#above counter basin

[robbywil]

Stylish and sleek premium countertop basins offer unbeatable benefits as a practical and stylish sink solution for your bathroom. https://www.3benefitsof.com/5-benefits-of-countertop-basins-where-convenience-meets-style/

[brwbathroomrenovatorswarehouse]

MODEL: Thin Edge Above Counter Basin

SIZE: 495 x 390 x 150mm

Plug and Waste sold separately 32mm no overflow required.

Many more sizes and styles available. Come to the store to see the full range.

Website: https://brwsa.com.au/tb493/

[astralnymphh]

fuck and pretend ౨ৎ

𖤐 .ellie williams with a breeding kink⊱.

౨ৎ "gon' make you a baby mama, hm?" 🌸

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 READ: this account stands with palestine, and so— i require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS.

⋆' summary; bright blessings, aphrodite. hazy harbor of your lust, loose ribbons, and smooth touch. a strawberry sun kisses the earth with its sunset, a gradient so divinely captured above your picket fence visible from the kitchen window. a front row seat to dusk settling as you get fucked, the soppy wet clashing of your loins erupts. ellie, with her goddess given right, will knock you the hell up.

⋆' cw; dom!ellie, horndog!ellie, farm!ellie, breeding kink obv, depictions of cum + spit + nipple play + slight food play + spanking + fondiling + very slight lactation kink + rough mannerisms + dirty talk + rough talk + cum kink-ish + gentle dominance + cocktip teasing + strap sex + fingering (r, barely) + finger sucking + multiple positions (bent over, on the counter) , 'her cock' used more than 'strap', some plot + backstory, very detailed descriptions of fucking, smut heavy, reader has fem style/wears skirt, petnames; babe, baby, mama(kinda), slut, whore(not in dialogue), bitch(not in dialogue)

⋆' pairing; farm!ellie x housewife!reader

⋆' a/n; i'm horny. ⋆' wc: 6.7k ellie's masterlist 𖤐

a brilliant orb in the sky permeates a hot singe to your skin, making a day meant for mundane mutilation of vegetable roots drinking up the rich soil, dreadful. oh how you longed to be inside with your girlfriend, ellie, the rufescent headed mutt that pawed you to take a break, on the bed, in her lap. 'later, baby.', you just had to say that. but no, you just had to work, huh? the autumn sun bearing tidings of a good harvest just had to sing an enchanting tune, lulling you to the outdoors.

a heap of green already lines your wheelbarrow, a yelling chance to dip and jump into ellie's arms, who ensconces her bottom to the pleasures of a springy sofa in the family room, scribbling away matters that clot her noggin. oh, it would be so divine to just die of exhaustion in her grasp, straddling that tepid lap beckoning a cozy seat, melding your fingertips with the tense ache that mantles her neck, while she lewdly palpates the chub fat of your ass she deems 'a cute tush' with those strapping hands of hers.

"fuck it." the barrows handles drop to the grassy ground, giving the produce in the basin a bit of a bumpy ride.

the most salivating notion wins, food, fucking food. you burst into that kitchen with a sugar craving, a hellacious craving that puppeteers your fingers to fondle the beige flour into a meshy dough, powdering up your fingertips til it caked under your nail. eugh. 

 a strawberry and cream pastry of crispy golden beige delight is your end goal, pictured to be a celestial five star treat in your rather delusive fantasies. the butts of ruby strawberries stabbed through as you pull the stems out, gleaming juices of a translucent pink coating up your fingers so sweetly, you just had to pop them in your mouth. sucking all that flavor off, like a fuckin' lollipop.

you drift your finger out clean, a long smack squeaking from your lips, and then hum in rumination, "hmm, lemons– or no lemons? lemons.. or no lemons?" quietly spoken, tossing your eyes between a ripe lemon and the pulped strawberry.

"no lemons," ellie, bearing the element of surprise, intrudes on your introspection. speaking with a low, coarse timbre, pitch breathy, "hi babe." her body is then suddenly pressed into your backside, hand slithering down your hip and caressing your pantyhose– clad thigh gently. 

"oh shit– ellie!" you yelp, instinctively pushing your rump back on her groin devoid of purpose, "ya' spooked me.." a throaty whine thrums from you.

"nah– u're just easily spooked." her brows pinch opposingly, slowly creeping her jaw in the cornered nook of your neck, parched lips nipping the flesh with summery hot licks.

"hehe– that tickles.." you jerk away slightly from her scruffy tuft of coppery hair like a plume stroking your skin.

a smile grows pliable against your skin, "good.." muffled ellie, wet smacks eliciting from her hungry latch.

"bored of ur' journal?"

"uh–huh.."

"or just happy that I'm here?"

"mhm.." she dozily agrees, slinking her head off your scruff, "missed you' out there."

"oh, i bet." you frolick kittenly, snatching up the same strawberry you pulped through earlier to cut it, "got fucking tired of hauling that barrow 'round anyway." you complain, speaking with discernable strain in your tune.

"hmm." she hums in consideration, worried about the amount of work you lug on your shoulder from a day–to–day basis, "l'mme help." 

her fingers cottonly twine through yours, biceps hugging yours, chin perched softly upon your neck, taking both the strawberry and knife from you and cutting it deftly, chhp, chhhp, chop!– goes the sound of buttery slices.

you slump your head aside, just relishing the warmth for a moment, at genuine peace that your girlfriend was there. she was so soft with you, softer than petals, gently domineering at any split mention of fatigue. laying the midday away on the couch? joins you instantly, pressing and kneading the tender skin of your swollen feet while discussing more than humdrum topics. stomach rumbling loud enough to raise the dead? she immediately rounded the kitchen's trim to cook you a plethora of meals, taking every picky craving into heavy consideration. indecisive about your outfit? she would glide an oaken chair up to the dresser, plant you on her lap– in your undergarments, and choose what she personally fancies, sneaky hand groping your thigh.

"there you go." she mutters ardent to your shoulder with throaty rasp, knife clanking as she sets it aside.

"thanks baby.."

"n'problem.." her lips fumble the words, settling on bespattering the biome of your stretched neck with wet kisses– subtly hungry ones, and reposes her arms to slink over your hips, enticing them closer into her groin.

you scoop one pile of diced strawberries into the gullies of both palms, letting them plummet into a plastic green mixing bowl, plop.. plop, humming a tune, "hmmmm…hhmhmmm…" 

you hear her chuckle, a small vibration amassing the length of your skin with an accompanied smile growing.

