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jellyfishbug · 3 months ago

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POP THE HOOD F'ME

pairing. chris x reader genre. smut with plot. MDNI. word count [5.2k]

content; mechanic!chris, flirty!chris, smoking (they share a cig), sex with a stranger ig? semi public, car head (m recieving), face fucking, big dick chris, reader has an eyebrow piercing, use of pet names, dirty talk, swearing

Maybe it was just dumb luck.

My dad has been promising me that his old ford pickup was gonna be mine when I got my license since I was ten. However, not long after my sixteenth birthday, he randomly decided that his promise had conditions.

I had to fix it myself.

I had been putting off working on it for years. I just didn't have the time, and it needed a lot of work. The list of things to be fixed was long, and I knew if I started then, I wouldn't have finished.

Finally, the time presented itself for me to start. I finally had a summer that wasn't so busy, so I decided in May of this year I was finally going to do it.

I was finally going to get my own truck.

So I did; I worked on it for two long months. Two long months spent in the garage on my back under the heavy pickup with my hands covered in soot and oil whilst sweat dripped down my face. Two long months spent fixing the paint job and fiddling around under the hood, my hair tied back to keep it off my neck while the sun beamed through the opened garage door.

I finally felt confident enough to take it out for a test drive today. It was starting fine in the garage, and I'd driven it around the block a number of times without fail.

I excitedly hopped in the driver's seat and shut the heavy door, jamming my keys into the ignition and grinning at the sound of the roar when the engine started. I made it pretty much across town without a single problem, and I thought I was in the clear.

So, maybe it was just dumb luck when not even an hour later, here I am, standing on the side of the road next to said pickup with the hood popped and smoke coming out of the cabin.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was dumb luck when I realized I was only three blocks away from an auto shop, and a guy pulled over to help drag my car there.

It felt like forever when we finally reached the parking lot. The red and white sign that hung over the opened garage doors read 'sturniolo's auto-repair".

For the most part, the slots were empty, except for a 58' baby blue Impala that was suspended off the ground, and a brand new silver Subaru outback that sat right next to it.

As we finally pushed it into the open slot on the far end of the garage, I let out a sigh of relief, wiping the sweat off my forehead with one hand and letting them both rest at my sides.

I thanked the stranger for his assistance and he wished me luck, mumbling about how much a repair on a truck like this was going to cost before wandering off. I scowled at him as soon as he turned away from me.

Walking away from the smokey and damaged shell of a car, I pushed open the clear glass door into the entry-way of the shop, and the sound of the ringing bells that were carefully tied at the top of the door filled my ears.

Near the desk stood two boys, both were brunettes that roughly stood at the same height. The first was wearing a red toyota nascar cap backwards over his brown hair, as well as a black tank top and a navy blue mechanic's suit that hugged his frame. The name patch on the chest of it read "Matt". He was speaking to another customer, flailing the rag around as he emphasized his points with his hands.

The other was standing behind the counter, a gray bandana tied around his head. He wore a navy blue button up that he left completely open with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, making the white tank top he wore under it visible.

The name patch on his chest read "Chris", and a white rag was thrown over his shoulder. A plethora of keys were hooked to a red carabiner that hung around the belt loop of his jeans. The desk hid his lower half below his waistline, and as I stepped closer, I saw a toothpick in between his teeth and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he jotted down words on a yellow notepad with a pencil.

I slowly walked up to the desk, my arms at my sides. He didn't raise his head to look at me, he just continued writing, so I cleared my throat.

His head shot up, and his expression fell into embarrassment.

"Fuck- sorry, I didn't hear you come in. How long ‘v you been standing there?"

I laughed lightly and shook my head. "Not long, I just walked in."

A smile painted itself onto his face as he set the pencil down and put his hands in his pockets just far enough that his thumbs still stuck out. "What can i do for ya?" He asked kindly, the toothpick in his mouth moving as he spoke.

"My truck broke down three blocks ago and wouldn't start. I tried looking under the hood to see the problem, but it was smoking, so I pushed it here." I explained, my hands finding each other and clasping together at my front.

He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head slightly. "Jesus, you wheeled it all the way here?" He asked, laughing breathily when I nodded my head in response. "Atta girl. What kind of truck is it?"

"A ford pickup," I responded all too quickly, my voice strained as I tried to ignore how my heart swelled in my chest from the impressed look on his face. He nodded as he opened the drawer next to him and pulled out a ballpoint pen, picking up the notepad once again to start writing. "What year and license plate?"

"85', boston plate, the number is 289 BTO. " I watched as he wrote mindlessly, the handwriting barely coherent.

"'M kay, I'll take a look at it for you." he said, setting the notepad and pen back down on the counter. He opened his palm, gesturing for my keys, and I dropped them into his grasp. He hooked the ring that held them together around his index finger.

"Wait here, should only be a couple minutes."

I nodded as he circled around to the end of the desk, walking past me and pushing open the door to the garage.

His absence gave me a chance to examine the decor of the office space. Family and baby portraits crowded on top of the counter below the window behind the desk. A mickey mouse clock sat above the side door, and a large OPEN sign hung in the window.

The wall was crowded with plates and signs. One that caught my eye was an eagle with its claws digging into a hanging mirror, the name HARLEY DAVIDSON displayed in bright orange letters above the eagle's head. Next to the register was a small bell with a sign that said "ring for service" and the words 'don't actually' were scribbled in sharpie above.

Just when I was getting lost in thought, I heard the door bells jingle a second time, and Chris walked back in. The rag was now hanging loosely in his palm as he approached the counter. He stood right next to me, reaching over for the notepad and throwing the rag back over his now bare shoulder, which is when I realized he had discarded his button up. My eyes dart down to see the keys to my truck now hanging on a different belt loop on his jeans.

"From what I can see," he starts, popping the cap of the pen off and leaving it in between his teeth as he spoke. "It looks like a coolant leak. The combination from the antifreeze leaking and the heat of the engine is enough to make it smoke, but it's not enough to cause the engine freeze up." he explains, his eyes meeting mine every couple of words to make sure i understand. "So, it could also be a fuel pump problem combined with the leak."

I nodded, chewing my lip nervously as he went on to explain the time the repair would take as well as the cost. When the words, "not finished until at least tomorrow" left his lips, I huffed in defeat, and tried to make my disappointment less evident as i crossed my arms in front of my chest.

"How long have you had it?" He asked, now leaning against the counter next to us with one elbow, crossing one foot over the other.

"I've only started to work on it this summer, but it's been my dads since before i was born."

He nodded. "It's a pretty ride," he confessed. "I honestly expected it to look worse when you said 85', but the conditions not bad. You been workin' on it a lot?"

"As much as I can." I shrugged.

He complimented the paint job, to which i confessed i'd done it, and he gushed. "Christ, you should work here. Matt can't paint to save his life. You could probably get him out of a job,"

Matt sent a glare his way. "Shut up, kid. Dad would fire you over me any day, especially if you keep sleeping in."

Chris laughed, a genuine sound that made Matt's glare turn into a small smile before he went back to rifling through the file cabinet.

He turned back to me, pausing to look back over the notes he'd written down. "If i had to guess, I'd say we can probably have it to you by tomorrow evening." he said, looking away from the paper and averting his gaze to instead look me right in the eye. "That work for you?"

I nodded slowly. Suddenly, the issue of a ride home became extremely apparent, and an anxious feeling started to blossom in my chest.

"Good. Just one more thing. . ." he pauses to take the pen cap out of his mouth and place it back on the pen, tapping it against the curve of his hand and grinning wildly at me.

"i'm gonna need your number to let you know when its finished."

He's just asking because he's supposed to; because he literally has to in order for me to get my car back. But regardless, i felt heat rise to my cheeks as i started shifting uncomfortably in place.

"Right," I said, moving to reach for the pen. He points to a blank part of the notepad, tapping lightly to tell me where to write it.

Quickly and shakily, i write out the numbers with dashes. I hand it back to him, and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He rips the sheet off the notepad in one swift motion and folds it in half, placing it in his back pocket.

He glances towards the clock. Its nearing seven. He turns back to me, "d'you have a ride home?"

My eyes went wide. I'm reminded of my attempt to call my dad three times when the truck initially broke down, and how my shoulders slumped in defeat at the sound of his voicemail playing repeatedly.

I glance back over to him, ". . . Not exactly. I'll probably just catch the bu-"

"I can drive you,"

I swallowed, my lips slightly parted in surprise. His grin was still wide, awaiting my response.

It was a sweet offer, really. But considering my house was across town, partnered with the fact that he was literally on the job, i shook my head. "That's really sweet, thank you, but I'm far. And you're working, anyway." He shrugs, glancing at the clock once more. "It's fine, Matt's on desk duty and he's closing tonight. I don't mind."

I chew my lip. I'd be stupid to pass up on a ride, but i barely know this kid, and if my dad sees me rolling up with him and no truck, it wouldn't look great.

And then I think about the hour long bus ride that would be in the near future if I declined.

I screw my eyes shut. "You know what? Why not."

Despite the scenario i was in, my mind was pushing out any and all nerves as I watched Chris collect his things from behind the desk. He pulled his wallet, shop keys and jacket out of a cubby.

The two of us walked back into the garage and over to Matt, who was washing his hands in a sink bellow the tool shelves.

Chris bid goodbye to his brother, who looked at the clock and then frowned, turning the faucet off and reaching for the roll of papers towels.

"You're seriously slacking off? I already covered for you and Nate leaving early last weekend." He complained, discarding the wad of paper towels he'd used to dry his hands into the trash bin below.

Chris shot him a look. "And then i covered your sunday morning shift because you were hungover. You owe me."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just put your tools away when you open tomorrow. It drives me fucking insane when you leave them everywhere."

Chris salutes. "Roger that." He turned to me and winked, gesturing to follow him through the garage with a tilt of his head.

I followed behind him as he went out a different exit; this one leading to a parking lot on the back of the building. A large EMPLOYEE PARKING sign hung on the fence near the driveway.

He fiddled with the many keys on his carabiner before finally finding his and walking towards a car near the opening in the gate.

A blue, four-seater, convertible 65' mustang. The light from the setting sun literally reflected off of it. He mindlessly stuck the key into the passenger side door, twisting and pulling it open with a faint click.

He gestured his hand towards the seat playfully, "Ladies first."

I rolled my eyes, placing one foot on the floor of the car and ducking my head to sit down. "How gentlemanly of you,"

He grinned at me, closing the door and walking around the back of the car before popping into the driver's seat.

"This is.. wow." I mutter, admiring the small details and cleanliness of the car as he closed his door and threw his belongings in the back. "Jesus, this is yours?"

He smiled proudly, his tongue darting out to dampen his bottom lip. "All mine,"

His fingers twisted the key into the ignition and the roar of the engine made the car buzz against my feet. He rolled both of our windows down, the summer air blowing smoothly through the car.

His smile was wider and prouder than ever as he glanced into the rear view mirror, throwing an arm over the back of my seat to glance behind him as he reversed. We pulled out of the parking lot and turned left onto the main road, Chris letting the steering wheel slide back into place under his palm by itself once he'd done so.

"You said you were far," he mumbled. "What area are you in?"

The question pulled me back into reality. I'd gotten so distracted by the way he drove so carelessly, like he was completely relaxed and in control of everything movement the car made, like fear didn't even exist to him as he pressed harder onto the gas pedal with his foot, my eyes choosing to ignore the way the tic on the speed meter start to spike.

His jawline was illuminated in the dim light, and the toothpick that was still resting on his lips stayed moving as he spoke gently, waiting patiently for me to answer.

I started giving him directions, and he listened carefully and intently, glancing over to look at me to make sure he understood my instructions. Once we were on the freeway, he went even faster, lane switching if someone in front of him wasn't going as fast as he'd like them to.

Soft giggles left me as he did, basking in the view of his lips parted into a smile, showcasing pearly teeth between pink lips.

Once he pulled onto the off ramp and we were stopped at a red light, he turned to look at me again, the bright red turning the car a faint shade of crimson.

"What time do you need to be back?"

He asked with a tone of voice he hadn't used till now. The sudden lowness caught me off guard as I shrugged, "'Dunno, not for a while."

He hummed in acknowledgement. "You wanna stay on the road for a bit?"

I pull my knees up to my chest and let my head fall against the headrest, a careless smile on my face. "Definitely."

