face become the teeniest bit more prominent every time you see him. You’re not sure how much longer this is going to last, but if there is one thing you do know, it is that Rex can power through. He’ll survive this war because of what he’s told you.
Rex has experienced hell, seen things that made his heart twist then drop, but he’s also had the privilege of seeing glimpses of what lies outside the realm of all the fighting. Eye-opening, mentality-changing experiences – ones that gave him hope. Because of those optimistic encounters, Rex now believes that there is a vast, green meadow on the other side of all this. He no longer holds the ideas near and dear of how he was created for only one purpose and will die serving that very purpose.
While he does still firmly believe that serving the Republic and being allegiant to his duty is crucial, and that deserting is not the right course of action, Rex finds that mentality in between – a safe mental space that allows him to do his duty while giving himself enough wiggle room to continue to explore what being alive truly means and should feel like, even if that does mean he’s straying from regulation. It’s not illegal if no one finds out.
A gray area.
In the gray, Rex can feel a semblance of peace. You’ve noticed how much he’s changed since he first rationalized his decision to tiptoe around regulation. You have, of course, expressed hesitance about it all, reminding him what could happen should he get caught, but it’s not like Rex doesn’t already know the risks, fully accepting them and taking it one rotation at a time.
He always tells you not to worry – that he won’t get caught.
You believe him, trusting in him fully. Rex is a very calculated, brilliant man, having been competent enough from early on that he was put into leadership training before the war had even begun. They saw something in Rex long ago that you’re now having the pleasure of watching grow.
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A fic about Lou and Uglydog and a fluff fic of Lou and Uglybat
Mkay, I'm gonna answer this one with two different posts. So, this one will be for Lou and Uglydog and then I'll post another about Lou and Luckybat.
Set pre-redemption
<><><><><>
The robotic canine, Bella, was busy on the other side of town where the dolls were reconstructing parts of Imperfection. A piece of the wall that had previously divided the two worlds was being knocked down and they needed someone large to keep anyone from getting hurt.
But they couldn't very well leave Lou unsupervised.
UglyDog had been guilt-tripped loyally chose to watch the blond while he cleaned. He didn't see how Bella could do this all day. It was beyond boring. Maybe Gibberish Cat could come over to this side of town and play. But then he'd have to leave Lou by himself to go get the cat.
The dog sighed and laid his head back on the ground. He watched Lou toil away with the mop. Paint stains were littered across the ground.
On Lou's side of the silence, he was also wishing that Bella was here instead. She was more fun and less...grumpy. UglyDog spent the majority of the first hour glaring at him. As if Lou would really do anything out of line in his position. And he couldn't talk to UglyDog like he could Bella. She listened intently when he just needed to get something off his chest. Not that she could speak, but she was emotionally open to listening to him.
A paintbrush was laying across one of the paint puddles. Lou picked it up and held it in one hand while he mopped. UglyDog's ears perked up when he saw the stick end pointed upward. Something tapped the floor beside him and he noticed his tail wagging. With a glare at the offending appendage, he forced it to calm down.
The paintbrush was moved to Lou's other hand while he shoved the mop into the bucket to rinse off the paint. That tapping noise started again and he glanced over to see the dog's tail wagging. UglyDog was staring at the paintbrush, head flat against the ground still, until he noticed Lou staring. Realizing what was going on, the dog slapped a paw over his tail and turned to stare off somewhere else.
Lou squinted at UglyDog. He glanced at his hand holding the paintbrush and connected a few dots. Experimentally, he waved it in the air a few times. UglyDog glanced over and his tail started whacking against the floor again. Lou grinned slyly and waved the brush in the air a few more times before tossing it somewhere in the distance.
On instinct, UglyDog bolted to it. Lou snorted, shaking his head, and went back to mopping. He could act tough all he wanted to, but he was still a dog. Bella loved fetch, too. Gosh, he wished she was--
Lou was startled when something blue nearly barreled into his legs. He looked down with wide eyes at the yellow one staring up at him. UglyDog's pupil was dilated and his tail wagged behind him. The paintbrush was in his mouth, blue paint dripping from the brush of it.
UglyDog seemed to snap out of whatever trance he was in and shook his head. His pupil went back to normal and he spat out the brush at Lou's feet. He cleared his throat and quickly turned to go lay down again where he had been earlier.
Ears perked up when a short whistle sounded behind him. He turned to see Lou waving the brush in the air again, grinning. UglyDog's tail twitched, but he forced a glare at the blond. "Real funny, but I'm not falling for it this--"
The second it was tossed, his pupil went wide again and instinct took over. He bolted in the next instant and Lou smile fully now as he watched the dog skid across the ground to catch it. Tail up proudly and trotting, he carried it back over to Lou and sat at his feet. "You were saying?" Lou smugly asked. UglyDog snapped out of it again and glared, brush still in his mouth. Lou kneeled down and scratched him behind the ears. "Good boy," he praised. He smiled more when UglyDog's eye closed and his ears went lax against his head, tail wagging.