"you laughin' at my song?"

"mhh, that's not a song." she criticizes, lips pursing into a bud.

"hmph, rude." you circle your eyes in offense, faintly swaying your hips while you pestle the fruit into a sweet puree.

her hips react and ungulate a sluggish grind into your rump, acting impassive to it, "s'bored.." she croaks, clammy forehead sticking to your jaw.

"hmm?"

she doesn't clarify, instead, begins to nick your neck with pinched lips, letting the skin gingerly spring out each time. her hips, however, grow rough– wanton. little bounces of her humps smush your thighs into the counter, mind clearly anchored in her imagination.

"els?"

her relentless chafing continues, piling up the fabric of your skirt into a creased mess which only gets worse when her hand wedges between your bodies, palming her crotch with a few squeezes, "mhhn.." 

your fingers nearly slip off the pestle, the stimuli of her humps withering away that poise calmness, "baby.." you whine.

"so, so– bored, baby." her grubby mitts fall and knead the shallow flesh of your hip bones, applying detectable pressure in the crevice beneath your hip bone. smutty, balmy prints sunk into your skin.

this fucking horndog, this auburn maned lovergirl could never let you rest on a busy afternoon like today. all the time, she was just pleading for pussy– pussywhipped, grinding her pelvis on your thigh amidst cuddling, to nudging your butt against her groin with both hands, whenever you bend over. you can hear the indecencies boiling on her wicked tongue right about now, pleading for a tryst.

a long suspire whorls from your nostrils as you turn in her embrace, nudging her fervid laps off.

she pouts a petulance, wet lips sheer in the frosty panes light, "why'd you move?"

"talk t'me," wisped sweet like honey, "what's on your mind?" you lace your fingers with hers, swinging your linked hands side to side playfully.

she pours a groan out, screwing her lids tight and throwing her head back, "baaabbee.." ellie was plagued, at minimum. lewdly plagued. a notion that topped her mind and wouldn't let go.

you thought it was, temptingly cute. the way she reels her head back down, jarring her weary eyes open to beadily gaze upon you, lips parting moistly.

"i have this.." a sharp gust waves off her throat, humbled to even say this, "dirty fuckin' idea.."

"enlighten me."

"i just think.." her eyes deviate from yours, staring at the cupboard, "you'd be really hot as a mama." a hint of smokiness grits in her voice, gazing at you with the most haunting bedroom eyes known to womankind.

"oh really? that's illuminating." you knit your brows, feigning marvel.

"tcch–" her textured lips creak into a cresten grin, hissing shortly, "like.." her fingers flee yours, drifting two brawny grips on your waistline, inching closer with each idea she lists, "i could take care of you, start baths for you, cook you meals and carry you to–"

you intervene gently, "you say it like you can get me pregnant." and laxly cross your arms.

her forehead creases in offense, "uh, i mean," and eyes barrel roll to the ceiling, then on you, chiseling a smirk opulent with smutty intention, "don't need a baby t'do.. whatever."

"whatever?" your tune curls.

"could just.." she pulls your groin snug to hers, pelvis protruding farther than her torso, thighs melding together, "fuck, and pretend." 

you blush, mouth gaping in muted elation observing the way she pushes her crotch into you, "so foul.." you giggle.

"so?" a hand lifts from your hip, notching your chin firmly up to face her, "can i convince you?"

"how?"

an absolutely mischievous look casts over her features at that 'how?' , prominent dimples that plot her next words to flow out.

"here," she releases your chin and swipes a grip on your wrist, jerking you forward as she tugs that hand between her legs, "feel that, baby?" whispering a fingerbreadth away, toasty breath misting like perspiration on your earlobe.

you palpate the inseam, knobbing over a phallic bulge with her hand guiding you. oh my goddess, she's been wearing that shit all day.

"can i fuck y'with it, hmm?" she begs, voice drenched with silken clemency, and leathery callousness– control awaiting your word, lips of coquetry avid to your ear.

truth of the matter, at the back of her perv–diluted noggin, she knows she can't exactly get you pregnant. however, that's the hidden perk nobody talks about. play the part, make it feel real, and it still sticks the same. she can fuck you over, and over– and over again, sow her seed and never reap the physical consequences.

that girl can pretend well.

you feel the heat clump on your cheeks, turned on by her forthright request, "here?" you question foxily, feeling the excitement slowly trickle through your loins.

"yeah– right on this fuckin' counter." unfiltered and dirty, so suddenly, so tantalizing. her hands pitch up and draw upon your skin like a woven page, lurking the entire span of both arms around your hips.

"god, els.." you cling your arms around her nape, chest pressing firmly on hers, "i'd fucking love that." 

her face lit up brighter than all the stars combined. reclining brows, smug–smothered eyes, and the most uneven smirk to ever jerk her lips. a brightness– so carnal.

"yes.." sounded so relieved in her breathy mutter, wetting her chapped lips before she slinks onto yours, dragging hers over the plush of your buds with a passion.

"mhh..mh.." you moan onto her lips, pushing with tantamount force to her hungry kisses.

a wet smack snaps the huddled space as she parts, "can taste those strawberries, ooh~" she huskily frisks with arching brows, returning to your lips with a pucker and slobber.

all during your tepid makeout eggs you both on, pink muscles entwining, mouths nearly trying to swallow each other up, bodies rocking like a ship riding the tide– her willowy digits tuck under the fat of your asscheeks, groping and pulling the two globes apart in rounded circles tight enough to cleft the chub with creases, frilly fabric of your skirt snagging on the ridge of her bouncing palms.

"love' this cute tush." she states with a satisfied scratch in her voice, a deep laugh gusting onto your lips.

"a fuckin' slut for it huh?" 

"yeah baby!" she halfway hollers into your mouth, gripping your asscheeks like crab claws and giving a good shake– featherlike slap included.

you buck your ass out for her usage, urged to wave your hips in a figure eight motion, which she really likes, too much maybe. a booming smack! resounds the kitchen as her hand draws back to indulge a harsher slap, rubbing the red streak left in its path.

you yelp throatily, spitting from her avid lips, "fuck! ellie.."