And we did; we ended up back on the highway pretty quickly, blasting music through a speaker Chris had propped against the dashboard.

His speed only got higher and higher as time went on, carelessly resting one hand on the wheel whilst the other gripped the gear shift. At some point, his hand had mindlessly traveled to rest on my upper bare thigh below the hem of my shorts, cold and partially ringed fingers pressing against my skin.

"Will you do me a favor?"

I raised my eyebrows and hummed in response. He gestured towards the glove box. "Theres a pack of camel blue 99s in the glove box, would you grab em for me?"

I bit my lip. "Depends, you sharing?"

"Duh."

I leaned forward, feeling my stomach flip when his hand didn't much as move an inch on my thigh, brushing against my lower stomach as I lurched forward to fiddle with the glovebox.

I propped it open and grabbed the pack and paused, "d'you have a light?"

He nodded. "Should be one in there."

I learned more forward and reached farther back, glancing around before locking my eyes on a silver flip top lighter and grabbing it. Once i lean back up, Chris is pulling into an empty lot. His hand leaves my leg to push the gear into park, and i try not to frown.

I flick the top of the cig carton open and hastily pull one out, dropping it into Chris's palm.

He places it hazardly between his lips and turns to face me, silently asking for me to light it.

I pop the lid of the zippo open and hold the flam to the end of his cig, waiting to pull away until his expression signifies that its lit enough. His expression relaxes as he breathes in before pulling it away from his mouth with two fingers and exhaling, the smoke filling the car.

"If I'm honest, I prefer marlboro reds." I say quietly in an attempt to break the silence, watching Chris flick the ash out the window lazily with his thumb and index finger. He shakes his head. "Camels are undeniably better."

I laugh lightly and raise my eyebrows in amusement. "No accounting for taste, I suppose."

He takes another drag before holding it in between his fingers in front of my face, and Instead of reaching for it, I place my lips around the filter while it's still in his hand. Our eyes lock while I breath in sharper, the cool feel of the smoke filling my chest.

He licks his lips, and for a moment, his eyes dart down to look at mine, and he's starts he's studying my face. I'm doing the same.

His eyes are bright blue, surrounded by thick lashes, which are barely visible with stray pieces of his hair hanging down below the bandana on his head. Freckles lightly paint his noise, and his pink lips are slightly parted as his eyes scan my face.

"I like your piercing," he finally says, pressing his one hand to his eyebrow as if he had one himself. I breathe out the smoke i'd been holding in my lungs and smile at him. He's still looking at it as he speaks again, "Did it hurt?"

I shrug. "Not really," Because it didn't, but also because I'd feel like an idiot saying it did. "Just a pinch."

He nodded slowly. "Hm."

I take another hit from the cig which he's still holding up to my lips. Our faces are closer now. One of my elbows is resting on the center console as I look at him through my lashes.

"You should get one." I say.

He laughs, breathy and genuine. "Yeah? You think so?"

"Mhm," i reach my hand up to graze above his eye with two fingers. "It would look good on you." He watches my movements. "We'd match, too."

He digs his teeth into his bottom lip, finally moving the cig back to his own lips and taking one more long drag before carelessly discarding it out the window.

All too quick, he's facing me again, and he leans even closer. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my face. My heart is thumping loudly in my chest, and a part of me thinks he can hear it.

Before I can even blink, he places his fingers on my chin and tilts his head, smashing his lips against mine hard.

Its all teeth at first, clashing messily as his hand leaves my chin and rests as the base of my neck. My hands are on his face, my fingers messing with the curls at the back of his neck while he grins against my lips.

He lightly bites my bottom lip, taking the opportunity to slide his tongue into my mouth. He tastes like cherry and camels, and I feel myself whimpering at the contact.

"Fuck," he mumbles into my mouth, and his tone is exasperated, partly because the console between us is making it harder for him to kiss me like he wants to, and partly because his attempts to pull me close enough for our chests to press together have been unsuccessful.

His hands reach down to tug at the belt loops of my shorts, trying to pull me onto his lap. I pull away for a second to push myself over the console, Chris's grip on my hips staying firm to assist me. I duck to avoid hitting my head on the roof of the car, and Chris giggles lowly.

I finally relax once I'm comfortable in his lap, straddling his legs below me. One of his hands is across my lower half, sliding his hand into my back pocket, and the other rests in the middle of my back, holding me in place.

We're kissing again, and this time it's more lips and tongue then teeth, but he's still lightly tugging at my lip.

I'm tugging at his hair as I push myself closer to his lower abdomen, pressing down, which elicits a groan from him. He pulls away from me, and I try to follow his lips with a whine, but he tugs at the back of my hair lightly so he can press kisses from my jaw down to my neck.

I'm already whimpering as soon as his teeth press against my throat, and he digs them deep, kissing the mark once he's satisfied with the shade of purple its turned before finding a different spot to do the same thing.

"Chris, fuck- please."

I can feel him below me, and it's making me crazy. He doesn't budge, even as I continue to whine breathlessly at him.

He only grins as he continues to nip at my skin, and i felt the smirk on his face against my throat. I tangle my fingers in his hair and tug as a silent plea. "What s' it, baby?"

Baby.

I practically keen at the nickname. He finally pulls away, a string of saliva connecting his lips to his previous spot on my neck. He grins proudly at the marks he's left before looking at me again.

"What d'you want?" his tone is cocky and assertive. His lips look red and bitten, and I start to feel embarrassed at the fact that we were sucking face so lewdly in a literal parking lot.

I want to squirm and writhe away under his gaze, but his knuckle tight grip on me won't let me. I fiddle with the neck of his shirt and avoid looking at him as i whisper, "I need you."

He grins madly. "How d'you need me, sweetheart?"

I lean forward and press my lips back against his, and he entertains for a little before tugging my hair lightly to pull me back. His fingers grip my chin, holding me in place to look at him.

"Tell me what you want."

I brush my hand against his belt buckle. "I wanna suck you off,"

It came out in a mumble, but he understood, nodding somewhat cockily with a shit-eating grin on his lips. A groan left him as he tugged me even closer so our chests were pressed together. "Yeah?"

I nod eagerly, another 'please' ready to escape my mouth as my impatience grows. He ducks his hand between the seat and the door to push it farther back, "On your knees, then."

I obliged immediately, sliding off his lap to rest on my knees below him. My elbows rest on either side of his legs as my hands flew to his belt, unbuckling it and tugging at his jeans and boxers.

He lifted his hips lightly to assist me. I pulled them down until they rested around his ankles, and I feel myself gawk.

He's big. Bigger then I expected.

A nervous feeling bubbles in the pit of my stomach, but the way he's looking down at me through hazy vision makes it vanish even quicker, and I wrap my hands around his length.

"You okay?" He asks, moving his hand to rest on my cheek, his thumb soothingly pressed on my temple.

"No- yeah, i'm good." I breathe. I hover myself over him, finally taking him into my mouth. A string of curses leave him in a hushed breath, and his head moves to rest at the back of my head to coax me farther down.

I pull back slightly, wrapping my lips around his tip and sucking lightly. His chest is rising and falling quickly above me, and his labored breathing is music to my ears.

His cock is heavy on my tongue, and its addicting. I take him farther down my throat, hollowing my cheeks to fit as much of him as i can while my hand is in a fist around his base. I bob my head and twist my hand, looking up at him to see his flushed face as he pants.

"Fuck, you look so pretty like this." He babbles, a throaty moan leaving him when I twist my hand faster, swirling my tongue along his cock as my head rises and falls.

I hum around his dick at the compliment, the slight sting on my scalp from him pulling my hair only pushing me to do more. He pushes me down slightly, and i choke at the burn of his tip making contact with my uvula.

I moan loudly on him at the feeling, tears building in my eyes as the vibration from the noises i'm making cause him to throw his head back, a blissed out expression on his face. "Fuck, so good. Just like that, god."

Drool seeps from the corners of my mouth as I speed up all my movements. Chris is a breathy, moaning mess above me, watching me through lidded eyes as I glance up at him.

He moves his other hand to rest on the side of my face, grinning at my fucked out appearance. "Fucking filthy girl, aren't you, baby." He says through gritted teeth. "You love this, don't you?"

I whine at him, furrowing my eyebrows in pleasure to say "yes', and watching as his eyes roll lightly back in his head when i start to suck lightly at his tip again.

My hand falls from his base to lay on his leg, the other holding the bottom of his shirt in my fist. I try to push my head farther down, whimpering faintly at the stretch.

Chris's hips jerk up lightly at the sensation, causing him to push himself down my throat until my lips hit the base. I start to choke, but I breathe heavily through my nose, screwing my eyes shut and hallowing my cheeks out to stop myself from pulling off.

"Fuck!" he grunts loudly, his grip on my hair turning animalistic. He mindlessly mutters out curses and praise as he pushes my head up and down with his hands, 'good girl', 'don't stop', 'takin' me so good, baby' 'just like that' . . .

My hands are resting completely at his sides as he guides my mouth on his cock, slightly bucking his hips to push himself as far as I can take him. His strokes turn sloppy, and I look up at him again to see him looking at me with a broken glance, bottom lip between his teeth. "Fuck, gonna cum," he gasps.

I begin to swirl my tongue around him, moaning messily on him as if to say, 'in my mouth, please', but he's already reading my mind, digging his nails into my scalp as he spurts coats of white down my throat, an incoherent string of "fuck fuck fuck"'s spilling out of him. Im swallowing as quickly as i can.

I pull off of him with a lewd pop, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I know i look completely ruined, but I'm still focused on catching my breath and looking at Chris's flushed pink face above me.

His hand rests on my face again, and his thumb soothingly rubs my cheek. "You okay? Was that too much?" he asks, his expression full of concern as he wipes the tears from under my eyes.

I smile, leaning into his touch. "I'm good, it was really good."

He nods, smiling dumbly. "Good."

He pulls his jeans and boxers back up, bucking his belt before pulling me off my knees and back onto his lap. He presses a soft, passionate kiss on my lips, and then trails kisses down the side of my face, pulling my hair back off my shoulders as we both catch our breath.

We're both startled by the loud ringing of my phone in the passenger seat. I reach over the console, sighing in relief when i flip it over and see my dad's name at the top of my screen.

I put the phone up to my ear, watching as Chris rubs circles into my side with his cold fingers.

"Hi," I breath out. I listen as my dad apologizes for not answering earlier. He tells me he heard my voicemail and asks if I'm okay. "M' fine, I just wheeled it to a shop a couple blocks over. I'm on the bus home now, should only be a bit."

Chris pouts at me, and i roll my eyes at him. My dad talks for a couple for seconds before hanging up, and i leave my phone in the drink compartment next to Chris's forgotten lighter.

"D'you need to get home?" He asked. I nodded, and he frowns. "I was gonna get you off in the backseat,"

part two? :)

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fanaticsnail · 6 months ago

Text

Heartbeats

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 3,600+

Summary: You were friends first, only ever friends; until a night of drinking led to something more. After that one night, you decided to not speak on it and remain only as close friends; an outcome you both could respect as captain and crewmate. A small fluttered heartbeat complicates such an arrangement.

Warnings: suggestive content but sfw, law x afab!reader, kisses, drinking, assumed unrequited love, drunkenness, pregnancy mentioned, unexpected pregnancy, feelings, emotions, angst, swearing, fluff.

Notes: This was a little gift for mother’s day. I thought it might be fun to explore the concept of Law telling his friend they’re pregnant, but conflicted because he was the one to make them this way. Please read the warnings.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @feral-artistry @mfreedomstuff @writingmysanity @carrotsunshine @gingernut1314 @daydreamer-in-training @indydonuts @i-am-vita @since-im-already-here

Penguin’s birthday was an event aboard the Polar Tang that was anticipated greatly by the crew. Streamers, balloons, cake and music were flowing as heavy as the waves crashing against the hull. Not a care in the world, you all showered the dark-haired, hat-wearing man with affection and praise for his life lapping one more loop around the sun.

And then Shachi decided to bring out the kirschwasser. The double-distilled, cherry flavored liquor that nightmares were truly made of for Captain Trafalgar D Water-Law. It was not because of the scent, nor the taste, but it was the fact that it rendered him the most defenseless and vulnerable to spilling his emotions that he was sure he had repressed.

When Law drank kirschwasser, he remembered his mother, his father, and his sister: memories he thought he had long since forgotten came oozing up his throat, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and a subtle glisten in his eyes. He scrunched his eyes tightly shut, gripping the glass firmly in his hand, and grinding his teeth in a tight clamp.