He quickly shook his head again and swatted away Lou's hand while the blond laughed. "Not funny," he huffed through the brush still in his mouth. In order to prevent it from happening again, he figured he'd take the brush with him. It would be a nice chew toy anyway.
A hand grabbed the end of it and UglyDog's muscles instantly tensed and began pulling. Lou jerked the brush side to side, making UglyDog growl and he watched that pupil dilate again. The mopping was long forgotten at this point. This was fun.
Lou managed to pull it out of UglyDog's mouth and he was about to throw it again when he fell on his back. UglyDog was on his chest, reaching with his mouth for the paintbrush that Lou still managed to hold out and away from him. In an effort to get it back, he started licking Lou's face. Lou's giggles bubbled into laughter and he tried using his other hand to push the dog off. "Stop!" He got out between giggles. "Gah! That tickles! Go get it!" Lou blindly tossed the paintbrush somewhere in front of them and the weight was released from his chest.
He used his sleeve to wipe off some of the slobber, hardly affected by it. UglyDog already had the paintbrush in his mouth and was trotting back over to him by the time he sat up on the ground. The paintbrush was dropped in his lap. "Good boy," Lou rubbed the top of his head. "But I have to actually clean now."
The pupil dilated back to normal and UglyDog actually disliked the way his tail went limp against the ground. He looked behind them at the paint across the floor. "If...you got done in time...could we keep going?" Screw animosity. A part of him realized he had just had fun with his enemy. This...this...
Not so bad of a doll.
Bad dolls didn't giggle or laugh.
Bad dolls didn't play fetch.
Bad dolls didn't say 'good boy'.
"Maybe," Lou shrugged. He made small circles in the air with the brush, grinning at the way UglyDog's tail wagged a bit and he nipped at the air for it. "But it's gonna take a while."
"Not if I help ya," UglyDog still absentmindedly snapped his teeth for the brush, front paws on either of Lou's crossed legs to give himself a boost. He shook his head and moved behind the blond, head pushing against his back. "The sooner we get started, the sooner we get finished. And the sooner we get finished the sooner we can play!"
<><>
The sun started going down and construction was going to be put on hold until tomorrow. Moxy, Mandy, and a few of their friends followed along to get UglyDog before heading home. Laughter ahead of them snapped them from their idle conversation.
They slowed to a stop when they saw Lou and UglyDog running in circles around each other. Lou held something in his hand and tossed it. UglyDog chased after it before returning it back to Lou and they would have a short-lived tug-of-war over it before the dog decided he wanted to fetch it again.
"Well this is new," Ox smiled as he watched them. "I guess UglyDog won't mind watchin' Lou for the next two weeks, then."
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Searching for Redemption (Chapter 3/5) (Male!Forest Spirit/Reader)
Pairing: Male!Forest Spirit/Gender Neutral!Reader
Genre: Slow Burn, Fluff, Domestic
Warnings: Slight descriptions of blood and animal death
Word Count: 3515 words
Summary: You hold the broom in hand, remembering the pattern the maids followed as they swept the long corridors. It shouldn’t be too difficult, this place isn’t nearly the size of the palace, and it only took the maids 30 minutes to do that!
Turns out, size isn’t the problem.
A/N: Aaaah domesticity. You'll see that my slow burn philosophy is "love is stored in rearing animals together", if that wasn't already obvious by every other fic I right lol.
A thicc chapter to make up for the long wait. Our final chapter is also gonna be extra thicc (If I don't end up splitting it into two chapters), so there might be a wait. Either way, enjoy!!!
Chapter 1 Chapter 2
It’s slightly odd, hearing the footsteps of someone else behind him. Cernon had so many years of routine, of habits, that even your small presence was enough to change his home’s usual feeling. Sure, he had invited you here, but as interesting as you were, you were still unknown. The unknown, the human unknown especially, was unpredictable.
The three girls are waiting at the entrance of the barn, oinking wildly as he approaches. He reaches down with one hand and pats Betty on the bum, his new spouse not too far behind. He unlatches the door clasp and the pigs rush in, squealing with excitement. Three feed buckets lay on a high shelf, which he grabs with ease. His partner holds out their hand for one.
“I can carry all of them, it’s fine.”
“I know that, but wouldn’t it be better if I learned directly? I’m kind of a tactile learner.”
Cernon looks at their hands, clean and unbruised. Dirt has been meticulously picked out from under their short fingernails and the skin looks freshly lotioned. Yet they make grabby motions with their fingers, looking up at him stubbornly.
Heh, it’s kind of cute.
He rolls his eyes, dropping the bucket with little care. They struggle with the weight, needing both of their hands to carry it, taking in a deep breath. With a huff of their shoulders, they look to him for guidance. They have to look rather fair up, their neck craned at an awkward angle.