"hey– c'm back here." her head follows your retreating one, plastering your mouth sealed and tongue–fucking you with that pushy muscle worming past your teeth.

her horny ass just kept spanking both cheeks, which triggered a proud "mmm.. mhm…" to intone on your lips as you jolt in reaction, caressing the flush heat gathered by each whack.

"more?"

"ghhnn– elli.."

"fuckin' take more." she veers that hand back and lands another blow, creeping over your shoulder to perv at the nylon–confined skin. right, your pantyhose.

you tuck and bat your lashes in the crook of her neck, whining right into the ears eager to hear you break.

but, she couldn't do that with all this fabric, could she now?

"nice.. but.." her grubby claws then prod the cloaked crack of your ass, a shrill ripping through the air as she tears a massive hole in your pantyhose– wholly for better access, now exposing your full behind.

you quench a lapse in your throat, "oh, my god." and peek over to eyeball the torn material, noticing how discolored your butt has become and poking your hip out.

"hurt too much?"

"n–no.." you swallow again, reverting your pupils to her, "hurts just right.."

she smirks merry to one cheek, hollowing an alto, "makes' you a dirty fucking slut, amiright?" spoken on a crescendo, second–guessing with her lips gravitating back to yours, but she pauses.

it dawned on her.

something even more impure tethers her attention, down– down, on that chest of yours.

the rustiling of fabric chafes as her hands slide from torturing that delicate rump further, then splutters, "take ur' fuckin' tits out, 'gunna suck on them." just straight up, stern edge like metal to her tone.

no hesitation hurdles your hands, straying from her neck you pleat your shirt over your head and stretch back to unclasp your bra with a pinch, letting it tumble off your chest and hit the ground with a padded thud. the gale of cold air hardens your nipples, perking up two nice targets for ellie to ogle– both in sight, and in taste.

a sweet– tart taste. 

"hmm," ellie's pupils wander off your drooped chest and fixate on the separate dish of intact strawberries, glowing pink in the dying suns' radiance. her elbows straighten and forearm extends towards these gems of interest, scooping one up with her thumb, index and middle combined.

"what are you doing with my–"

"shh, just watch." her prudent fingers then toughen and squash the berry above your clavicle, letting the barmy pink liquids squeeze through her knuckles and drip onto your chest.

a gasp dries your throat, "ellie!"

a few mashed bits plunk down amongst the heavy fall of berry juices, managing to drizzle down the rise of your breast and split over your nipple. mission success? though now the victim strawberry– squelched to a gross chunk, makes a home chucked into the handy trash bin.

ellie licks her lips and stares dead straight on your hardened nipples. itching for a taste of that strawberry deluge.

"fuck.." her throat quivers, taking no time in searing the distance between her tongue and your breast promptly with a hunched back, bringing her heart–shaped pucker to the strawberry–saturated nub and locking on, sucking hard, making you jerk. ellie definitely has a thing for this.

"was wasting that strawberry– mhhf'– worth it?" you sport a quip quickly, the small vacuum sensation on your nipples only just starting to nip that pleasure kernel in your brain.

it definitely was. cause ellie had already vampire–suckled all the flavor off your bud, now snaking her tongue up the excess stream of juices and retreating back. those juice–coated lips squelch open, muttering, "so' fucking worth it." 

so fucking worth the lady boner penned behind that zinc rivet.

her lips wrinkle around your other nipple, opening and closing her mouth around the bud with a slow nutate of her head. inside her mouth was so warm, so wet, and the fleshy texture of her lips felt fucking riveting. the stimulated twang of salacity brought in the form of sucks and licks has your pussy sappy and caked in precum, and ellie could tell how wet you've gotten by the yearning chafe of your thighs, so she forcefully wedges her knee there– making you grunt at the pressure, and her giggle at your response.

you card your fingers through her hairline, fondling her autumn tuft while she sucks that swelling nipple dry, causing an 'mmhhh.' to vibrate from the depths of her lungs, guttural on your boob. one of her hands rove up and cusps the same boob against the webbing of her thumb and pointer, squeezing the blubber of mass further into her wet rosy hole– like she's genuinely sucking something out of them– thirsty, her parched tongue laps a gloss of gleaming saliva over the bumpy node, determined to have you unravel.

"oh, els.. baby~" you tug on her hair, piqued by the blossoming ache in your clit raring for ellie to just get on with it.

"mhhpghmm.." her lips suction with a pop, roads of ruby red mottled on her cheeks from your angle. so eager to toy with that forming arousal, but with persuasive control.  "s'this convincing enough?"

you toss your head back, extending the curved surface of your neck, "i'm already convinced.." you gasp for air, surfing a breathless moan behind the carry of your voice.

another pop sound has her lips wandering up from that sensitive bump and craning to your lips, taking advantage of the situation. her fantasies overrun that dirty mind of hers, aching mentally– and physically, to have that pussy engulfing her thickset cock. to fuck you raw. fortunate for her, you were already won over by the rough terrain of her tongue setting you over the edge.

"m'kay baby.." her humid syllables shudder over the span of your midface, promptly, churning into a demanding growl. "turn around, n' bend over the counter. doin' it right here, c'mon." her words usher you and fingers force you, contorting your hips with her steely grip without even giving you the chance to move yourself, other hand reaching over to knock the bowl of strawberries– now scattered across the tiles like the starry sky.

you wobble around on your ankles as she bucks you into the counters' rounded steel rim, laying her palm plumb between your shoulder blades and pinning you down, pitching a yelp from you when the cold surface practically freezes your nipples.

that's when you realized, she wasn't playing around.

ellie's spindly fingers pleat your skirt up with a swat, then drift down to catch and tuck in the lacy band of your panties and tug hard, pulling the thread to the point of frayed snapping– without giving you a wedgie– until she could remove it from your hips through the hole in your pantyhose, chucking it somewhere east of you. now she could gape at everything. the bare truth of your engorged pussy rearing for her, splayed out like a whore. nuder than an amaretto.

and it made her giggle in gratification, lugging that adams apple around with her wheezy laugh.