When you took another shot of kirschwasser with Ikkaku, you placed down the glass with a smile on your face and a laugh on your tongue. Looking over towards your captain, you cocked your head to the side as you studied his body language. Drawing your eyes over his tense body, you excuse yourself from the rest of the crew to assess the damage he was attempting to suppress.

Approaching him, you gently place your hand on his forearm and soften your tone to a low and soothing tone. It was one simple question, one soft and pointed ask, that had him softly fold his hand within yours and thump his forehead on your shoulder.

“Law, are you okay?” was the only question that fell from your lips that had him curl himself against you in a soft embrace. His cup hung limply behind your back as he locked his wrists after releasing your hand. He buried himself further into your embrace, sighing deeply into your neck as you widened your eyes and drew your hands around his neck.

As friends, you and Law had shared the odd embrace from time to time in your weekly catch-ups. Bepo was usually the one that the crew sought out for more warm hugs; that mink-bear was the best for encumbering holds. This felt more intimate than any moment you had ever shared, the smooth kirschwasser releasing you of your inhibitions and giving into sharing this soft moment.

As the night dwelled on, Law never left your side. His hands were always on some part of you, ensuring you did not get too far from his reach to pull you in closer as the night went on. Once the party had reached its peak and began to dwindle into the evening, Law pulled you into the hallway adjacent to the door and pinned you to the wall.

Lips sought out your flesh, whispers of promises and confessed desires being branded into your neck, cheeks, jaw, shoulders and chest with feverish kisses. “I need you,” he whispered, “I want you,” his hands caressed your hips and began to find the zipper of your boiler suit.

“We said we wouldn’t,” you smiled, your own resolve being chipped away at the aid of the kirschwasser and Law’s lips trailing against your skin, “We’re friends, Captain.” He groaned against your skin, enjoying the way your hands traveled to his hair and massaged the nape of his neck.

“Friends,” he mocked his confirmation with a soft growl in his tone, “But I need more.” He nipped and bit at your neck, prompting a small whimper to flee from your lips as you elevated your head to give him more access. You closed your eyes, biting your lip as Law’s body continued to ravish yours. You groaned in frustration at your prior agreement, shaking your head as you pulled his lips and teeth away from you.

“Not in the hallway,” you warned him, having a moment of clarity. Your eyes darted between his, glancing down at his lips and back up. Law’s eyes darkened as he elevated his hand with his thumb, index and middle finger raised.

“Room,” he whispered, leaning in closer to you, and hovering his lips over yours. As he twisted his wrist, he murmured before his breath tickled at your parted mouth, “Shambles.”

A night of passion, littering each other with marks of claim over one another, had you both sharing the captain’s quarters for the night wrapped in each other’s arms. Blankets over your waists, gazing up at each other before you fell asleep, you felt a pitter in your heart as his amber eyes stared almost lovingly down at you. This intimate moment had you captivated, feeling his emotions and heart tangibly beat with yours.

In the morning, your heads panged with the residue of the cherry liquor. Groans of regret at drinking the quantity of kirschwasser along with other mixed drinks had the night before a distant, blissful, and foggy memory. Looking down at your bare flesh and over to your captain’s, you snapped up in shock. He cradled his head with a soft sigh, only now realizing that you were in the bed beside him as he twitched back in his own shock. Both of your eyes widened, looking between your bodies and snapping your eyes up to meet with one another’s surprised eyes.

Rambunctious, lazy laughter fell easily from your lips, both clapping each other’s hands against each other’s shoulders and arms in friendly touches. You tugged the bedsheets away from your body and began collecting your uniform from the floor, shaking your head with a smile spread up to your cheeks.

“I’ll go get started on clean up from Penguin’s party, captain,” you suggested, pinching your brow and cradling your swirling and soupy mind, “Might stop off in your office and grab some ibuprofen and electrolytes if you’ll let me rustle through your desk?” He growled and pinched his own brow, his eyes tightly clenched shut and feeling the dizzy fog eclipse his senses.

“Rustle away,” he whispered your name in a soft voice. As you hoisted your uniform over your hips, slotting your arms into the sleeves, he reached out for you with his hand, asking the question you had both avoided since opening your eyes, “Did you-...?” he squinted his tired eyes up at you, “Should we-...?” he choked out, shifting his blankets away from his lap and rising to his feet, “Do we need to talk about this?”

You shook your head, reaching down and zipping up your boiler suit before rubbing your face. Smoothing your skin beneath your palms and nursing your forehead, you blow out an exasperated breath and turn back to him.

“Let’s just not mention it, okay?” you smiled at him with a soft, tight-lipped smile, “Was a moment of weakness on both our parts.” Law nodded, trailing his eyes over you to assess your posture and stance as you added, “We’re friends, Law. I don’t think revisiting last night would be in either of our best interests.”

Law nodded his head in response, waiting until you left his room with a soft 'click' for him to sink back onto his bed and experience the full brunt of the wind being shot out of his sails. He cradled his forehead in his hands, the inked digits raking through his hair as he dwelled on your words. ‘We’re friends, Law,’ shattered his heart into shards, his hope that you might reciprocate his affections for you being ruined with those three simple words.

As days turned into weeks, you and Law continued on as you had always been: captain and crewmen, leader and subordinate, friend and friend. You would catch up afterhours, enjoy reading with one another and discussing ailments and woes with rapport with the crew. After Penguin’s birthday party, comradery was at an all-time high, and everybody noticed as much.

Over the next few days, Trafalgar Law took the opportunity to do as he always does as the current wielder of the ‘Ope-Ope no mi’. He takes the small luxury of concentrating on the heartbeats of his crewmen to wordlessly check in with any irregularities with their bodies and breathing, enjoying knowing that his crew is all safe and accounted for. The crew was aware he did this, and it was something each of you appreciated greatly to avoid a formal physical examination every few weeks. As he floated his attention over to you, focussing on your body as you spoke with Bepo about approaching land, his breath was caught in his lungs.

Heartbeats.

Plural.

He rose to his feet, his eyes wide and in shock as his lips fell open. Fear overcame him, looking down to your belly and back up to your chest. Teeth chattering, he wordlessly excused himself to the hallway and began counting with his fingers while clawing at his hair.

“Penguins birthday,” he whispered to himself, looking down at his fingers, “Three days to travel internally up to-...” he shook his head, his hands beginning to shake, “...It’s been seven weeks since-...” he joined his other hand in his hair, raking his fingers over his raven locks.

“...Fuck.”

After speaking with Bepo, you turn to walk towards the mess hall and begin getting yourself something to eat for lunch. You had been abnormally famished, feeling drawn to spices and sweets over salt and savories lately. Eyeing off a dark chocolate ganache tart with chili-flakes, your mouth began salivating at the thought. As you reached for it, you felt a hand on your shoulder and a whisper in your ear.

“My office,” Law ordered quietly, “Now.” You snapped your head over to him before looking back to the tart longingly. He groaned, relenting with a roll of his eyes, “Bring the tart.” You beam him a wolfy grin full of teeth and joy, a smile Law has begun to yearn for each time you joined him in his office as friends. You claim the tart in your hands and, with a pep in your step, you trot along behind him to his office.

For the short walk from the mess hall to his office, he was formulating a long speech to not only ask you if you know, but alert you if you don’t; to inform you carefully of your pregnancy, while not seeming to be overager at the prospect of you both rearing a child. He came to terms with it from the moment he sensed that small flutter. He wanted this child, wanted to parent them with you, and wanted to show it all of the love his parents, sister, and Rosinante had shown to him.

Looking up from nibbling and enjoying the chocolate tart, you notice the tension in Law’s shoulders and additional pressure in the thud in his boots. You furrow your brows in a deep frown, unsure of what was going through his mind. Both agreeing to leave the prior experience at the door seven or so weeks ago was a mutually beneficial decision you both made. The way you rationalized it, you can’t give in to the emotions and feelings you had for your captain if you forbade yourself from sharing them with him.

The truth of it was this: you loved him. Plain, simple, and as true as the fact the sun rose every day to illuminate the world in its glory. You started as friends, shared a drunken night together that opened a door to your heart - a door that you slammed shut as soon as it was revealed. To fall in love at sea, especially loving your captain as a subordinate, was a luxury you had both barred one another from feeling. You were friends, and you were okay with that.

Ushering you into his office, you sat in your regular chair beside his circular table. You licked at your lips, the crumbling shell of the tart leaving a soft crust of sweetness on your mouth. Law had a whole speech finally planned out: his lips curling to attempt to relay them.

“I am so desperately in love with you. You are my closest friend, my best friend, someone I could spend the rest of my life with. I know you don’t feel the same, but considering my child is growing in your belly, I would hope that you could warm to seeing me in such a way. I want them, I want you. I love you, please learn to love me too: if not as a partner, then as a co-parent to our child.’

But instead of pouring his heart out to you, he sat at his desk and stared unblinkingly at your stomach, uttering a simple phrase with a quiet whisper of your name.

“You’re pregnant.”

Blinking slowly, you place the half-eaten tart on the circular table in front of you, the base crumbling onto the clean countertop. You return your hands to your lap with a soft shake in your fingers. Reaching up to your abdomen, you press down on the pit of your stomach with a soft pressure.

The Heart-Pirates had all received extensive medical degrees in specialist areas: Law being the 'surgeon of death', Shachi being an expert in fishmen biology, Penguin being an anesthetist, Bepo being proficient in naturopathic remedies, Ikkaku being the best for combat quick fixes on the battlefield, and so on. Your speciality in nursing had you explore anatomy within the midwifery sub category, your fingers settling above your uterus and using your thumb, index and middle finger assess the size of your abdominal growth.

You looked down to your fingers, feeling the lump beneath your digging hand feel as large as a lemon in your abdomen. Using your unoccupied hand, you draw it up to your breasts and give one a gentle squeeze to test the ache in their swell. You snap your eyes up to meet with your captains, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I am,” you whisper in shock, with a quiver in your lips and your eyes pooling in fear at the unknown. You could not get a read on him, glancing between his eyes and clenching your chattering teeth tightly shut to halt their nervous twitching. Your heartbeat tremors, your eyes beginning to swim in glassy pools as you anticipated his wrath.

Instead of wrath, Law calmly walked over to you and sat on the couch beside you. With an unsure and soft hand, he drew your body into him and cradled you against his chest. He wanted to feel you safely in his arms, his heart crying and pleading with him to confess those unspoken words to you more fervently. You circled your hands beneath his arms and buried your face in his chest, your body caged within the clutches of anxiety at the prospect of shepherding life. Law held you like this, stroking your back with his tattooed fingers and holding you firmly against himself.

“I’m not mad,” Law whispered, soothing your hair in his hand. Your breath hitched, your heart jumping into your throat and forming a solid lump.

“You’re not mad?” you whisper your question against his chest, looking up into his amber eyes with shock, “But what if I am?” The small twitch in his wide eyes looked down at you in shock.

“Are you?” Law’s eyes widened with his question fleeing his lips as soon as you offered yours. His teeth clenched shut, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed in anticipation. You looked away, sifting through your eyes for regrets of the night you shared seven weeks prior.

“I don’t think I am, no,” you admit with a soft nod of your head. You untangle yourself from his arms, sitting upright and lacing your hands in front of you with a frown on your features.

“Talk to me,” Law ordered you softly, “Tell me what’s going on in there.” He whispered your name, humming over the syllables in his soft cadence saved for quiet moments together. You inhale deeply, exhaling with your eyes scrunched shut before reopening them again.

“I suppose I need to leave, captain,” you utter with soft sorrow in your tone, thinking about all the options you’ve explore internally and processing them orally, “Give up my life at sea, make a home for myself in some coastal town, offer my services as a medical practitioner to bring in regular clients, raise the child of a pirate alone-.”

“-No.”

Law’s bark shocked you, prompting you to snap your eyes up to meet his frown. His left hand shot down to yours in your lap, his right hand placed on the pit of your stomach and holding over the small, barely noticeable elevation. You fluttered your eyes between his, the seriousness in his expression beginning to cause you to run away with your thoughts.

“I will not let either of you out of my sight,” Law whispered softly, raising his right hand away from your hands and cupping your cheek, “I want you here,” he ushered you closer by your chin towards his lips, “I want you home with me.”