“We just need to pour it into the troughs. Sheila can get a little food-aggressive so I try to feed her away from Betty and Delilah.” Cernon steps inside the pen, hay and mud pressed in between his padded toes. He finds his third eye drifting to his spouse's fancy boots, with its shiny laces and decorated heel. They look like they’ve been meticulously shined every week for any occasion, not a stain on them. That’s until his partner follows in his steps, paying no mind to the muck and the mud.
Full of surprises, aren’t they?
He chuckles, wondering how long it will take to get used to his spouse's peculiarities.
“And,”—They catch their breath, adjusting their grip on the bucket— “which one is Sheila?”
“There, in that corner.” Cernon points with a free hand. “She likes to bring flowers in and put them there, for decoration. She’s also got a big splotch on her belly, that’s how you can recognize her.”
“She decorates? I didn’t know pigs did that.” His spouse giggles. “That’s really cute.”
And I didn’t know you lot could giggle, either.
They struggle with the bucket all the way to the trough, using the side as a leverage to pour the heavy bucket. Sheila squeals and nearly barrels them over to get to the food, but they just laugh and watch her munch away.
He drops the two buckets into the other trough, giving Delilah a quick scratch behind the ears, before turning back to his spouse.
They’re crouched, hay and mud flecked against their pants, tentatively petting Sheila’s back. Sheila pays them no mind, devouring her dinner, but he can hear his spouse whisper.
“Oh my god you’re so adorable.”
Cernon smiles before he can stop himself.
Maybe this won’t be too terrible after all.
—-----
Cernon lets you go inside early, throwing out feed for the chickens with several flicks of his hands. After a helping of smoked fish as a last minute dinner, you and Cernon clean up in his side bathroom. Goat milk and honey soap washes away the pungent smell from your fingers. You toss your mudded pants into a basket Cernon vaguely guestrued to as “Laundry”, rushing into the bathroom with your night clothes.
There’s still a bit of trepidation on sleeping beside your Husband, even with your extra layered pajamas. That feeling only exacerbates when you see Cernon lounging on the bed, legs spread open and only wearing a pair of shorts.
His eyes up there, his eyes are up there, but his thighs are down there-
You crinkle your nose; Maybe you’ll ask for a drop off of some of your spicier romance novels tomorrow in secret, it seems you need an outlet for all…this.
“Are those really comfortable to sleep in?”
Cernon says, gesturing to your many layers.
“Weren’t you the one that says it gets cold at night? This is the most efficient way.”
“Technically, your majesty, skin-to-skin contact is the most efficient way to exchange body heat. But, as you wish.” Cernon snickers, eyebrows rising at your flustered face.
“I g-guess that's true.” You half-heartedly mutter to yourself, crawling into bed. The middle of it sinks under Cernons weight, almost pulling you into his side. You may have done this just last night, but cuddling against Cernon’s bare chest still feels very intimate.
He may chide and give you shit, but Cernon doesn’t force you to get closer, wrapping his arm around your shoulders but not pulling you towards him. He snuggles his head into his pillow, his long white hair draped over his shoulders like a lace curtain. It’s so soft looking, despite spending all it’s time wrapped in a bun or caked in dirt.
A spare strand falls over his face, Cernon’s eyes now closed as he settles into sleep. He almost looks like one of those handsome princes in your novels, cursed to eternal sleep until true love’s kiss.
It’s so shiny, I wonder what it feels like.
Curiosity compels you to reach out your hand and touch the strand. It threads through your fingers as you gently brush your thumb over the hair, trying not to wake Cernon up.
“Your majesty, what are you doing?”
You yank your hand back, squeaking from shock as Cernons third eye looks down at you, unamused.
“I-I-uhhhh.”
Yeah, you really don’t have a good excuse for this.
“I wanted to see if your hair was as soft as it looks.”
So the truth will have to do.
For the second time in the crazy past 48 hours, Cernon seems shocked.
His other two eyes open, but his third eye darts around, away from your eyeline. His cheeks darken a miniscule shade. Is he… blushing?
“We’re married, your majesty.” Cernon says, confidence returning to his voice. “You just had to ask.”
Cernon takes your outstretched hand, and gently runs it against his scalp. Your eyes widen.
Wow, it really is that soft.
Your eyes widen, examining the silkiness in your hands. You run a large bunch of hair through your palm, eyeing the glistening color.
It’s why you miss the way Cernon’s expression softens, the way he relaxes into your touch.
It only takes a minute before you get embarrassed again, taking your hand away and laying back down. Cernon smirks, resting his eyes until-
“Can I ask something of you?”
Cernon huffs a breath, opening his once again.
“Yes?”