"look at 'chu bent over like this," she gruffily awes at your ass jacked to her hips, golfing up a 'hawwkkk' and a 'puh!' as she aims a spit down the crack of your ass. 

it streamlines through the canyon of your backside 'til it mixes with the slick of your slit. can't let it go to waste, so– she jams the soapy spit into your hole, to which you clamp her in.

a jerky chuckle croaks from her chest, rustiling her mullet with each jounce, "sensitive now, are we?"

"ellie–" 

"okay, okay– i'll stop." she slides her fingers out, popping them in her mouth while she observes you from this lewd position.

in the sorbet light, you were gorgeous. cunt dripping nectar like a waterfall to your thighs, ass hiked up and sloping into the plateau of your back. you looked so perfect. perfect for her hands to melt into. perfect for her cock to sheathe into. just divine. positively divine.

"alright.." her voice rattles deep, slightly muted in a gulp after tasting your cunt on her tongue, swishing her spit around to pick up every note of flavor.

moments later, you hear the metal clank of a buckle jingle from behind, the prongs strike the floor as her jeans clump up at the base of her ankles, blanketing her feet. then, a silicone tip slots it's bulbous nature between the top of your thighs, smacking up onto your slickened labia playfully.

"god– it's like a fuckin' waterpark back here babe."

her feet scoot closer, poking the chub of your globes with her jutting hip crests, enraptured in the pure way your folds already look like they want to swallow her up. they faintly part as the silicone cockhead smears your arousal from clit to hole, hole to clit. a half–moon smile dilates into the apples of her cheeks, prideful. a smirk you can hear loud and clear in her dirty, outrageous comment. 

"gonna knock that pussy up, hmm? gonna fuck a pair of twins in you so good baby~" she coos, delirious seeing the head of her cock slosh around the fat lips of your pussy, grooving two concentrated lines between her brows and wagging her peachy muscle wedged in her lips. she was like a devil in heaven, and you an angel in heat. two strapping grips slap and clutch onto your ass, the fat bulging through each finger gap, calloused fingertips blending with the texture. her knees bend to crouch her hips slightly, dragging the hem of her brown button–down up by the protrusion of your ass as she aligns her frame level to your cunt. one hand drops down to catch hold of the faux cock and toys the rim of your gummy hole, sinking the head in just barely.

your sensitive entrances' involuntary answer to this scant plugging of your hole clenches the tip up fast, sucking it further in. ellie loved that. loved how your pussy was taking her without a halt. a love so dazing, she begins slipping and inserting the head only, eyeing the contracting hole gorging over the rotund spade each and every small thrust.

a whiny complaint trebles off your gullet, "are y'putting it in? baby.. please." but the petulance in your plea just rouses ellie up– excessively.

ignoring you, her focus tunnels solely on the tight hole kissing her cock in intervals, pleating up her earth brown shirt to eye her constricting muscles speckled in freckles, the pale blue–glossy v–line cadreing her hunter green cock that only deepened the lines in her abdomen with each pump. with her gaze aimed downwards, she speaks directly downwards, "be a good pussy and take my cock, yeah?"

that was her game. her conflicting game. the only words you heard before she fastens the dick bulky in her wrapped grip and lugs her entire length inside, blowing your vulva thin with how straining her size was. wow. a sight she froths over.

"mhm–" she continues, tensing her chords up to flow out a breathy, gritty, whisper, "take my cock like a good pussy." 

you feel the force impact your cervix straightaway, globs of clear lubricant slip and pool through the slim opening her cock barely provides and drips onto your thigh, cold and sticky, marks like paint. "ellie– h'oh fuck!" you wail in the stinging sensation of sudden brimming, which only drives her to crack another slap blistering red on your ass, "eeah!" you squeak, tears scorching the shoreline of your blurred eyes.

she wanted a tear to slip out. she wanted a cohesive sign that her cock felt tight, warm, filling. a kind of filling that bumps your stomach, makes you feel pregnant. cause you would be, take my word for it.

ellie analyzes the new ring of creamy serum wrapping her base like a ribbon of white lace, milky delight. it fades as she drags her length out, and bubbles when she sheathes back in. nothing could stop her finger from sampling the slimy slick, but, no. not this time. 

in her mind, that's her precum. her sperm. not a drop should be dripping out of you.

"g'nna fuck my seed– so, so.. deep." 

and by her word, she knurls her torso into a convex bend as she swathes over you, cottony shirt to back, tickling your flesh. like a dog licking your ear, she mashes the lobe of your ear with her soaked lips. chanting a one–lined hymn in your ear as her cock skids along your ridged walls and returns with a pumping rhythm, keeping your pelvis steady in her slack grip.

"makin' you–" slap, slap, slap, "a mama'," plop, plop, plop, "with my c-cock.. no–one else's." her huffs fan the baby hairs near your ear, lips brushing so dearly on the conch. each sticky bop of your hips plays like a hand smacking water, bringing shame to the ears of every wall witnessing this dirtier–than–porn event. 

your features tog up into a woozy countenance. lips wedged open like an orange slice, pupils reading your upper lashes like a string of musical notes, head jiggling with each lavish pump into your pretty little pussy. it feels so fucking good. spurts of pleasure that make you wish on every damnable star for her to actually get you pregnant. the way she fucks you like this, all pathetically horny with her own ass clenching into each thrust. you'd take her babies in a yoctosecond.

her bushy brows curl and furrow in enthrallment, enthralled by every honeyed whimper she pulls out of you with her dick. it fed her ego, the greedy ego telling her she is impregnating you. each vein, bumpy on the creasing skirt of your blushing hole shaped to fit her cock, felt so real– it hurts. ellies' had enough. she skims her palms just a hairbreadth down the planet of your ass to sink her talons in the supple crevice of your hip and thigh, held hard enough to move you. this meant only one thing.

ellie was tired of playing it safe.

her torso pastily unsticks from your back, casting a gray shadow with her hover, grunting, "listen– t'me," her hips sway and punch with heftier, vehement– stickier thrusts, the fat plastic cockhead sending a flux of pressure with each smash into the tacky wall of your vagina, "answer– d'ya think, mhh– our kids will have auburn hair, like me? frhm– freckles, like me? my eyes?" 

the constant abuse to your cervix chokes up your throat, warbling and going "guh, guhp– unh! fhhummk.." with your flaccid lips damp in slob, like a filthy mess of a bitch.

wrong answer. 

you should have just offered up her name in an exaggerated moan instead.

the extent of her hand extracts from your hips– not without her gift of nail–birthed sickles indenting your skin like scales, and coils back to whack your vainly treated glute. it makes your vision go white, tenderizes your skin and makes you scream.