“What are you saying?” you ask him, allowing him to lead your lips towards his. Your eyes dart down to them before floating up to look at him through half-hooded lashes. His soft smile twitched up at the corners.

“You said we shouldn’t mention it,” he teased you, mostly to make light of the situation you found yourselves within, “But I’m going to say now what I would’ve said then.” He leaned down, pressing his lips against yours in a soft, tender and loving kiss. He felt the shock in your whimper, the soft whisper of a sob in your voice, and smiled further into the kiss the moment you wrapped your arms around his neck.

Rubbing soothing circles into your cheek, he caressed your stomach as he raked his hand over your abdomen towards your hip. You clutched at his raven locks, finally allowing yourself to smile into the kiss and lean into his touch. His tongue darted out to dampen your bottom lip, softly coaxing you to open yourself up to him further. Before taking the kiss any further than just a simple expression, he broke away and pressed his forehead against your own.

“While I will always be your friend first,” he whispered, drawing his hand down to your chin and rubbing at your bottom lip with his thumb softly, “I want so much more from you,” he smiled at you, releasing your lip from his thumb and pinching at your chin, “I need you to know that I love you, and I want to do this right.”

Overwhelmed with emotions, you slowly nod your head in his grip. Your wordless confirmation is all he needed to capture your lips in his once more and travel his hands to the front of your boiler suit. You gasp into his mouth, his smile morphing up more into his cheeks as he whispers.

“Easy now, I’m not being funny,” he murmurs into the kiss, “Just need to feel for myself, alright?” His fingers reach below your boiler suit, hovering over your stomach as his lips break away from yours. He slowly, tentatively, presses down onto your abdomen and seeks out the firming ball of flesh against your cervix. He gasps, his eyes beginning to brim with emotion as you beam up at him with pride.

“I feel them,” he whispers, looking down at your stomach, pushing a little firmly against you, “Perfect size for seven weeks gestation.” He hovers his fingers over your abdomen and activates his devil fruit to measure their fluttering beat and concentrating with his brows furrowed. After a few minutes pass, he looks back up to you, “One-thirty beats.”

“That's good,” you smile, pressing your hand against his knuckles, “Strong already for such a little lemon.” He cracks his face into a wide grin, his teeth showing and his eyes crinkling at the corners. This image was one you never thought you would see over his features, the purity of his joy fully on his face.

Questions left unthought of and unanswered regarding the health of your child were flung from your mind. Would there be complications with this child being a half devil-fruit user, would Law’s hereditary blood disease pass from him to them, would you still be able to resist haki while balancing your own body and a foreign within you? So many questions that fled your mind the moment Law’s joy sprung to his face.

You could be lost within his amber eyes forever, both of you feeling excited about exploring this new life growing and developing within you. Sooner or later, you would have to inform the crew of not only your new relationship, but ushering a new “Trafalgar D” into the era of piracy. For now, you lingered a little longer on Law’s couch, the chili-chocolate tart discarded for something sweeter found against the lips of your lover.

#one piece #x reader #law x reader #one piece law #trafalgar law #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar law x reader #law x you #one piece unexpected pregnancy #law x afab!reader #afab!reader #pregnancy #drunkenness

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rememberwren · 28 days ago

Text

Thinking about this piece with single mom!reader/single dad!ghost that was based off a drabble I did but never went anywhere. Simon as a girl dad is special to me. 😩

Sunlight beating down, baking you and the ground. The heat’s even affecting Louie who sags against your side, the weight of his bookbag dragging him sideways, jam packed as it is with school supplies. Last night you cried while you packed it, wept while arranging the watercolor paints and wet wipes, the off-brand crayons and the tissues. Reaching down, you sweep his hair off his sweaty forehead and try not to think about his first day away from you since the day he was born.

The front doors open, first year teachers flanking it on either side. They begin welcoming in students, some of whom take it better than others. One girl begins to sob, clinging to her mother’s shirt, and your heart sinks. God, let that not be Louie. If Louie sheds a single tear, it will break you, crack you wide open upon the sidewalk.

A car door shuts behind you, and you glance over your shoulder lazily—and see Simon Riley for the first time. The man is huge: tall and wide. He’s dressed to cook in the summer heat, a black muscle t-shirt and black jeans enfolding his long legs. You see him just as he adjusts a black surgical mask in place over his mouth and nose. Blond hair clings to his forehead, a subtle undercut. Tattoos ripple along the corded muscles of his forearm. You have just enough time to wonder what a man like him is doing in a place like this when he opens the rear driver’s seat door and out hops the little girl.

She is tall for her age, like her father. Blond hair tumbles down to her shoulders, held back by a sparkling headband. Her ensemble is a mismatch of patterns and colors, the eclectic choices only a four year old could endorse. On her feet are tiny black combat boots, clashing heavily with the whimsy of the rest of her outfit.

“Hold my hand,” he tells her, his deep voice carrying across the sidewalk to you.

He slings over his shoulder her backpack: white with a glittering unicorn horn.

You’re not the only one staring at this point. The line moving forward into the building has slowed and ceased; even the primary teachers have stopped their happy chirping and are watching the impressive display. As he approaches, some of the children grow frightened at the sheer size of him, hiding behind their mothers’ legs. Louie’s grip tightens on your hand as you both watch him go by, bypassing the line altogether to see his little girl off at the front door.

“Buh-bye daddy!” she calls, waving.

He waves.

“Wait!” she gasps. “Kisses!”

He kisses her cheek, the mask still in place. She seems used to it and quite pleased nevertheless.

#wren rambles

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fawnpires · 1 month ago

Note

may i ask for a arthur morgan x hyperfem reader?

୨୧ — arthur would definitely love himself a hyperfem sweetheart, frills and petticoats and all.

CONTENTS -> hyperfem! + ditsy reader, older!arthur, brief mentions of an age gap relationship, lil’ bit naughty at the end but nothing serious.

you’ve always been heavier on your girlish charms, it’s been a signature staple of yours for as long as you could remember. despite the industrial, lacking-in-color, gloomy america; you were definitely the type to stick out like a sore thumb— a somewhat high society lady in a way. fashionable sore thumb. it’s not your fault you were born into such a cesspool.

ribbons in your hair and lacy, silkened dresses hugging your body wasn’t exactly the norm, at least, not when you were with him.

maybe it was because you were still at the stage of being an explorative young lady, or that naviety that’s always been branded onto your name, but you were almost— quite literally— positive that he had stolen your heart, the one that you’ve seen on wanted posters hung up on the bulletin and power wires, that man. got yourself tangled up with someone on the run, an outlaw with a reputation of a rumored depravity and ruthless violence.

he’s the exact type of man your mother would send herself on a frenzy about, the type your father would have no hesitations sending a bullet straight through the temple of his sun-kissed forehead. how strange you would expect to find yourself right on the opposite side of the warnings you’ve been given throughout your oh-so sheltered life.

but being the girl that you were, you were never one to listen. weren’t into all that abide-by-the-rules bullshit, fit right into being a proper first-class lady.

maybe that’s how you found yourself on the bad man’s lap. arthur’s lap. the prettiest— and the best damn score— that the guy’s ever won for the van der linde gang. you were the definition of a perfect doll to arthur, had a huge heart to match with the looks too. couldn’t ever resist your smothering kisses around his scar-faded face.

“y’know sweetheart, it’s still a wonder as to how i’ve got you all to myself in the first place…” he says with a throaty chuckle, using a hand to smooth out the ruffles of your skirt, “girls your age ain’t really into folk like me.”

you can only roll your eyes, pop your glossy, rosy lower lip in a pout, and think of his words as ridiculous before so confidently responding with, “oh, please. i’m the happiest a girl’s ever been, arthur.”

and he wasn’t going to lie about this, but all this constant, undying affection you had for him? an immediate swell going straight to his ego. nothing like some youthful thing’s obsession to make him feel at least twenty years younger. he’s getting older, after all— so, it was essentially just a waste not to spend those years with someone worth putting all the effort on.

although this didn’t technically make your relationship that much morally correct, by society’s standards at least.

what would a violent, older criminal on the run want with some rich family’s youngest daughter aside from the money?

they don’t get it and they probably never will, they’re not you or arthur, they know nothing about the either of you— because there was no logical explanation to that statement when he’s kissing so fervently at your lips, at your skin with a certain kind of authentic tenderness you’d only see in the motion pictures. even taught himself the silliest practice of braiding hair and tying ribbons for you. that’s what arthur wanted with you.

with him, you felt wanted. the very apple of his eye.

his usually such coarse hands were so gentle with you, molding into your supple flesh, leaving traces of him along the surface. especially visible when when the both of you are out for the night, cooped up in some small town’s saloon, his forearm enclosed around your waist and having you pulled to his side—hand absent-mindedly running up and down your torso decorated of the finest lace.

you guessed you weren’t exactly a common sight around these parts when more than enough of the saloon’s patrons started eyeing you up from across the room, albeit not daring to wander one inch closer; not if they had wanted to stumble right out of there with a broken nose bridge and a couple of teeth knocked loose.

that didn’t really stop arthur, though. something about another man, didn’t matter who the company was, bad intentions or not— he’d still meet them out back, returning to where he left you at the bar with velvet, torn-up knuckles after what felt like hours. what could he say? he just didn’t like when you were being viewed through the lenses of some obvious pervert. next thing you know, you’re being taken by the hand, arthur thankfully getting you out of that slum and helping you onto his steed, back pressed against his sturdy front.

it was near midnight at this point, and you could tell by the tranquil atmosphere settling in, fewer folks out on the trails at this time, the stars blooming across the dark canvas of the sky in glistening rows. peaceful— much rather preferred than sitting in a saloon, acting as eye-candy for those grimy outlaws.

“little brutual, dont’cha think? you finally ask in a tease, tilting your head back, gazing up at his aging face with those doe eyes of yours. made you look all the more angelic from this angle, especially with the way your smaller fingers are running over his split, blood-crusted knuckles aimlessly.

he takes his focus off of the trail for a short moment, a smug smirk pulling at his lips before looking away once more.

“who d’you take me for, darling?” he questions, that same teasing manner hidden in your voice now residing in his own, “i’m not just going to let some depraved bastards eye my girl up and down, makin’ me sick…”

you snicker under your breath. “that just makes me think i’m too pretty for my own good, huh?”

“oh yes, too pretty indeed,” arthur moves his free hand over your leg, palm starting from the outside of your frilled skirts before miraculously sliding, finding its way under the decorated layers. makes your lower stomach churn with that familiar warmth, your heart rate on a high. the things this man does so easily to you was nothing short of impressive.

“you’re gettin’ touchy…” that’s all you can bring yourself to bashfully mumble out, bottom lip being bit down on amid the pout you persisted on with.

you already feel so weak at the knees, so wound up with the simplest of touches.

“i know, baby,” he whispers to you now, a wolfish grin weakly coming to form on his lips. his hand doesn’t dare to move further from its place resting on top of you thigh, like he knew it was complete and utter torture to not indulge in exactly what you wanted right there and then. greedy bastard. “i’ll tell you what, i’ll get us a room for the night, get you outta these clothes, and you ain’t gotta worry about carryin’ all these fancy layers around. how ‘bout that?”

his words were considerate albeit evidently suggestive, how sweet. but arthur was just like that, he did that to you— a natural-born sweet talker who just happened to fall into a more illicit line of work.

with the way he was pressed up against you now, hand practically embedding itself at the soft flesh of your thigh, and a nearby inn coming into view, it was all the more apparent what your would response to be. hell, it might’ve well just been perceived by the look on your flushed face frames beneath the moon’s glaring beams.

leaning back, you’ve got some subdued, mischievous glint in your pretty eyes, and a tone in your voice that compliments with the energy he’s got exuding—

“you’ve got yourself a deal, mister morgan.”

#♡ fleur’s writings.#arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you

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thisapplepielife · 4 months ago

Text

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

Living the Dream

The crowd is still screaming above him in the arena, hoping for a second encore. He can hear it humming. Still audible, even under all that concrete that separates the stage above and the space under the stadium. It's an echoey place, and Eddie can hear the ghost of their performance still bouncing around the building, even if it's only in his head.

Feet stomping, screaming, demanding more, more, more.

But Eddie's already busy. It's just not happening tonight, and the dull roar of the still hyped as fuck crowd is just spurring him on.