“Can you not call me ‘your majesty’?” His eyebrows raise, Cernon sitting up on his forearms. You fiddle with the end of your night shirt. “It’s like you said, we’re married now, this is my home.” A heat blooms on the back of your neck, itchy embarrassment making you scratch, trying to fight away the feeling. “I know it’s silly but, I’d prefer if my husband were to call me by my name, y’know?”
Cernon’s quite, his gaze is pensive. It bores into that nervous feeling in your bgut and ttriples it tenfold.
“Alright then. I will call you….” You look up at him, realizing he’s gesturing for you to say your name.
My gods, two days gone by and you haven’t even told him your name.
“I-its ____. I’m ____.” You stick out your hand for a stiff hand shake.
Cernon chuckles, sliding his hand into yours. His fingers are long, the tips nearly touching your wrist. His palm is calloused, but warm; Comforting.
“Hello, _____. I’m Cernon.”
—-----
You wish you could say you woke up refreshed, ready to hop into a new routine and face the morning. Alas, Cernon’s internal alarm clock is set to the sunset, and it’s unforgiving on your sleep schedule.
You’re still in a haze as Cernon hands you some shredded pork along-
side a bowl of boiled oats with honey, eyes rolled over as you both sit in front of a morning fire. A hot cup of herbal tea slowly brings your brain back to you but it's the next moment that Cernon starts with chores.
You start with the barn, dumping buckets of feed into the troughs and filling up the pig’s water. Cernon then asks you to spread some feed for the chickens as he gets the eggs. He collects the eggs rather quickly, only to see you surrounded by squeaking hens trying to get the feed poured directly into their open beaks. They barely come up to your ankle, but you seem frozen in anxiety. Do you just let them eat out of your hand? The floor seems so dirty to put the food in!
Cernon comes to your rescue with an imitated squawk, scaring the ladies away with a flick of his hand. You get flustered at how easily 5 chickens were able to overtake you.
By the time you finish filling the water and feeding, mud speckles the bottom of your pants and cakes your boots. You rub away the small beads of sweat at your brow, the morning heat already creeping up on you.
“I can finish up with the yard work, if you want to get started on the house.”
“Yes, I can do that.” You mutter, struggling to feign confidence in your cleaning abilities. “The castle is supposed to drop off a delivery of goods today,should we get that together?”
“The trees will get it for us, so there’s no need.”
“Oh.”
You’d been so hung up on mundane chores, you’d forgotten you now live in a magic forest.
“The broom is in the corner of the living room, I think that’s probably a good place to get started.” Cernon scratches the back of his neck. “I haven’t done a proper sweeping in a while, so…good luck.”
“I’ll do my best!” Your thumbs up is meant to convey eagerness, but Cernon just chuckles at the display.
“I believe it.”
With that, you scuttle back to the house. Cernon watches you go, a new feeling beginning to bloom.
———
You hold the broom in hand, remembering the pattern the maids followed as they swept the long corridors. It shouldn’t be too difficult, this place isn’t nearly the size of the palace, and it only took the maids 30 minutes to do that!
Turns out, size isn’t the problem.
Despite its tiny size, you seem to notice a new bit of dust everywhere. You have to use a half-cleaned rag for the smaller area and bend over at an awkward angle to get the corners of the roof. The broom is made of sandy wood and the movement of sweeping works tiny calluses into your palm, making you pause and shake out your hands every couple of minutes.
You think you’d prefer to clean the halls, so you could just move in straight lines, the dust staying exactly where it needs to be. But then you remember those high vaulted ceilings, the number of artifacts shining bright every day, and think otherwise.
You’re finally able to cajole most of the dirt into one spot, proud with your finished product. The dirt is dumped into the trash can tucked away in a corner of the kitchen, filled with discarded animal bones and ripped work clothes. As it falls, you peer out the window.
Despite the general stuffiness of the summer, the weather outside is beautiful. The sun doesn’t overwhelm you under the canopy and occasionally a light breeze will blow over. Cernon is still hard at work, deweeding the area around a newly constructed plantar bed. He sits on his haunches, digging away at the ground with a trowel.
Even sitting, Cernon’s height is imminent, his horns into adding to the effect. The sheer largeness of his back is stifling, muscles shifting and flexing as he digs into the hard ground, grunting only slightly as he pulls the weeds out with his long fingernails. He’s sweaty, dirty, but just so deli-oh my god it’s happening again.
You slap your cheeks. It’s only 8 in the morning! You should not be thinking about things like this!
You avert your eyes, tapping the edge of the dust pan on the trash to get rid of the last bits of dirt, when you hear the familiar sounds of birds tweeting.
Looking out the window once more, you see Cernon still hunched over, his hair pulled back in a ponytail, with several birds perched on his horns. They chirp at him expectantly, shuffling up and down with their sweet songs. Instead of shooing them away Cernon just continues with his work, pulling at the weeds as normal.