"n–nnono, els–"

"so– no they won't look like me?" she laughs to herself, and it almost sounds– amusingly disappointed.

"n– yes, yes! they w–"

your throat then nearly guzzles her fingers base knuckles deep, muffled and choking on their stacked width.

"just shut up." ellie warns in a gruff. thing is, she knows that as long as her thickset tip keeps slamming into that assaulted cunt– she'll never hear the end of it. and that's the best part. confliction.

the counter was virtually warming up on your compressed cheek from how long you were in that position. slippery sweat dampened a puddle under your face in a thin pellucid coat. from your current view, you could only see her wrist pushing on your chin– cranking your jaw ajar, and her humping motions bleary in your peripherals. not like seeing her was necessary, you already felt her through and through. 

ellie, with her hips strapping you down in prolonged rams that cause a sharp sear on the hind of your thighs, with the downright sedative pleasure brought by the bumping base to her neglected clit, finds herself earnestly thinking about how a family would look on this farm. her baby, growing in you. her kids, skipping through these rustic halls. her wife, devout enough to nurture them through childhood. but on the perverted hand, her cock fucking a future generation into you, 'her' pussy gluttonous enough to consume it up to the hilt, her whore, eager enough to be the cumbucket to breed as she pleases.

she's gonna breed you like the horndog she is.

but you want to be full of her offspring.

"baby–" a stiff moan pours from her lips, and she glides her cock and digits out. snow white cream follows in strings, strung to her shaft and springs out like paint splatter on the ground as her strap bounces down to a flaccid level. wow. she moans again, this time, breathlessly, "baabby.. get'on th' counter.." 

"hmmuh?" flubbed you, barely able to see the picket fence outside the kitchen window through your graying haze– shapes blurred and melted into each other.

"said," the lone grip on your hip is replaced with the clammy bend of her elbow, tucking under your womb and flipping you around, "on' the counter." and lugs you hurriedly onto the sudor–coated surface with her grasp under your knees. her hands flatten on either side of your shaky thighs– vividly like jello– as her torso huddles close in your space. now that she could see your face, it was sexually comical. 

doe–eyed and glossed, lids puffy and red. patterns of your own saliva glissade down your chin and gleam in the soft light behind you. so hot.

her teeth bear in a parted smirk and she drunkenly stumbles her face down. then, she notices something. a pearly strand of sleek cum trickling over your perineum. like a melted popsicle, you drip everywhere, all over that counter space.

ellie's tongue ticks on the roof of her mouth, sighing, "mmh' fuck, pussy dripping everywhere– clean this counter afterwards, won't you?" spoken like a silken demand, index pointing at the mess.

you keenly nod, squinting with those weepy eyes as you try to discern the moving colors of your girlfriend right as she heaved her fat cock right back inside. stars. stars heat you skin and strike your vision. a night of black spots burn through your eyes and caper around– obscuring ellie's blissed out face. you were already fucked out from the last position, so fucked, you nearly came at the meaty expansion of your aching hole.

ellie could tell, and that was her cue. her goddess given cue to bottom out. the friction of her girth akin to a fist stuffing you up was pushing up on your g–spot, and that knocked a tear out. the ones lashing at your ducts to release, finally did. 

you couldn't feel anything else– anything, but her cock.

moist sloshes cram up the space between you too, smacking and dragging as before. faster, harder, her hips never lapse and pick up the speed. tapping you out like a nozzle draining syrup from a tree, gushing and coating her cock beautifully. smack– smack– smack– goes her groin deluged in your sweet sex juices connecting like webs with each bash of your hips.

on comes a dirty row of her impudent and vile comments– barely stable voice from how fast she pumped, all tepidly whispered on your neck.

"knockin' that fhckin' pussy up– huh?"

you can feel the warmth radiating off her face a breath away, a cheek–length strand of hair now sticks to the sweat veiling her hairline. pores beading with glassy perspiration. just as red as you. huff, huff, gasp.

"that pretty pussys' mine– mhh, all mine."

ellie's palms leave two clammy prints on the marble slab when her fingers pop off and clasp your pelvis. with this grip on you, she pushes your hips hard on her relentless pounds. no wall of your vagina lacks a thrashed kiss from her dick, your hole was just too tight for any air pockets. that tight. just pure ush–gush.

"god' m'sucha dirty slut for ur' pussy, such a fucking whor– ughhn!– wantin' to make you–a mama." grizzled her in a lower voice, but still so rough, sweating and huffing like a dog in heat.

the cupboards creak and squeak, scarcely bearing the racket she induced with her fucking into you.

the intensity marches on.

"els– els, I'm gonna cum.." 

it was nice to hear, but she was infinitely more focused on cumming herself. she was close. very close. eyes screwed tight in the straps kickback digging her clit with firm pressure,  knuckles flushed white as they bent and tried to carve into your hips. ellie couldn't get enough of you.

"yeah– me too, nghh~"

her own slick begins to lather up her crotch, sticking up that auburn bush, dripping off the strapbase and staining the crinkled jean pile directly underneath her.

the kitchen reeked of cunt– yours and hers. delicious sex miasma. the scent of raw arousal coats your nasal cavity, lulling you both to climax– two hearts on the same beat.

but there was one thing. one thing you could give her, that'd change your lives from there on out.

"baabe–" a shallow utter gusts from her lips, shuddering, "can' i fuck you– god, fuck you like this? mate you– make babies with you, more often?" her voice warbles, fighting back the breath that wanted to give away.

the plunging and swelling of her dick parting your walls made it potently harder to answer– but, you creak, taking all the breath she would give you, mouth to mouth.

"yes, ellie– i want to have them."

her eyes squinted ever so slightly, sharpening, pupils blown. a wicked, scantily–contained smirk tugged at the corners of her lips, a glint in her eye revealing the excitement she felt by your words. in a heartbeat, her lips met with yours– wisping and wetting each other up.

but it was no feat to the sudden acceleration of her pistoning hips.

ellie's lips withdraw, moaning rigidly with buffering pants, "gon' make you a baby m–mama' now– ooh fuck!" feeling the same rise to orgasm tighten her stomach. 