"Yeah, fuck," Eddie says, arching his back, pushing as deep as he can go. He's sweaty and tired from the show, but he's not too tired for this. Never.

He grips Steve's hips, tugging Steve backwards. Dragging his knees across the dressing room carpet. Steve moans, a low sound, his face pressed into Eddie's sweaty show shirt, the one that he's using to keep his cheek from rubbing straight against the certainly filthy carpet.

Tons of rock stars have surely used this room, and Eddie imagines what they're doing together right now is just scraping the surface of the depravity this room has been witness to, night after night.

Eddie on his knees, kneeling behind Steve, buried to the hilt.

And Eddie will never, ever tire of looking at Steve like this. Ass up, moaning, sweating like a whore in church. It's one of his greatest pleasures in a life that's been full of decadence. He has partied with legends, has drank champagne that cost more than some cars. Definitely more than his first van.

He's been received, accepted and put upon a pedestal. Been lauded, and celebrated. But while Eddie can hold a stadium full of fans in his palm, and then bring them to their knees, Steve's the only one that he yearns to see that way.

The only award he's ever fought to win, to keep.

He runs his thumb along Steve's spine, and Steve shivers under him.

"Eddie," Steve breathes out, and this is the best part of his night. The sixty-five thousand screaming, headbanging fans were a nice appetizer. But this? This is the main course.

He slams his hip bones into Steve's round, perfect ass. Pushing him further into the floor.

Steve doesn't hit every tour stop, can't. He has his own job, his own life. Their life, that he keeps grounded in reality and sanity.

But now, after all these years, even at nearly forty-years-old, Steve will show up to a gig when he can, and get down on his knees to be fucked, like they're still twenty-five.

Like this won't end in charley horses or other weird sore muscles in the morning, where they can't exactly remember what they've done to cause them.

Eddie runs his hand up Steve's back, and he's given up all the rings. Except for one. And it's brand new, all legal. At least in Massachusetts.

He's a rockstar, said to be living the dream.

He's a husband, and that's the real one.

Steve whimpers, and reaches back to grasp Eddie's forearm as he holds his hip.

"Good?" Eddie asks.

Steve just nods and moans, and Eddie loves the sound. The sight of his forehead pressed into the shirt.

If he keeps rocking, stays controlled, and steady, maybe they can do this all night.

Then Steve lets out a breathy sound that will be his downfall, it always is, and tonight will be no different, no matter how much he might want this to never end.

"Car's here, Eddie!" Gareth yells through the door, and Eddie swallows a moan. He's breathing hard. "I'm going up, I'll hold it ten minutes!"

Ten minutes is a lifetime, and he keeps pushing into Steve. Watching the drag, the catch, the head of his dick nearly coming out, before slamming right in. There's nothing like the sight, and he squeezes Steve's ass, watching his own cock filling Steve's hole.

Like he's never seen it before. Like this hasn't been a regular occurrence for the past twenty years.

And then Steve starts fluttering, clenching at him, and Eddie knows he's gonna come, so he grinds into him, pressing him over the edge with practiced ease.

"Oh, goddamn," Steve whines, and comes all over his own fist, the floor, and Eddie's shirt.

Eddie smiles and slams back into him, picking up the pace again, racing, pushing himself over the edge. Coming with a jerk and a long groan that is rivaling the sounds from above, he's sure.

His shirt is a mess, and he grabs a clean-ish one from his duffle bag, and pulls it over his head as Steve redresses in front of him. It's a good view, the best view. Eddie stuffs it in the bottom of his duffle, and tosses the whole bag in the pile to be carted to the trucks by the road crew after they've cleared out, and are long gone.

Steve is just standing there, but Eddie gets right in front of him and smiles, "Hi. Glad to meet a fan."

Steve rolls his eyes, but smiles, and that's the good stuff. That's what Eddie lives for, and he sidles up beside him, putting his hand in the small of Steve's back, leading him out of the dressing room, and towards the loading dock, to the waiting car.

One car is gone, Jeff and Goodie surely gone back to the hotel already, so Eddie opens up the door on the remaining car, and lets Steve slide in before him.

In the backseat, Gareth is talking on his phone, but nods in their direction, and taps the divider in the car, signaling they're finally ready to go.

Eddie slides his hand along Steve's arm, until his hand finds Steve's, squeezing.

"Thanks for coming."

"I'd be mad if I didn't," Steve whispers, teasing him, and Eddie laughs. Then presses a kiss to Steve's shoulder, so fucking happy to be right where he is tonight.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

#corrodedcoffinfest #prompt thirteen: rock n roll #eddie munson #steve harrington #gareth stranger things #jeff stranger things #goodie (unnamed freak) stranger things #freak stranger things #corroded coffin fic #steddie fic #ccf day thirteen: rock n roll #thisapplepielife: corrodedcoffinfest #thisapplepielife: short fic

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abbystanaccount · 6 months ago

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hii! i recently stumbled upon your owen scar analysis where we see most of his scars, and wondered if it was possible for you to the same with abby? :)

Ohhh good idea. The only reason I hadn't yet is Abby only has a couple scars we don't know the origin of, but I can go over every scar she gets!

Abby's Scars Analysis

First, I'll start with Abby's oldest scars, she has a small scar on her forehead and it's the only visible scar on her younger self. Fun fact, Jocelyn actually has this scar and she's mentioned it's from being hit in the head as a kid with a golf club (lol).

Her older model has a similar looking scar on her right cheekbone. I assume she got these either from being hit with a blunt object or a fall, something like that. Her forehead scar interestingly becomes more noticeable as she ages, it even raises a bit in her Pillars model.

Her chin injury from the car crash does not visibly scar in Santa Barbara.

Next is the other visible scar Abby has when we see her in Seattle. Abby is for the most part not scarred much at the start of the game, she gets a hurt shoulder from Jackson and has some blemishes but these are the only scars we can see. (Her bare torso model is completely unmarked.)

There's two small marks on her arms, one more noticeable than the other. To me, the one on her forearm looks semi recent and looks scabbed. They'd come back from Jackson a few weeks prior, so it's possible Abby was hurt on that trip. But I headcanon it more that she was distracted on patrol when she returned and it was a small stab wound, possibly environmental.

One thing that annoys me about these scars though is that in never heals, it looks about the same from Seattle to Santa Barbara.

Now Abby gets some scars after the theater fight. The wounds Ellie gives her is the bite (which heals) and a stab to Abby's left thigh (which she masterfully shakes off lol.) We don't get to see Abby's bare thigh but it's likely that wound scarred.

The rest of the slashes, which seem to be 4 slashes on her arms and one across her left cheek come from Dina. It also seems as though the arm scars are mostly raised and noticeable, while her cheek scar is more subtle and indented like she tried to stitch it and take care of it more afterwards.

Abby’s next batch of scars are from Ellie on the beach… as if she didn’t suffer enough 😒 She gets a slash on her cheek, a slash on the front and side of her torso, multiple slashes on her arms, especially her left arm which she used to block, a deep stab wound in her left shoulder and a stab wound through her chest.

Here I’m showing her post beach fight textures on her Seattle body (the full Pillars body isn’t complete). You can see how deep the wounds are 🙁

I’m thinking she must have rode the boat a bit down the coast and then looked for supplies to help her and Lev before going all the way to Catalina, so she wouldn’t bleed out…

These are my interpretations of how the beach fight scars might heal. You can see some more of that with my various fan arts of TLOU 3 Abby. I drew over the slash placements, and added in the thigh stab and chest stab scar and some other various scratches she might have gotten. I tried to have them look similar to her scars in early Santa Barbara, raised and a bit pink.

Hopefully the Firefly doctors will help her out a lot with the healing of the cuts and the sunburn and she can just chill for a bit 😢

Bonus skins

This new skin isn't canon or anything and neither is the Eighties skin. In that skin you can see Abby's cheek scar under her makeup, which I thought was cool. But the Badlands skin has a brand new scar that goes all across Abby's cheek to her lips. I think this must be a scrape from some sort of weapon that scratched her. The redness on the cheek makes it seem fairly new

#abby #tlou 2 #tlou abby #abby anderson #my screenshots #the last of us part 2 #analysis #tlou 2 abby #the last of us

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tightjeansjavi · 8 months ago

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The Rite of Movement | drabble

“the most important meal of the day”

A/N: yeah so I guess me simply getting dressed this morning spurred the idea for pornstar!joel and baby love to do yoga together? I—yeah! Idk 😵‍💫

~word count: 956~

Summary: Joel eats you for breakfast

Pairing | pornstar!joel x pornstar!female reader

Warnings: none, fluff, smut, domestic intimacy, amateur porn video, established relationship, oral (f receiving) unprotected piv, teasing, pet names, semi-public sex, one mention of the reader ovulating, Joel is in his 40’s reader is in her 30’s, they are disgustingly in love, reader has no physical descriptions, +18 minors dni!

series masterlist

It was your suggestion that you and Joel should start causally filming vlogs depicting all the little special and real moments in your relationship outside of producing pornos. Joel was elated with the idea immediately, and later surprised you with a brand new handheld camcorder.

You were elated and feeling all those warm fuzzy feelings when he presented the camera to you with a frilly pink bow wrapped around it. Your excitement to document new memories with him on the camera was palpable as you gently threw your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly while his arms looped around your waist, nuzzling his nose into your neck affectionately.

He lived to see you happy even over the littlest things that he had to offer you.

You took to your socials immediately, gushing about Joel, and the new camera which you hinted at on your instagram story. In the corner of the screen you could see his thick middle finger pointed upwards, and his cheesy lopsided grin.

God, did you love this man.

The first video you filmed on the new camera was outside on Joel’s patio. It was a beautiful morning with you and your man participating in yoga with a side of breakfast. You had been the one to encourage him to start practicing yoga to help with the growing stiffness in his back and in his joints overall. He agreed enthusiastically to your suggestion, and he couldn’t say no to an excuse to see you in your cute workout clothes.

But between the mid-morning Texas humidity, and Joel’s occasional low grunts while he was in the downwards dog position, stretching out his back muscles with his head falling between his shoulders, and his salt and peppered hair all sweaty, falling in ringlets over his forehead, you could barely hold your composure for much longer.

There was an obvious wet patch forming through the breathable fabric of your workout shorts the longer you ogled at him, watching the way the muscles in his forearms flexed under the warm sun.

“What’re you lookin’ at, baby love?” His tone was low, deep, and rasping from the angle he was in. He looked over his shoulder at you, brows raised in amusement.

“Nothing, baby.” You lied sweetly, “you’re holding that position really well, Joel. Good job.”

He, however, was unconvinced with your response and slowly sat back on his thighs so that you had a direct view of the growing bulge in loose workout shorts. His cock was already growing hard and heavy, slicked with sweat and a drool of precum that stained the front of his shorts.

“S’that all I’m doin’ well? Can see ya ogling me like I’m your next meal.” He chuckled, grinning from ear to ear with his hands resting on his meaty, strong thighs.

“God fucking dammit.” You let out a groan and let yourself fall gracefully onto your back, thighs parting open so he can see the visible wet patch through the thin fabric. “I’m ovulating, you jackass. And you’re over there grunting and flexing your muscles and— fuck me—” you let out a strained laugh.

“And I’m as hard as a fucking slab of granite with you over there bending and twisting in ways that I didn’t know you could move in.” He nearly growled, eyes zoning in on the wet patch between your thighs. He was crawling towards you on the rubber yoga mat before you even had a chance to respond. “And you’re fuckin’ drippin’ right through your workout shorts, baby love.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” You said sarcastically with a playful roll of your eyes as you sat up on your elbows.

He was between your thighs immediately, big hands grasping your bare skin and pressing you open so the breadth of his shoulders could fit snugly between you. He dragged the tip of his nose right through the wet patch of the fabric. Letting out a deep, manly groan from the mixed aroma of your sweat and arousal, feeling his cock twitch in his shorts.

You reached for his hair, tangling your fingers through the sweaty ringlets, gripping them tightly as he pressed his face further into your covered cunt. “You’re gonna spoil your breakfast, Joel.” You said with a soft giggle, lashes fluttering shut.

“Fuck the breakfast. I’m eatin’ you up instead.” He mumbled against you, dragging his tongue from your covered hole right to your pulsing clit. He nibbled playfully on the fabric with his teeth, pulling the elastic back slowly before letting it snapback. “Would much rather eat my girl, anyway.” He snickered, rubbing his nose back and forth against you, listening to your sweet little whines that spurred him on to continue with his ministrations with his skilled tongue.