My gods, my heart just might explode.
At one point he pauses his digging, stretching out his lower back and cracking his neck. The birds flutter their wings but don’t move from their perch, as Cernon lifts one of his hands up, his pointer finger outstretched. A particularly brave bluebird hops down, turning to him with curious eyes. With a kind of gentle touch you would think impossible, Cernon gives the bluebird some scratches on its neck, the bird chirping sweetly.
You can only see his profile, but with the way the corners of his lips curl up you can tell Cernon is smiling.
“Hello friend, how are you?”
The bird tweets a little bit and Cernon nods.
“I see, that’s good. Maybe they’ll be ready to fly in a couple weeks.”
The bird sings again before flying back up to Cernon’s horns.
Cernon resumes his work, bending over with a groan and digging the trowel into the ground. You remain in the kitchen, chores unattended as you try and not die from cuteness.
———-
By the end of the day, the house is certainly in better shape. Not quite as clean as the castle, but definitely better. All the food has found a more suitable place where they couldn’t stink up the kitchen. The fish smell still lingered, but you were hoping the fresh flowers and incense sticks you put on the window sill would do the trick.
You had also tried your best to dust and sweep all over the house, no more dirt getting stuffed up your nose or clinging to the bottoms of your feet. With little furniture to move around and dirt to collect, you had been able to at least get the first layer of dirt off almost every surface. There had been an attempt made with the windows, but after your experiment with just water had made them streaky with dirt, you figured soap was a needed component.
Your market list only grew longer and longer as you noted every missing pots and pans and most cleaning supplies. Not to mention all the hair and skin products from the castle which you still needed to pick up; Cernon may be able maintain a silky mane with just soap, but you were not gonna take that chance.
All in all, not too terrible of a start. You didn’t tremendously fuck up on a task yet, which you considered a success for your first time keeping house. The only issue now was-
Growl
Food.
Most of your food during the day had been figs and the bread from your morning delivery (Which was given to you via a tree branch through a window. You’re still getting used to this magic forest thing), but nothing substantial. You thought of grabbing some salted pork from the barrels, but were nervous about how strict Cernon was with his rations.
Speaking of Cernon, he had left not too long ago to ‘collect’, whatever that means. Leaving you and your empty stomach wondering what he normally did for dinner.
“I’m back.” Your questions are answered as Cernon walks through the door, several rabbits and two geese hung over his shoulder. “And I have dinner.”
He throws his prey onto the counter after noticing the surprisingly amount of space it has. “It looks good in here.”
You’ll take that as a compliment! A small one, at least.
“Where’d you get all”—you gesture towards the dead animals—“this?”
“Rabbits are from the traps in the woods. I’ll need to show you them one day, the trees only part for me.” Cernon pats the fat belly of one of the geese. “But these I was able to catch off guard. They can be a bitch to fight, but less so when you strike from behind.” He flips over the bird, his lower set of hands beginning to pluck away the feathers. “I’ll get them prepped right now, along with dinner, if you want to wait in the living room.”
His other set unsheathes their claws, running up the goose's long neck before settling in the belly. Two beady eyes stare right at you, lifeless and judging as the hooded head stays flopped over on the table. The tangy smell of blood fills the air, although you can’t bring yourself to look away from its gaze.
Dead eyes. Ripped open stomachs. Snapped necks and rigored skin.
You’ve seen it all before.
Your backpedal into the living room without a second thought, falling into Cernon’s big seat. It feels all consuming, reminding you of your size, your place.
Cernon whistles a tune and you just stare in the fire; Wondering how the pieces fit together.
———-
After washing your face in the bathroom, you want nothing more but to collapse into bed.
Your arms are sore and so are the soles of your feet, the palm of your hand rubbed red. A full belly of potatoes and pork doesn’t help, nor does the anxiety running through your mind. You wonder if this is how everyday will end, if it’s normal to be so tired you can barely make the bed.
Wait, why is the bed naked?
“Oh yeah, I did laundry today. I forgot to remake the bed.” Cernon says, throwing a laundry bag full of linens on top. “Hate it when I do that.”
Cernon throws aside blankets and empty pillows into the now-empty hamper, shaking out the sheets before stretching them to the corners. “I’ll do the sheets if you want to put on the pillow cases.”
You wander to the side, holding the pillow cases by the corner. You side eye Cernon, hoping he doesn’t feel how much you don’t know what you're doing.
Alright, putting on pillow cases, shouldn’t be so difficult.
You grab a make pillow with one hand and hold open the pillow case with another, trying to shove it in with a flimsy wrist movement. It seems so simple, but every time you get one corner of the pillow inside, the other one falls out, the case falling limp in your hand. Your frustration and embarrassment is getting to you, so much so you don’t notice Cernon’s stopped moving behind you.