"yes– yes! unh‐ uh fuck, ughh!" 

the clanging cupboards bang and thud as they do, but your moans eventually clamor up over them. her cock, sought the last final blows to your gummy ring inside, gathering up all that viscous serum in strings stuck to her bulbous head. this was it. she was finally getting her reward– viscously.

"love you–"

it tightens.

"s'much–"

it pulls.

"thank y– unngghh!"

she snaps.

your thighs convulse and lock around her hips as she buries her dick deep inside, plugging that bruised–to–hell mucousy cervix up. a high so heavenly it curls your body up to hers, cumming all over that filthy fucking cock in clear spurts, plashing all over the veiny shaft that had you weeping moans.

ellie had came too, matter of fact, all over the floor.

a dense and husky moan grates from the lowest region of her diaphragm, "hhhggn– uhhugh– fuck, baby." 

her eyes grew taut and scrunched in ecstasy, jutting her hips and clenching her ass to ride out the orgasm. a spew of her release taints the straps footing and leaks down her thigh, saturating in her skin. veins popped in her gripe, incisors bit her lip nearly hard enough to break skin, and eyes twitched back tenfold, casted heavenward.

a sunset clasps the shingle roof from above, depicted so innocently behind the pane, unknowing to what has come of you two. 

the moment softens.

and you're left with two fatigued bodies.

her arms loosen and flop on your sprawled lap, and her head finds a collapsed purchase on your shoulder. ellie's chest rose, fell, and rose again, swallowing up all the air her lungs lost in the heat. 

"think I just died," she dramatically heaves from her chest, gulping up the pooled spit in the trenches of her gums. a giggle shakes her, "hehe~ did you die?" she jests, nudging her limp hand to your shank.

the words carrying to your ears mish–mashed into an agglomeration of sounds strewn from her actual sentence, "there's n'pie in the oven.." you slur breathlessly, tongue nearly lifeless in the pit of your mouth.

ellie tries her darndest to compress the laugh grizzling from her throat, still winded, "w-what babe?" her head tilts to gawk at you.

"god i'm so dizzy.."

she blows a raspberry from her lips and knits her brows– amused. of course she's a tad worried your energy had been worn from the fucking, but, that's the funny part. she actually did that. her buzzy voice coaxes you back to animation, "want some'in to eat?" 

wait.

that's literally what you came in here for.

wait.

you peek at the green dome next to you, toppled over with dotted strawberry wedges scattered all over the stony tile– and your strawberry jam. really ellie? a pout cockles your lips into a plumper shape, notching your head on a slope, "did'ju knock over.. all of my strawberries?"

she swings her head 'round, feigning innocence, "umm– nope, wasn't me." puffing up her cheeks.

"ellie." 

she blows tersely, "i didn't!" and throws her hands up defensively– in playful spirit.

"and you ruined my panties!" you scold lightheartedly and jab your heel in the back of her thigh– a little bit of punishment. 

"ow!"

a reaction spurns from your lips, replaced by a jaded expression of hushed brows and trying lips that curl your face into one of, content. ellie forced a few puffs to spill from her open oval lips, hereafter curling into that same shit–eating grin that knows she's guilty– chuffed by herself.

then it wanes. wanes like the moon bearing its shrouded cycle. she softens up, softer than the bunny hopping across thick green grass in the season of beltane. this felt more fundamental to her than you might think, but, caring for you was her duty of worship. ever since that day she met you– the evening plait with a crimson ember engulfing air at the center of an autumntime bonfire in jackson. cold perspiration stuck to the glass held in your hands, talking the very ears off every owl present to listen. you had shared, sung, flirted, and saved the kiss for later. a later spent in her bed, all night– rising at dayspring, where she asked you to be her girlfriend at the foot of her door, just as you took your leave. 

every wound you tended to, she tended to yours, and led you here. on this farm. in your own realm of heaven.

"but seriously– do you want something to eat?"

"yeah, i'll um.." you shoo her away from her parked poise between your legs, sliding your weight off the counter with a heft of your forearms pushing you off, "clean the counter." your toes ease onto the floor with a shaky wobble, unable to even straighten your legs out at first. damn, ellie, what have you done.

"yeah, nuh–uh," she briskly bends at the torso and bars her robust arms underneath your mid–back and in the fold of your knee, sweeping you off your heels.

"els, what the f–"

she tousles her woody auburn mullet in a wag of her head, crunching you up closer with her biceps, "you, babe– are going to rest. i'll clean the counter." her brows raise at the end of her emphasized sentence, a silent 'capeesh?'.

her amenability never ceases to blossom those heartstrings of yours.

"yeah, yeah.." your eyes toss around the rim of your brow bone, and land back on her in time to spot a chuckle churn her watermelon pink lips.

those lips then settle and purse into a pucker, idly sidiling her face plumb to your forehead and peppering a moist kiss, pulling back slowly with unhindered affection tugging the corner of her lips into a satisfied smile.

"see? m'taking care of you. just as if–"

"if i was pregnant?"

"mhm.."

"you want it that badly?"

".."

"well– maybe.. jackson has some adoptable kids?"

now you're just feeding that fantasy of hers.

taglist; @whore4abby , @picklesarenice69 (im too dumb to know who wants 2 be on my permanent taglist so pls tell me directly if u ever wanna be tagged in all of my fic posts)

[lovelyjj]

Hi! Hope you’re doing good! If you’re still doing OBX requests, I’d love to know your take of the scene in season 2 where Kiara almost drowned in the sewers and if that happened to reader instead, and had JJ all freaked out and panicked and protective!! Please and thank you 🙏🩷

Sewer

jj maybank x reader

wc: 1.0k

a/n: sorry if this sucks.

“No. No way. Not happening. You’re not going in there.”

“JJ… who else is gonna do it? We have to get the gun somehow,” you countered.

“I don’t want you going in there y/n, I mean it.” JJ crossed his arms.

“What’s the worse that can happen? I get a little dirty?”

“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” JJ pleaded slowly giving into letting you do this.

“I will I promise thank you!”

“She’ll be fine,” Pope chimed in.

“Yeah I’ll be fine,” you gave JJ a reassuring smile.