More. More. More.

And while he could have just easily pulled down your shorts for easier access, he decided that ripping them open was the better alternative.

And before you could even think about scolding him for ripping your shorts, he was lapping at your folds, and suckling on your clit like a man that was absolutely pussy starved. His eyes were shut as obscene sounds were murmured against your soaked pussy.

Thank goodness neither of you had to worry about any peeping neighbors!

After you’ve come along his tongue more times than you or he can count, he’s slowly feeding you his cock which has grown painfully hard up until this point. He’s so hard, the tip of his cock is nearly swollen as he uses his thumb to press himself into your weeping little hole. He fucks you slow and deep, letting you feel all of him with your calves resting over his shoulders. He’s forgotten all about the ache in his lower back when he’s all far too consumed with you: his baby love, and your pretty pussy hugging him just right.

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w2soneshots · 4 months ago

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Lingerie -Angry ginge

words: 0.6k+

warnings: basically no plot just smut, head (fem rec), protected sex, aftercare.

summary: you surprise your boyfriend with a new outfit, that quickly leads to you having a very fun night.

notes: my angry ginge crush is back my loves🤭. I had some ask for a full ginge smut after I made my recent w2s one so here we go! Enjoy❤️‍🔥🫶🏼

"Hey, babe?" I called quietly as I walked into mine and Morgan's shared bedroom. He sat on the bed, back leaning against the headboard. "Mhm?" He looked up at me and his mouth dropped open slightly, eyes widening. I wore my brand new black lace lingerie bodysuit and nothing else. His eyes scanned my body. "Get over here now." He grumbled and I quickly obeyed, crawling onto the bed and up to him.

I sat on his lap, hands naturally going up to rake through the hair at the back of his head. "What did I do to deserve you?" He asked rhetorically. I smiled then slowly lent down to press a gentle, loving kiss to his lips. His hand moved to the back of my neck, pulling me into him and deepening the kiss. I pressed myself into his lap making him groan, my eyes fluttered shut. I pulled at his shirt and he pulled it over his head. His hands firmly gripped my waist.

I could feel his hard dick against my clothed cunt and I immediately became wet. Letting out a soft moan as I was suddenly very needy. "I've got you baby, let's get this off. Mm?" He whispered. I nodded slowly, keeping eye contact. Slowly he pulled down the thin straps then he yanked the stretchy fabric down so that it sat at my waist. I lifted my body up so he could remove it the rest of the way. I was now completely naked.

Morgan moved us so that he was on top, slowly making his way down until he reached the place I needed him most. He kissed the inside of each of my thighs before attacking my dripping wet pussy. I threw my head back in pleasure as my fingers intertwined in his hair, my other gripping the white cotton sheets. "Fuc-k" I stuttered out as his tongue circled my clit. His finger swiped up my folds; collecting my juices. I gasped as he slowly inserted one finger. My back arched off the bed.

I pulled him up towards me desperately. "Let me feel you." I whined. He stood from the bed, his pants were off in seconds then he grabbed a condom from our bedside table. He climbed on top of me. Then swiftly ripped the condom packet open with his teeth as he held himself up using his forearm. He pressed a long kiss to my lips as he inserted his throbbing dick into me. My mouth hung open as his forehead pressed onto mine.

He groaned loudly as he bottomed out. "Move, Morgan, move!" I whined, our lips brushing. He quickly began thrusting his hips. The room filled with loud, erotic moans and the sound of our skin slapping together. His hand traveled between our bodies and it landed on my clit. My eyes rolled to the back of my head. "Oh my- Morgan!" He peppered kisses down my neck, sucking on the skin, leaving a mark.

As I approached my orgasm my body began shaking. "I'm- I'm gonna." "Come on my cock, y/n." He husked, pushing me over the edge. I saw black as my orgasm shattered through my body. Morgan road me through it as he was also extremely close. My walls clenched around his cock and that was it. He let out a breathy moan as his body fell onto mine.

Both of us caught our breath as he pulled out, flopping down next to me. After a moment he got up walking to the bathroom. He returned with a wet rag, covered in warm water. Gently he cleaned me up. I was completely fucked out, in a state of complete bliss.

Once I was clean he helped me into one of his shirts after putting some boxers on himself. We both got under the covers and he pulled me into his chest. "I love you so much, y/n." He whispered softly, kissing the top of my head. "I love you too." I replied before slowly drifting into a deep sleep.

#angry ginge #angryginge13 #morgan burtwistle #angry ginge x reader #angryginge13 x reader #morgan burtwistle x reader #youtuber x reader #british youtubers #fanfic #image #oneshot #x fem!reader #x female reader #x y/n #x you #x reader #smut #after care

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letters-unsending · 1 month ago

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No. 54

////

Henchman and Villain / healing with a kiss

////

"And will you report this back to your Organization?" Villain asks before kissing the bruise on Henchman's wrist bone. The movement is feather-light, clinical in its quickness, and Henchman flexes his fingers to pull the sensation downward, away from their chest.

"Our organization," Henchman corrects.

"Yours," Villain insists, breath washing over Henchman's arm, "I am not a member by a choice."

"You failed to report the extent of your abilities," Henchman continues, holding back a shiver as the lurid blue-black swell of their arm dissolves into an even brown. The throbbing pain fades, echoing into his bones. "That's another violation."

"The ability comes and goes," Villain murmurs, running his thumb over Henchman's mended skin, testing it, "you must understand. I couldn't display it during the test."

"I'm sure you could've relayed it to one on of the proctors. They would've written it down."

Villain laughs, "Oh, but they would've demanded a demonstration and I would've had to give one of the proctors a smooch." His touch slid up Henchman's elbow and idled over the hand-shaped bruise striped across their bicep. "And it wouldn't have worked anyway. There's some prerequisites involved."

"May I?" He asks, his palm steady against the back of Henchman's upper arm. The weight of it should alarm Henchman, but the relief in their forearm is poignant; the chilly aftermath of Villain's power thrums beneath their skin.

Henchman nods and Villain leans down, setting a quick kiss in the center of the bruise, then another farther up.

Only two? Henchman thinks, in spite of themself. Over the blooming buzz of healing, Henchman focuses on the itch of each kiss, and considers wrenching their arm from Villain's gentle hold and stomping out of the room. They do neither and take a deep breath.

This isn't what they're here for.

"I won't report your power," they resist a stutter as Villain drops their one arm and reaches for the other, taking their hand in his own, "because it's low grade and non combatant, though I heavily recommend that you file your own report. If you're a registered healer, you'd be granted certain allowances during emergencies."

"I'm telling you," Villain huffs, bringing Henchman's hand toward his mouth, "that it doesn't work as well you think it does." He looks toward Henchman for permission before kissing their swollen knuckles. The sensation jolts up Henchman's arm. "My power requires a certain degree of camaraderie."

"Then I'm sure you could familiarize yourself with your squadron."

Villain flattens his forehead to the back of Henchman's hand and sighs, "that wouldn't be enough. Besides, I have no desire to be friendly with my squadron. I only intend to do my time and then leave as soon as Supervillain relinquishes his command of me."

"You would lose all of Supervillain's protections if you leave after the war." Henchman voice breaks off as they backtrack. Enough. Enough?

"I could care less."

"You'd risk your life and honor. For what?" Unease twists Henchman's gut. They imagine Villain, bereft of power, soft-skinned and bleeding mortal blood, somewhere far beyond the city's protective ring. To refuse the longevity and power granted by Supervillains was unthinkable.

Villain moves his head away from Henchman's hand and smiles, "I'm afraid that's something I can't tell you."

Henchman swallows, dropping their hand in their lap. Of course. If Villain had given them an answer, Henchman would've had to relay it straight to their higher ups. Villain was marked for high risk of desertion and mutiny.

"I understand." A tightness builds in their sternum.

"It's nothing against you." Villain places a reassuring hand on Henchman's knee.

Each touch feels like a brand. The next time they report to Supervillain, Henchman fears he will see every point of contact, every small indulgence they've allowed themself.

"Do you have any more injuries you'd like to me heal?"

Henchman shakes their head, though all of their aches bubble to the surface: the scrape on their back, the bruise on the crest of their hip, the creak in their knee. The prospect of treatments elsewhere, beyond the safer realm of their arms, dries their mouth and sends their chest ticking. Their foot rattles a stilted rhythm against the leg of their stool.

"Okay then, there's one last thing before we're done. Could you look at me?"

All too fast, Henchman does.

#writeblr #villain #writing prompt #prompt #villain prompt #writing #heroes and villains #henchman x villain #evil henchman #villain as caretaker #healing #healing powers

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luveline · 1 year ago

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More zombie au! Steve!!! Please! It’s literally so good I love how you write Steve all protective <3

thank you ♡ steve zombie au —steve gets sick. you meet a dark-haired stranger while looking for meds. fem!reader 2k

You compare your arm to the bottle in your hand. You've written a list of generic and brand name antibiotics in biro on your forearm, but they're smudging from nervous sweat. You're getting desperate.

Nothing seems to match. You're shaking with aching arms and legs, fucking terrified as you sift through a floor of orange and white pill bottles that nothing is going to match your list, and worse, the pharmacy grows darker by the hour. You don't have a torch.

Things are getting pretty bad at camp. There's not enough food to go around, no batteries, and now Steve's…

A bottle slips out of your hand and knocks into another. You cringe and pick up the next. You've been searching for hours without sitting down, as hiding underneath the bottles is a carpeting of grainy glass from the smashed shelves. Three of your fingertips have cut and scabbed since you got here.

"Fuck," you whisper, glaring at another wrong medication. "Fuck, fuck."

Amoxicillin, ciprofloxacin, flucloxacillin. Anything to stop Steve's infection from getting into his blood. It's a gross wound, oozy and inflamed, and when you'd left him with Robin dutiful at his side his skin had glowed with heat like glass held in the centre of a furnace. Even with his eyes closed, he'd known what you were about to do.

"Don't fucking leave," he'd grit out, fingers twitching up for your hand.

You'd leaned forward and kissed his damp forehead. "I have to go. I love you. I'll be right back."

That was ten hours ago at least. You have no idea what condition Steve might be in, so sure you'd find the pills and be back in arm's reach by noon. How sick can he get before it's too much?

"Shit," you whisper, your fingers tingling.

"What are you looking for?"

You fall backward with a sharp gasp, pill bottles biting into your thighs. Your face swings around but the source of the voice is unclear, empty shelves and aisles either side of you.

"Chill out–"

"Where the fuck are you?" you demand, scrambling onto your feet with the use of one sacrificed palm. Glass like needles serrates your skin. "Fuck! Come out, loser!"

"Hey, no need to be mean. I'm up in the ceiling."

You look up. Peeking out from a displaced ceiling tile is a pale face silhouetted by a matt of dark hair.

"You fucking little freak," you say, though you feel bad immediately. He's smiling and he isn't pointing any weapons at you, which is more than most strangers allow on the road. "Why are you up there?"

"I wanted to see if you had a gun, stupid."

"You're stupid, stupid. What if it was in my bag?"

"Point it at me, then!"

You stare at him in silence.

"That's what I thought," he says, framing a face in two hands like a baby angel on a gift card. "Can I come down or are you gonna keep bitchin'?"

"Don't fucking come down here."

"Or what?" he asks.

"I'll get my gun out."

"Mm, okay," he mocks. "I'll come help you find whatever it is that has your panties in a twist."

"I swear to god–"

"Listen. I'm a good guy, I swear."

"That's what bad guys say."

The stranger laughs a weird giggly laugh and climbs backwards. The ceiling tiles stress visibly under his weight but make no noise as he disappears from view. He swears a couple of times on the way down, unseen, before the stockroom door swings open and he appears in his intimidating glory in the doorway.

"If you kill me," you say, eyeing his spiked wristbands and the machete strapped to his waist with horrified apprehension, "my boyfriend will avenge me. Like, hunt you to the ends of the earth and slice you into little tiny pieces of vengeance."

"That sounds like my kind of party, but your boyfriend has nothing to worry about. I got a girl."

"Don't say rock and roll."

"How the fuck would you guess that?" he asks, hand flying to the back of his neck for a bashful scratch.

"My life feels like a shitty gimmicky horror movie, and you look the part." You bite the inside of your cheek. "I need antibiotics."