“Here, lemme show you.” Cernon remarks, jolting you out of your skin as he sidles up behind you. He guides your other hand to hold the pillow case taught as he grabs the pillow. The fur of his chest brushes against the back of your neck, his scent all around you. “You gotta stuff the corners in one at a time, or else the pillow will just fall right out as you try.” Cernon explains as he does the movement, his bottom pair of hands holding your wrists steady as he shoves the pillow inside. You feel that familiar brush glowing across your face as his chest bumps against your back, eyes wandering to his thick biceps as they push. “Also helps if you set the pillowcase down, so gravity isn’t working against you.”
The pillow settles in the case with a final pull upwards from Cernon. “Did that help?” Cernon says, peering down with his arms still wrapped around you. With hair falling over his ears and his horns casting a shadow over your form, you’re reminded of just how big your husband is. So large, and yet his eyes show no malice, just understanding.
How did we get here?
His eyes are pools of gold you want to fall into, warm and so unlike the finery back at the castle.
“Y-yeah, that makes a lot of sense, thank you.”
Cernon hums, his arms unfurling as he moves to your side, grabbing another pillow and it’s case. He stuffs it in fluid motion no although you still struggle a bit, you’re able to stuff your own as well.
“Hey, not too shabby, eh?”
You expect a snarky remark, maybe even a playful dig at such simple successes, but when you turn to Cernon he’s smiling. It’s tiny, you can’t even see those fearsome teeth of his, but it’s there.
“Yeah, you got it.”
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☁️ for a HAPPY childhood memory!
The air was crisp with cold, and the sky glowed with the false promise of a sun in it's periwinkle shade where it showed through the grey clouds. Devan inhaled nasally, still not used to the funny sound their new nose shape made after their recent, big tumble. The fur hood shaped to their round face needed to be brushed again, stray strands ticking their cheeks as a mitten palm attempted to get them out of the way.
After appreciating the flat landscape blanketed in fog, they return their gaze to the riverbed beneath them. The muddy bank had the current gently lap against it, and further up, the end of their tool drew distinct lines. Hard at work on a latest addition, the young one only pauses when they hear approaching footsteps through the mud and stone.
The man carried a barrel in one hand and a fishing pole over a shoulder, more skin exposed to the elements than a hearthbound could ever dream of doing and living to tell how cold it was. He stops short of where the mud-scribbles began, and gave the child centered in the encircling drawings they had enclosed themself in, a smile.
"Keir! Look at my drawings!" The child calls out, arms extended and waving the man down even as he had already placed the bucket down, fish tails peeking over its lip and twitching now and then. He gestures to one of the scribbles nearer to him.
"Very nice, Devan. Is that one you?"
"Yes!" The end of their pole points at the small figure, a crooked line across it's face mimicking the way their nose now bent. Soon, it is pointing to the other, scribbled formations one after another.
"And here's you, and Momma, and Karver, and- oh, I gave you lots of fish so you'll catch a lot for everyone!"
"For luck? Thank you, Devan." The man gives each portrait a moment of his time, his smile growing as the child nods excitedly at his deduction. He always understood their drawings and stories and games. That was why he was their favourite Oathfather - though they would never say such a thing aloud. They loved all of their family.
With carefully placed steps to both not disturb any drawings or land on any awkward rocks, Keir closed the distance between the two until he could place a hand on the child's hood.
"But you know, if I had another pair of hands helping me fish, I know we could catch even more together. And I'm sure that spear would catch fish just as well as it draws." Devan's beam up to him slowly morphs into a pout, knowing well that there had been a task they had put off. But they also knew that Keir wouldn't nag or punish them. Maybe next time, if they did all their hunting quickly, he would even play with them.
Clutching the spear in a hug, the child takes a moment to think as dark eyes turn about. And when they settle of Keir's warm expression, it isn't long until they are matching it.
"… Can you show me how to throw, again?"
-
The muddy riverbank crunches underfoot from both rock and ice. They watch for where the frozen crust over the slow river was thinnest, so their long strides would carry them over it in a few steps. A distant memory whispers in their mind; another time, but a similar feeling beneath their boots. There is a face, and names, but nothing they can recall fully. Just the sense of warmth, and safety, and love.
Devan pauses, attempting to grasp its details tighter before a heavy snort behind them pulls the Draklorn back to the present, Summer's Bane urging them on so the pair could make it over the stream before more of the ice cracked. A wispy smile is given to the steed before they march onward. And soon the mud is replaced completely with the uncomfortable feeling of snow filling the space between loose rocks with every step.
Catching some fish while in the area wasn't a bad idea.
childhood memories
#❚ ic#❚ ask#nameaprice#dont say i never give devan anything. see? they had nice moments in their childhood#shame what happened after though
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What! No Fun? Wednesday
Finally, I have seen ALL of 1933’s What! No Beer? starring Jimmy Durante and a sadly demolished Buster Keaton.