JJ gave Pope an uneasy look but then nodded his head towards you.

With JJ’s reluctant approval your made your way to crawl into the sewer. It was muddy and wet and full of trash.

You crawled your way through the tunnel trying to hold back your gag. It was dark and dirty but you volunteered to do it so you couldn’t really complain.

JJ was worried, he started biting his nails. He didn’t know what he would do if something happened to you.

“I don’t see anything yet,” you called out.

“It’s probably at the bottom of the catch basin,” Pope shouted.

“Ugh,” you cringed as your shook the muddy water off your hands.

“Gun gun looking for a gun,” you murmured to yourself.

“Guys, I think I found something,” you voiced.

“You guys, there’s something dead in here!” you shouted.

Your screamed and then yelled, “Oh my god! There’s something dead. I repeat…”.

“… there is something dead in here!”

Meanwhile Rafe and Barry were up top by the drain. Rafe bent down and listened to the drain.

“Well, they’re in the sewer,” Rafe commented.

“Flush them out,” Rafe continued.

Barry scoffs, “you flush that pipe, you gonna kill the rat.”

“Yeah.”

“The last thing you need is more dead bodies showing up around this bitch,” Barry warned.

“You realize what you’re doing if you do that?” Barry hissed.

“I mean if you wanna be a pussy, you can leave,” Rafe argued.

“Do you not realize what you are doing, bruh?” Barry looked Rafe in the eyes.

“Get the hell out of the way,” Rafe ordered.

“All right, then. All right, then, tough guy,” Barry backed down.

“You don’t wanna be here for this, go find the truck, okay?” Rafe instructed.

Rafe started turning the wheel that let the water out.

Pope spoke to JJ asking, “Do you hear that?”

“What?” JJ responded.

“Listen.” Pope put out.

You were down in the drain when you herd the sloshing of water.

“Oh shit!”

“Guys? Guys the water!” you yelled.

“Shit! Oh my god! Y/N get out of there now,” JJ shouted.

“I don’t have time! JJ!” you screamed.

“This can’t be happening. Why did I let her go in there?” JJ talked in a panic.

JJ chest was tight and his heart was racing. He was so worried about you he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was panicking.

The water was coming in fast and you were screaming for help.

A flood of water came out from the gated hole where JJ and Pope were standing.

“Maybe there’s a manhole!” JJ shouted.

“Y/N!” Both JJ and Pope called out.

“Go go go go go!”

They started running to the manhole, screaming your name. It took everything in JJ not to faint. Allowing you to drown would be extremely traumatic. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t. He had to save you, there was no other option. A world without his girl is a world he wouldn’t want to live in.

You started climbing the ladder desperately trying to stay above the water. Eventually you reached the top and you stuck your fingers through the slits of the manhole.

“JJ! JJ! Pope! Help! Please i’m over here!” you shouted.

JJ and Pope ran as fast as they could. They finally reached the manhole and were breathing heavy.

“Pull! Pull it!” you said with urgency.

JJ and Pope both grunted as they pulled up on the manhole.

“Hurry! Hurry!”

JJ and Pope continued to pull it.

“JJ! JJ! Please! Please!”

“We are gonna get you out of there I promise baby,” JJ spoke.

The water was rising fast and it soon came up past the drain. JJ and Pope were pulling with all their strength. You were starting to think you were gonna drown. But then by some miracle the drain lid lifted up and fell down in front of the hole, as you emerged into the fresh air.

You collapsed on your hands and knees coughing up a storm.

“I for sure thought I was a goner for a second there,” you coughed.

“You made it baby,” JJ praised.

“ Y/N, You good?” Pope and JJ both questioned at the same time.

“Yeah I’m fine,” you cleared your throat.

“This wasn’t what we needed was it?,” you held up the gun from being stuck in your waistband.

“Holy shit you did it!” JJ cheered.

“Oh my god! Way to go,” Pope exclaimed.

JJ was so proud of you. His heart was so happy that you made it out safely.

The three of you embraced in a group hug and went to take the gun to Shoupe.

————

When the day turned into the evening, you were at heyward’s seafood using the outside shower. JJ was sitting on the bench waiting for you to come out.

You were showering away all the sewage. You felt grateful to be getting clean. You sighed finishing up your shower. You outstretched your hand for a towel which JJ gladly gave you.

The air was crisp and chilly and you felt the wind on your wet hair. You dried off and got changed. When you emerged from the shower stall JJ was smiling at you.

The two of you decided to sit on a nearby table.

“Ya know you really scared the shit out of me today,” JJ started.

“Yeah i know i’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault baby,” JJ soothed.

You gave JJ one of your signature smiles and his heart just about stopped. You enjoyed these moments with JJ. Where it was just the two of you and you enjoyed being together.

JJ was your person and without him you’d be lost. You think maybe if it weren’t for JJ you wouldn’t of got out of the drain. So you were eternally grateful.

“Thank you for saving me J,” you whispered.

“ah it was nothing. I’d do anything for you, you know that right?”

“Yeah i do,” you smiled.

[yanderemommabean]

Yandere backrooms idea: you are fleeing from the latest abomination, monstrosity, or other manner of creature when you stumble through a wall or portal that looks exactly like the one you entered the backrooms through. You're right back where you started. You're so relieved, you almost don't notice the little details that don't add up. Electronics missing cords. The carpet is the wrong texture. The blurred view out the windows. Maybe you're finally tipped off when you get to the front door and find that it won't budge no matter what you do-- it's built into the wall. The sound of static, a familiar noise in the backrooms, fills your ears as you turn around. The entity staring at you smiles as you meet the dull "eyes" of the mockery of a human form it decided to take. Just like your home, it was only the creature's best approximation. It had you backed into a corner now, advancing with its too-sharp grin as your ears rang. No escape. No escape. It caught you in its web, it's not going to let you go. Oh, how they do hope you enjoy the human nest they made for you. After all, you're never leaving again.

You don't believe the door is right there in front of you. There’s no way, no fucking way salvation is just there and for the taking. Somethings wrong, the hallways became too still but Jesus there’s still that feeling that something is watching you, and it makes fear crawl all over your body as if you’re on the verge of running off again to avoid whatever was behind you. 