"You and everybody else in the world. This for your vengeful boyfriend?"

You don't need him knowing who they're for. He could be an evil guy, and the threat of Steve waiting for you might be your trump card. "No. My vengeful boyfriend left to look for cans in the shelter."

"He'll be back soon, then."

You take a step back. "I'll gouge your eyes out if you try anything, I'm serious. I don't care how big your knife is–"

"I'm Eddie." Eddie smiles at you, shoving his hands into cargo pockets. Despite his weird questions and his choice of apparel, he looks less intimidating in the lingering light of the setting sun as it seeps between window shutters. "I don't want to hurt you." He frowns. "Any kind of hurt."

"Can I have the machete?"

"Nope. I can go put it down somewhere, though, if that's less scary."

You shake your head, and with a great big sigh, lean down to sift through bottles. If he's going to hurt you, he might as well get on with it. The longer you spend talking to him, the sicker your Steve becomes.

"You need antibiotics bad?" Eddie asks, his voice softening.

"My best friend is sick." You toss a bottle, pick up another. "Infection probably getting into his blood. If I don't find something tonight, he's gonna die."

"Well, we can't have that," Eddie says, crouching down to help.

You sweep through bottle after bottle of things you wish you needed. Painkillers, sleeping pills, laxatives. Good shit, and nothing you need.

"You know…" Eddie sighs. "I know you could lie to me, but is it just you, boyfriend and the dying bestie, or?"

You're not sure what the right answer is. Better for him to think you have an army waiting if you get lost, or better to hide them? He could belong to a cult of cannibals. Only… his clothes are squeaky clean. His curls shine with a gloss that comes solely with conditioner, which means he has the time and security to really wash things.

But murders can wash their clothes, right?

"There's a couple of us," you say.

"You're not from that place west, are you?"

You put a pill bottle down slowly. "West?"

"Yeah, there were people there, hundreds of 'em. We got a few stragglers, survivors from the fucking massacre that happened a few weeks ago. One girl said there must've been thirty, forty kids there, it's fucking awful."

You swallow a lump. "Awful," you agree.

"Hopper says we can track down the people who did it if we just follow the blood trail," Eddie says, slipping into a theatrical bravado that won't stick. "I don't know… someone needs to stop them."

You choke, "Hopper? Chief Hopper?"

"Wait, you're from Hawkins?" Eddie asks.

You give each other boggled looks, a thrumming hope building in your chest like a flickering flame in the dead of winter.

"I think you better come back with me," Eddie says.

"I need antibiotics," you say, wanting to explain it to him and now knowing how. Or even if you should. Awesome, Hopper's alive, but that doesn't mean Eddie's group are good people, or that they can help you. There's nothing anyone in the world can do for you right now if they don't have a handful of Augmentin.

"You're from The College."

"I don't have time for this," you say, half apology and half frustration. "Yeah, we were from The College, and now it's gone, and my boyfriend's gonna die if you don't help me find the right pills." You wince and snatch up another stupid bottle.

"I can get you antibiotics," Eddie says, "but you're gonna have to trust me. Can you do that?"

"No."

—

Steve wakes up two days later in an unfamiliar building.

His eyes are made of sand, he can hardly breathe it's that cold, each breath as sharp as a needle as he sucks it in, but there's a roof over his head, a blanket over his chest, and your voice, your laugh rings like a song in the air.

"He didn't do that, you're lying," you say with a laugh, pulling Steve's hand to your chest.

"He did." Steve stiffens at the voice. Deeper, rougher than yours. "I swear on my life, he jumped right into Lover's Lake and swam backstroke to prove he could beat Louisa Park's best."

"Did he beat her time?"

"No, but he had a condom stuck to his ankle when he got out. Wasn't worth it."

"Steve," you say. Steve thinks you've noticed he's waking up, but you hug his hand with a sympathetic sigh. "That's so embarrassing. You better wake up soon, I have making fun of you to do."

"I think I'll stay asleep," he says hoarsely.

You gasp and choke his fingers between yours. "Steve?" You climb up onto the bed, your weight dipping the mattress under his back. Your hand comes careful and warm against his chilled cheek. "You're awake. You're awake?"

He strains to unglue his top lashes from his bottom lashes. You beam at him, the little scars around your mouth from a cruel hand shining in the white morning light.

"What time is it?" he asks.

"It's, like, seven in the morning."

"I've been asleep that long?"

"You've been unconscious for nearly two days," you correct.

Steve can't remember anything. He has the barest memory of your lips on his forehead. Robin splashing cold water on him and calling him an asshole, and then, much quieter, her best friend.

"Where's Robin?" he asks.

"She's being Robin somewhere, you know, she loves being helpful. The kids need help getting settled."

"And you're being lazy," Steve pokes.

He lifts his chin so your kiss lands exactly where he wants it, the stubbly space below his jaw. You wrap your arms around him and hug him severely, squeezing his tender ribs.

"I wasn't lazy, I had to go save you by myself."

"Save everybody," the familiar but impossible voice adds. Steve doesn't want to believe it. He refuses to. "Like, an entire generation."

"I didn't do anything," you say, kissing Steve again, a short path to his chapped lips. "Honey," —your voice lowers, your confession for Steve's ears alone— "I'm so happy you're okay. I was really, really scared."

Steve feels the weight of your fear like a dumbell on his chest, but he's uber confused. Propping his chin over your shoulder and hugging you back, the evil wound on his arm that caused this whole mess throbbing like fire under his bandage, Steve sets his eyes on the boy sitting on the chair next to yours.

"Hey, Harrington," Eddie says warmly, eyes dripping with a put upon affection. "Miss me?"

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Steve asks.

"Saving the day, obviously."

"I can't believe I found one of your friends," you say, sitting up a little to smile at him. You really are gorgeous in his eyes, better than any movie star. Your beatific little grin stirs something, but Eddie's snort stomps it dead.

"We're not friends," Steve says.

You stroke Steve's face with the back of your hand. "Don't be like that. He's really nice…" Your smile melds itself to a concerned frown. "I thought you were kicking it, Stevie. How's your arm feeling? Does it hurt a lot?"

"It's fine," he says dismissively, wrapping his stronger arm around your waist. He's not jealous or anything, it's just cold in here, honest. "Munson, where the fuck did you come from?"

"Right here, Stevie."

"We're not far from the camp," you explain, stroking his face once again. "Or, we weren't when it was there. We're merging with this one to make a mega camp."

"Why would we do that? We don't know that we can trust these people."

"No, but we can trust Hopper." You smile. Steve knows things are gonna be okay, as long as you can smile like that. He leans his cheek into your hand, loved and relieved and–

"Hopper?" Steve asks.

"Jesus, Harrington," Eddie says, rolling his shoulders. "Keep up. If you can't comprehend the easy stuff, you're not gonna believe what we haven't told you."

"What haven't you told me?" Steve asks.

You push his shoulders down into the pillows. "I think you better lay down first."

#steve zombie!au #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington drabble #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things 4

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hp-hcs · 1 year ago

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mattheo with sick! reader? idk something fluffy about mattheo taking care reader or angsty about reader trying to hide some sorta sickness or maybe mattheo's the sick one you ask for mattheo I shall deliver - yxdls

‼️WARNING: hella gross‼️ like, it goes into genuinely nauseating detail! i’m in a weird mood right now! i don’t know!

fine (chapter one of phoenix tears) — ex-death eater! injured! mattheo riddle x gn! reader

GRAPHIC GORE WARNING

seriously, don’t read if you’re easily grossed out. or eating. actually, just don’t read this at all. it’s pretty poorly written. i’m so sorry yxdls, for whatever this is 😭

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“…and for which scenario would each of the following listed Charms work bes-”

Mattheo was cut off by another of his loud coughing bouts, hacking into his elbow.

Your brow furrowed. “Baby, that’s like, the seventh time you’ve coughed in the last five minutes. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He waved a hand in your direction. “I’m fine. Just a little cough.”

You set down your flashcards, leaning across your bed to lay the back of your hand against his forehead. “You’re burning up, baby.”

“So you think I’m hot?” He asks with a cheeky grin, waggling his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes and lightly smack his arm with the sleeve of your hoodie. “Yes, you idiot. But you also have a helluva fever.”

He grimaced. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

~~~

It was, in fact, Not Fine™. It looked horrible. The skin was sunken in, to a worryingly deep degree, and the edges were blistered and raw, slowly leaking pus and refusing to scab over. Mattheo grimaced as he peeled off the old bandages, biting his bottom lip to keep from screaming when the gauze got caught on part of the torn edge. He was forced to look away as he hastily rewrapped his forearm, trying desperately not to vomit.

The minute he had deserted his father, his Dark Mark had begun to burn, to brand itself into his flesh. The tattoo sank deep into his skin, into his muscles, and into his tendons; Mattheo was convinced that at this point, it was entirely carved into the bone.

It would never go away.

The skin over the tattoo had first erupted with bright red blisters and a sickening rash, which sent Mattheo into a feverish daze for two days. Despite his friends’ protests, he refused to go to the hospital wing.

Nobody could see the Mark. They’d know. They’d know he had been a coward and a fool.

But then, his skin had begun to rot. It was unsettling. Not to mention that the Mark wriggled still, now more furiously than it ever had when he’d been a follower of his father. Combined with the state of his arm, the odd frantic movements of the tattoo felt like phantom maggots, crawling all over him, crawling under his skin, into his eyes, his mouth, Merlin-

~~~

“Riddle, man, you good?” Theodore nudged him and spoke quietly.

Mattheo startled, his eyes flying open from where he had begun to drift off standing up.

Sleep had become impossible. His arm was now constantly afflicted with burning, never-ending pain. Occasionally, random bursts of an even sharper agony would grate up his bones and make his teeth rattle. It felt like being Crucioed, but with no forewarning, no nothing.

“Mattheo!”

He startled again, not even aware that he’d started falling asleep again.

Theo put his hand on Mattheo’s shoulder, even just that small touch sending stomach-churning zaps of fresh pain down his arm. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so.

Theo glanced around the room, waiting for the Herbology professor to turn her back before talking to Mattheo again.

“Dude, you seriously look like you’re about to keel over any second. You should go to the infirmary.”

“‘m fine,” Mattheo rubbed his eyes, his words slurred with feverish delirium. “Don’ need’a go anywhere.”

“Matty, dude, you look like a dead man walking.”

He opened his mouth to protest, when the worst pain he’d ever felt in his entire life struck him out of nowhere. It felt like what Mattheo imagined being beat with a baseball bat, run over by a semi-truck, and being Crucioed at the same time would feel like.