How did this gobbler ever look good on paper? We had to choke it down in five-minute segments.
Where to begin? There's a lot of shouting and stumbling, none of which is in the least bit funny, apart from one or two of Durante's throwaway lines.
It's filled with idiotic, contrived, completely avoidable situations, the moronic end brings new meaning to the word 'cringe,' and yet, it reportedly made money.
The frenetic material makes The Three Stooges seem quietly dignified; the story makes Plan Nine From Outer Space look like Citizen Kane.
What's it about? Prohibition's about to be repealed, and Buster, a taxidermist, teams up with his friend, Durante, to brew beer and become wealthy.
What could possibly go wrong? Yes, thanks for reminding me.
Buster and Jimmy (that's his name in the film, as though too dispirited to remember a different one) run into gangsters, are arrested by police, and wade through gallons of foam, a gag appropriated from Buster's much funnier short, My Wife's Relations (1922). In fact all the gags were appropriated from Buster's REAL movies, like Seven Chances (1925), only there, they got laughs.
There are one or two meager good points. Ya gotta love blowhard Spike Moran, played by Buster's old pal Ed Brophy. But most of the cast is as wooden as the barrels the beer's been canned in.
Somewhere in among all this mess, Buster spots a girl and falls for her. He can still sell his patented yearning look.
Durante works himself into a frenzy, struggling to save this bolus of a feature, but it's hopeless. There are jagged, jumpy, mis-matched cuts everywhere, and it's filmed like a static stage play, even while churning around so much, it throws off buckets of flop sweat.
Former dancer Phyllis Barry (who actually did appear with The Three Stooges) plays an unworthy object of Buster's yearnings: a duplicitous, venal gangster's moll and bimbo de luxe who turns on a dime for no discernible reason. (Except, of course, that it’s BUSTER. Ya know?)
Worst of all, however, is seeing the master who created such brilliant movies as The General (1926) and my beloved Steamboat Bill Jr. (1928) reduced not only to wallowing in this bilge, but in such a state of inebriation that he either forgets lines, or slurs them when he does remember.
I'd drink too, if I was in this turkey.
Watch if you must, but be well forewarned.
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Never Task : 0 0 2
Nightmares
{ TW: Body horror, eye gore, mouth horror }
it isn't uncommon for Cecco to suffer from nightmares. Regardless of what they do before laying down, nothing prevents the nightmare from creeping into their skull. Warm tea? Nothing, but it is nice for their throat when they can get their hands on it.
The smell of burning oak and ignited ale fills their lungs, as though they were back on the cursed ship that they had lost so many loved ones to, are the first things to greet them. When their eyes open, the skies, which should be decorated with the silver glisten of the stars against the otherwise blackness of the night, was instead flickering with a radiant orange hue. Their stomach drops, faster than a corpse with cannonballs tied to their ankles. No. Not here. Not again. A tightness forms in their throat as the hand of fear crawls up their spine before firmly grasping the back of their neck. Just like that, it is in control, once again. In their nightmares, no matter how hard they try or how much they desperately attempts to sober up their comrades, even just a little bit, the drunken hold is never loosened.
Shaking, slapping and doing everything short of physically harming their comrades, the same response greets them. Cecco is either ignored, or scorched by the flaming mugs of grog that are raised towards them. Their throat tightens, stinging as the fumes of burning leather and paper begin to rise from below decks. Like a fireplace, cracking in a pub, inviting those from the outside to step in, the sound of splintering and cracking wood grows ever louder as more and more of the deck is engulfed in flames. Unable to get their comrades to acknowledge the danger surrounding them, Cecco pushes past the crew in hopes of finding something to use, anything that would help save their lives. They call out to those who are nearby, to any who can hear their voice, their call to arms, praying, damn near begging for someone to join them in their attempts to extinguish the fire that threatened to consume the ship. Bucket after bucket, they rush around the burning deck in an attempt to douse the hungry flames.
A hiss dissipates in to the air as they dump the water on to a trail that is leading to a barrel of grog. It is a fruitless task as the water simply evaporates as soon as it leaves the pail. A plume of smoke that disappears in to the air, not even a drop will ever reach the ground. No matter how much they try, there is nothing they can do to even dim a small fire. Trying to spit on it only shows that they cannot produce any saliva from their dried mouth. No one seems to even notice them, or their efforts, for the crew is too caught up in the moment, cheering and drinking from mugs that burn no sooner than the grog leaves the charred cask. To watch their friends drinking from burning mugs, seeing the skin of their lips boil and melt, dripping into the fiery drinks, it is enough to make their stomach twist. Brothers and sisters in arms, attempting to then smile at them, with chunks of their noses caved in, entirely hanging off, or missing. Their words turning in to garbled murmurs of what cannot be deciphered, what should not be heard by mortal ears.
As they search for any sane person, praying to Neptune that someone is capable of helping, they discover that Anna is plagued by the same affliction. Cecco's heart stops for a moment. She sways alongside their Captain, Bowen the Bloody, as the sails overhead begin to rain down blackened ash. What was once a symbol of their joy, now aglow with hellfire. They celebrate their bounty, oblivious to the searing heat that begins to surround them. It is always them, that go first. To watch the flames take hold of both Anna and the Captains pants before they are engulfed by the blaze that rapidly crawls up their bodies. Their silhouettes revealing through the bright fire, how quickly it will consume them all. For it takes very few moments before the two are nothing more than skeletal remains, the skin that is home to their numerous scars, each one a thrilling tale, melts away. Falling in thick clumps that mix with hair, and the smell . . god the smell. Bowen's face begins to slide, as though he were made of nothing more than pig fat. Anna is disfigured by the intense heat. It leaves unnatural dips in her arms and figure, as though something had taken large bites out of her. In their last moments, they are waving their arms in glee before collapsing onto the deck. The two turn to look directly at Cecco. It is the first time anyone really notices them, the only moment where it not longer feels like a nightmare, but as though life before this had been a dream they were just awaking from.
Cecco's tortured screams are drowned out by the rest of the crew beginning to sing or laugh jauntily. The quartermaster falls to their knees, surrounded by their peers as tears attempt to fall from their features. Nothing comes, however. The heat that is circling them immediately dries out their eyes, forcing them to hold their eyes tightly shut. The sounds that fill their head however, are much different than what they have seen. They can hear desperate calls for help, pleas, crying from their brothers in arms. A horrific reality where the illusion before them holds no power. Bartering with what possessions they had, crew members begged for the gods to spare their lives. People called out for Cecco, and yet, when they open their eyes, returning to their feet . . . the noise is replaced by the facade of singing and cheers. A reminder of how little, how insignificant, they really were, no matter how hard they tried. In this hellscape, they are the only one who can see the destruction of the ship.
A snow storm of ash and soot falls down from above. Burning pieces of the crows nest begin to fall towards the deck. Some pieces will fall on top of oblivious crew. If they are lucky, it will knock them out, otherwise, it will lodge itself in to their melting scalps. Shielding their face, Cecco listens to the laughs of the crew and clanking of metal mugs. For those who are drinking, their mugs are char, faintly glowing red as they embed into the palms that should only know the feeling of swords and pistols. They are rendered helpless to watch the skin of their crewmates slosh off, chunks landing on the caving deck with a sickening wet sound followed by harsh crackling. Stairs collapse, causing those who were leaned against the rails, to fall below deck, some pieces of them remaining on the upper deck or on the railing. A loud creaking grabs Ceccos attention, causing them to look up, only to discover that one of the mast has snapped, weakened by the raging inferno. As it falls, towards them, a slightly familiar figure steps in front of them. Someone who once brought them such delight, made them feel as though they were able to have a home regardless of where they were, now brought nothing but fear and a desperate desire to flee. The sight is grotesque. Danik attempts to smile at his friend. Heat radiates off of his burning body, causing Cecco’s nostrils to flare as they struggled to breathe. Their friends hair has become tattered, singed and choppy. Pieces of his scalp having melted in to his neck, the long hair now decorates various parts of his body, like a monster. The brown eyes Cecco had always found warmth in were deflated, for they had burst and left mangled shreds of the vitreous body, dangling from the sockets. His jaw was hanging loosely, as though it were barely holding on.
No matter how hard Cecco tries, they cannot form a word. Each attempt to speak just fills their lungs with more smoke, and the desire to cough in an attempt to expunge it arises. Flames lick at Cecco's legs, the pain ricocheting up through their gut as Danik steps closer. The heat radiating off of their friend burns, causing their body to beg them to step back, to retreat in hopes of finding a cool breeze. But their body won't move. For they are paralyzed. Danik places a burning, mangled hand on the quartermasters shoulder. Warmth grazes Cecco's cheek as their friends hand melds with their own skin. As the burning mast prepares to collapse on top of them, a woman's voice calls their name. It is barely above a whisper, but it echoes as though the owner was surrounding Cecco on all sides. When they turn to look, piercing eyes are gazing from just over the railing of the ship. It is the blonde woman from the shores water. Locking with her gaze, their chest tightens, breathing becomes harder. Between wheezes for air, Cecco watches the woman disappear from sight, sinking back down in to the glowing waters below. The feeling of heat grows intensely, their eyes shut tightly, preparing for the crushing impact, and then- and then, nothing. Shortly after, they will awake in a cold sweat, breathing hard and gripping at their pained shoulder.
#nrpgtask#tw body horror#tw eye gore#tw eye horror#tw mouth horror#headcanons#It's all fun and games now- but just you wait { Headcanons }#A new nightmare- but the faces are always the same { Musings }
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