He dropped like a rock, the unrelenting pain forcing the edges of his vision to darken and then fully go black.

~~~ Mattheo woke up to quiet.

His eyes slowly creaked open, and he was greeted with unfamiliar white walls. He blinked quickly to rid the sleep from his eyes, before surveying the room.

It didn’t look like the hospital wing at Hogwarts, but it was definitely a place of medicine, if the bleach-heavy air was anything to go by. Maybe St. Mungo’s?

The overhead lights were off, thank Merlin, leaving the room lit only by the overcast afternoon sky peeking through the window.

But he started to panic when he saw that his arm lay across his chest, freshly wrapped and sore as all hell.

Someone saw.

Somebody saw the Mark of his cowardice.

Of his yearning for his father’s approval.

Fat tears started to roll down Mattheo’s cheeks. His sobs became louder when he saw that you were there.

You probably knew. You probably saw.

Merlin damn it. Why wasn’t there a magical version of HIPAA?

You’d pulled up the visiting chair all the way to the side of Mattheo’s hospital bed, your crossed arms lying on top of the mattress, and your head resting on your arms as a sort of makeshift pillow.

At least you were asleep. Mattheo couldn’t even fathom what he’d have done if you’d been awake.

You surely must hate him now.

How couldn’t you?

He started to raise his right arm, his only currently working one, to wipe away his tears, but the movement was held back.

He had the fleeting but terrifying thought of those cliché leather restraints on hospital beds in horror movies. Honestly, it wasn’t even that far-fetched. He was a criminal. A traitor. A psycho.

Mattheo looked down, expecting the worst.

Instead, he saw your fingers interlaced with his, your thumb slowly skating over his knuckles in a soothing back and forth pattern.

You were holding his hand. Asleep still, yes, but you were actively holding his hand. You were choosing to be near him.

Mattheo burst into tears again, but this time in relief.

If you were still by his side, despite everything, then maybe things really were fine.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

chapter two

#harry potter #fuck jkr #hp #x reader #hp x gn reader #hp x male reader #x male reader #x gender neutral reader #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x male reader #death eaters #x gn reader #gn reader

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hollowed-theory-hall · 24 days ago

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Did you write about the Dark Mark already? I have to think how it actually works, and why no one knows about it if they can just like search the bodies of dead Death Eaters

Anonymous asked:

why didn't dumbledore tell ministry about dark mark as a tattoo? bc he not want to send snape to azkaban of it? i guess dark mark is a very big secter and only for small inner circle, the best of the best, 'friends', and when snape tells minister about it they don't understand neither sirius when harry tells him about karkaroff and how many people have dark mark? is regulus have it or not? (i rereading the cemetery scene in 4th book and can't normally count the de's, or maybe it is a plot hole by jkr) peter probably get it after 3rd book, after he's proof self 🤔

Okay, so I haven't really written anything detailed. I just mentioned here and there some elements of my thoughts here and there sprinkled throughout other theories.

So, let's talk about the dark mark and how/why it was such a secret

First, as always, we start from what we know:

1. The dark mark is shaped like a skull with a snake coming out of its mouth. It is placed on the left forearm of a Death Eater.

Voldemort bent down and pulled out Wormtail’s left arm; he forced the sleeve of Wormtail’s robes up past his elbow, and Harry saw something upon the skin there, something like a vivid red tattoo — a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth — the image that had appeared in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup: the Dark Mark. Voldemort examined it carefully, ignoring Wormtail’s uncontrollable weeping.

(GoF, 645)

2. The mark isn't for everyone and is considered a great sign of honor. Most Death Eaters and their affiliates aren't marked.

“No,” snarled Greyback, “I haven’t got—they say he’s using the Malfoy’s place as a base. We’ll take the boy there.” Harry thought he knew why Greyback was not calling Voldemort. The werewolf might be allowed to wear Death Eater robes when they wanted to use him, but only Voldemort’s inner circle were branded with the Dark Mark: Greyback had not been granted this highest honor.

(DH, 389)

As for how many are marked, Harry counts them for us:

and what use would it be to deprive Voldemort of his wand, even if he could, when he was surrounded by Death Eaters, outnumbered by at least thirty to one?

(GoF, 660)

So we have about 30 Death Eaters in the graveyard + Baty Jr + Snape + Karkaroff + 10 more in Azkaban (Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Rabastan, Rookwood, Dolohov, Traverse, Gibbon, Jugson & another unnamed one I like to call Pyrites) + the dead ones from the first war (Regulus, Evan Rosier & Wilkes). This lands us at approximately 46 marked Death Eaters. So, while it is somewhat of a secret club, it's not that exclusive if you have about 50 members in a society of about 6,200 wizards as a whole.

3. The Dark Mark was kept incredibly secret during the first war and most of the Order (if not all of them) didn't know about it until the second war.

Even Sirius who was in Azkaban with almost exclusively marked Death Eaters, didn't know about the mark.

“He showed Snape something on his arm?” said Sirius, looking frankly bewildered. He ran his fingers distractedly through his filthy hair, then shrugged again. “Well, I’ve no idea what that’s about . . . but if Karkaroff’s genuinely worried, and he’s going to Snape for answers . . .”

(GoF, 532)

4. The Dark Mark allows Voldemort to know where his Death Eaters are and they can "call him" via the mark.

“And now,” she said in a voice that burst with triumph, “we call the Dark Lord!” And she pushed back her sleeve and touched her forefinger to the Dark Mark. At once, Harry’s scar felt as though it had split open again.

(DH, 404)

5. The mark allows Voldemort to call his Death Eaters to him.

He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on Wormtail’s arm. The scar on Harry’s forehead seared with a sharp pain again, and Wormtail let out a fresh howl; Voldemort removed his fingers from Wormtail’s mark, and Harry saw that it had turned jet black. A look of cruel satisfaction on his face, Voldemort straightened up, threw back his head, and stared around at the dark graveyard. “How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?” he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars. “And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?”

(GoF, 645)

6. It likely is able to inform him when a Death Eater is dead. I mentioned in my post about Regulus how odd it is that the Death Eaters seem to know he died when really, he could've run away. But they all knew Voldemort killed him for being a traitor, meaning, Voldemort is the one who told them he died. How did he know? The Dark Mark.

7. And the mark clearly knows when Voldemort is dead.

It appears red when he's in weakened wraith/homunculus form, and then when he lives and activates it it becomes black:

(GoF, 645)

Becomes clearer when he's getting stronger:

“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!” Karkaroff’s voice sounded anxious and hushed, as though keen not to be overheard. “It’s been getting clearer and clearer for months. I am becoming seriously concerned, I can’t deny it —” “Then flee,” said Snape’s voice curtly. “Flee — I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts.”

(GoF, 426)

And a faded scar once Voldemort was dead for good.

8. The Dark Mark can be used for the Death Eaters to communicate with each other:

“Really?” said Professor McGonagall. “And what gave you that impression?” Snape made a slight flexing movement of his left arm, where the Dark Mark was branded into his skin. “Oh, but naturally,” said Professor McGonagall. “You Death Eaters have you own private means of communication, I forgot.”

(DH, 506)

How the Dark Mark Works Magically

So, I mentioned it in the past, but I think there is some soul magic involved in the Dark Mark. Considering it is aware of whether its host (the Death Eater) is alive or dead and how they all connect to Voldemort, I feel it's pretty safe to say soul magic is part of it.

The fact Harry feels his scar whenever the mark is used to call Voldemort or used by Voldemort to call his Death Eaters (as illustrated in the above quotes) just strengthens the soul connection since Harry is, as we know, a Horcrux.

I don't think the Dark Mark uses a Protean Charm like the DA coins, but a different method. Mostly since a Protean Charm charm isn't needed. It's what caused the numbers on the coin to change, not what caused them to burn up.

A spell I do want to bring up is the one used to paint the Dark Mark in the sky: "Morsmordre"

(As an aside, that's like, the most evil-sounding spell in how it's pronounced in my opinion. It's all these 'R's)

The spell is most likely comprised of the Latin "mors" meaning "death" and "mordere" meaning "to bite". Literally translates to "To bite death" AKA Death Eater. And I think this spell is the same one used to make someone a Death Eater, or at least to mark them as one.

I also headcanon that only marked Death Eaters (+ Voldemort) could cast Morsmordre on the sky. Like, if some random cast the spell it wouldn't do shit. It makes the whole situation with Winky in GoF more heartbreaking. But also, I don't think anyone there really knew that the spell was limited use, as no one tried to cast it after the first war, probably. But I don't really have evidence for this.

Back to the Dark Mark brand:

The dark mark is mentioned to be burned on one's skin, beside creating a burning sensation when Voldemort calls:

“There,” said Snape harshly. “There. The Dark Mark. It is not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death Eater had the sign burned into him by the Dark Lord.

(GoF, 709)

This makes me think the mark looks burned. Like if you used a hot piece of iron to burn the mark on someone's skin, like a brand.

Now, fire is an interesting element, and, alchemically, one of the elements that corresponds to the soul along with air. Air, though, is also part of the spirit, the fire is only part of the soul as the soul is the one carrying the spark, so to speak.

And I think the idea of them looking like a branding is accurate — because that is exactly what the dark mark is. It's a brand. It's a sign of possession. In various cultures in the past, slaves were branded in a similar way. A sign of ownership that you and your soul, in this case, aren't your own.

So, I think, to mark someone, Voldemort would cast Morsmordre on their arm. This will burn the mark on them, which I assume would feel like a brand being burned on (which is also how it looks, it does not look like a tattoo).

But what does this have to do with the name "Death Eater"?

Well, both the organization and the spell share this language. both meaning to eat death, and I wondered why. So, I looked up various folklore/myths that could refer to a "Death Eater" and I found some interesting ones.

In Ancient Greece and Rome, for example, apparently, Fava Beans were often treated as symbols of death and decay. Some even said the beans contained souls and that eating them was akin to cannibalism. I don't think it has anything to do with the Dark Mark, but I found it interesting.

Of course, there is the Greek myth of Persephone, who is trapped in the underworld by eating pomegranate seeds.

I also considered a connection to sin-eaters. Who were usually poor people invited to funerals and paid to ritualistically eat the sins of the deceased so they could move on to heaven in Ireland and Wales.

However, my favorite theory is one I'm not the first to pose. I don't remember where I read it, but I read a post from someone who mentioned the name 'Death Eaters' reminded them of 'beefeaters'. The term refers to the Yeomen Warders who guard the tower of London. Some etymologists believe the term 'beefeaters' originates from the old English: 'hláf-æta', literally meaning 'bread-eater' but was a word used to refer to a servant, while others argue it could originate from an old French term: 'buffetier' which also means servant.

That, to me, sounded perfect. It fits naturally in with everything.

'Death Eaters' then is then a play on an old English term meaning 'servent', except, the 'bread' from that word was replaced with death, both for Voldemrot's obsession with death and the connection to the life and soul I mentioned earlier.

I also would like to mention that the change of 'bread' to 'death' makes the term sound more permanent. Like they are to remain Voldemrot's servants until they eat death (until they die). It basically marks their soul forever. It brands them.

So, magically, the dark mark makes someone Voldemot's servant for life. It binds their soul to the network of marks that are all tied to Voldemrot's own soul.

This is where that sin-eater connection I mentioned earlier might be relevant. A sin-eater ritualistically eats a person's sins, a part of them in a way. So, I think, with the dark mark, it's something similar. Magically/symbolically, they eat Voldemrot's sins — a part of him.

So, to summarise this section:

The spell Morsmordre is likely used to mark a death eater. The mark is burned and acts as a weak soul tether between Voldemort and all his Death Eaters like a weird network. The mark is a branding, it looks burned and it brands them as Voldemort's servants. The spell 'Morsmordre' literally means to bite death or eat death and refers to the Death Eaters' name. A name that practically calls them Voldemort's servants until their death.

Why the Secrecy

Well, I think this one is pretty obvious. You'd rather the mark that basically broadcasts who's a trusted follower to the world not be common knowledge. Not only that but it's stated by many characters that during the first war, Death Eaters didn't really know who the other Death Eaters were. Everyone knew Voldemort, and only knew each other or about plans on a need-to-know basis.

At least, that's how they operated in the first wat. Death Eaters in the first war are closer to a cult than in the second one.

They operate in secrecy.

All the following and operations revolve around a single leader everyone knows and worships.

Most don't even know each other from how secret they are.

Their clothes — masks, robes, and hooded cloaks all fit in with this cult-like imagery.

In the second war, it was different though. I spoke in the past about how the second war is very different from the first one. How it ran, the number of casualties, the approach of Death Eaters towards the ministry, and vice versa.

In the first war, Voldemort was around, hushing up a lot of their involvement and creating this air of fear and mystery around his cult. In book 5, the DE are just as secretive and hushed up in their operations at the beginning of the first war, but during book 6 and into book 7, Voldemort isn't as present. So, they allow themselves more. They stop hiding because no one is telling them to.

So, in the second war, we see society as a whole is much more aware of the dark mark and the Death Eaters.

How Come No One Tells Fudge

First I want to talk about how they didn't see it on dead bodies of Death Eaters or on imprisoned ones, and, well, I have a guess.

Karkaroff and Snape mention how the dark mark darkened throughout year 4, becoming more and more red. It's possible, that right after Voldemort was defeated, when most Death Eaters were arrested and killed, the mark likely was incredibly faded and barely visible. It looked like an old scar and probably didn't garner much attention and was easy enough to conceal with magic for people like Lucius Malfoy.

As for why Dumbledore didn't tell Fudge in the second war, I think he did tell Fudge. Fudge likely knew about the dark mark and it didn't matter. The whole point of book 5 is that the ministry is corrupt. Fudge knows Voldemort is back, he believes it, he just doesn't want everyone else to think is. He is desperate to show competence and get reelected, Voldemort returning in his time is not a good look.

Basically, I don't think Fudge was ever a convincing problem, he knew Dumbledore and Harry were telling the truth — and he didn't care.

#harry potter #hp #hp meta #hollowedtheory #asks #anonymous #voldemort #lord Voldemort #death eaters #dark mark #hp magical theory #wizarding world #wizarding society

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