Something is here and fuck, You don’t  know what to do. What you do know is  if you turn around You’ll find what’s making your senses overloaded and on the verge of self destruction, and Jesus Christ you wouldn’t survive facing that thing. So, forward it is. Turning around right now is a death sentence. 

You step lightly into your kitchen, not daring to call out to your family. No, something tells you to be silent. That something like that could harm them. The majority of it looks the same as you left- was the outlet always that weirdly shaped? Does it matter? Fuck it, keep moving forward, that eerie feeling of you being watched isn’t going away if you stand still. 

You take another light step, and then another, feeling like a being was right behind you and you're surprised you didn’t just break down crying as you managed to flick on a light. Every step was agony, fear taking over your body as you slammed your eyes shut and flipped the switch, the breath of another being brushing against your shoulder like it was just hovering over you. 

You expect a blood bath, a dead corpse, anything to make your paranoia worthwhile but no. Nothing. Everything looks the same. Perfect. Too perfect. The sink is too shiny and the lights had no dead bugs in the bowl, the counter even seemed spotless with no noticeable nicks and cracks from the use over the years. What does it matter? This had to be home, right? Why else would the room be so big and so…quiet? 

Huffing out a breath, you rub your hands down your face feeling like you’re about to throw up. Water sounded amazing right now. Like it would make everything go away and you could just relax and forget the past few events even happened. You head to the kitchen sink to grab a drink of water, settle your nerves and maybe think about taking some anxiety meds you keep for emergencies. 

Maybe you really had made it back? Maybe you’re just shaking from the terrible experience the whole- whatever that place is- did to you. A working sink? That’d never be in that place! Right? It’s just…so still. Not even a breeze from outside, which oddly enough didn’t seem real to you. Just a dark window with nothing beyond it, but perhaps that’s just the adrenaline talking? But not even a shadow or even a cricket chirp…How odd. 

As you sip, the water cooling your body and making your heart rate drop just a bit, your eyes dared to look up to the window above the basin, and your heart stops in your chest as you meet the same inhuman eyes from the endless hallways

The being just shows its unnatural smile, grinning wide and uncanny as a voice right behind you croons  “Do you like it? I worked so hard to make this nest perfect. Now you won't have a reason to leave”

-Mommabean (Sorry mine was kind of short, but still, a wonderful prompt bean!!! 100/10!!!)

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

Your Scars Are Mine

Ch. 3

Ch. 1

Ch. 2

LA! Mihawk X AFAB!Reader

Tags: Fluff, Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Mentions of Violence, I guess that's it, I'm bad at this

⚠️ MASSIVE ASS TRIGGER WARNINGS⚠️ : Self-harm, Blood, Implied PTSD

Summary: In the few months that he has known you, Mihawk has noticed the scars on your arm. You've refused to talk about them and skirted around the subject successfully, but a trip to Shells Town throws everything out into the open in a way that neither of you were prepared for.

It didn't matter. Not the any of the questions or their answers. Right now, Mihawk had to find you, to ascertain that you were safe—both from others and your own demons that he doubted you had buried as deeply as you intended to.

He made his way out of the base and through town in long, purposeful strides, scanning around the few storefronts amd vendors he passed to ensure you weren't still shopping for supplies.

And he slowed at the docks, his sharp eyes catching sight of you on the deck of your sloop, pacing.

Crossing and uncrossing your arms.

Clenching and unclenching your fists, mumbling to yourself.

Rushing a hand back through your hair and jumping in alarm when you knocked your tattered old hat from your head.

Tou stopped in your tracks and stared down at where it had landed for several long seconds, still as a statue...before picking it up and tossing it aggressively into the captain's cabin. Mihawk watched you lean your head against the wall next to the door for another long moment, before kicking at it and storming around the corner toward the small kitchen.

You clearly hadn't seen him, but he had seen enough to be more than a little concerned. He swore under his breath and picked up his pace, pushing past a few Marines and civilians, with a sore suspicion of exactly where the vast majority of your scars had come from.

The door to the kitchen was cracked, and Mihawk saw you were leaned over the dish basin on the counter with your back to him.

Saw you, with the sleeve ofnyour white shirt rolled up nearly to your shoulder, draw the razor sharp edge of one of your daggers across your arm, just above your elbow, flinching and drawing in a sharp breath just before he reached you and grabbed your wrist. You cried out in alarm, dropping the dagger right into the empty basin, whirling around and backing into the countertop.

Your eyes locked onto his, wide as saucers, more vulnerable than he had ever seen them. In their depths swirled astonishment, pain, caution—and fear. Bold as you were, you had never once looked at him with fear in your eyes. Even the first time you had ever laid eyes on him, the first time you had approached him, you hadn't shown a single sign of being intimidated, which was not something he could say of many people at all.

But right now, you were like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf, frozen stiff and utterly helpless.

Mihawk remained frozen for some time himself, not at all used to the jumble of thoughts and emotions swirling through his head. He wanted to shout at you, demand to know what the hell you were thinking—to pull you tight enough against him to knock the wind out if you—to down enough wine to forget about this madness, however briefly.

His eyes flickered to the blood still pouring from the fresh wound in your arm, and shook himself mentally, settling for pulling you over to the small, rounded kitchen table by your wrist and pulling out a chair.

"Sit." He was careful to keep his tone level, to keep any sharp edge from piercing through the command. Still, you obeyed wordlessly, lowering your gaze to your knees and folding your hands together in your lap, your shoulders drooping from your stiffened posture into one of utter defeat. Your breathing was short and shallow as it left your lungs, broken by a small hitch in your throat when Mihawk knelt down and grabbed a clean rag from the handle of of a cabinet behind him pressing it against your arm, carefully wiping away the blood..

Another small hitch interrupted your breathing as he glanced under the rag and sighed. It wasn't deep enough to necessarily need stitches, but they would help far more than they would hurt. He lifted your oposite hand and placed it over the rag, subtly slipping your second dagger from your belt and sliding it quietly across the counter behind him. "Keep pressure on it."

Every move he made either caused you to jolt in brief alarm or your breath to catch in your throat. Mihawk kept himself focused on the wound itself for now, simultaneously trying to gain control of his thoughts and shove them away entirely.

To figure out how the hell to address the subject of you slicing open your own arm.

Why exactly you had done it.

What the hell had possessed you to—

No. No, this had to be handled carefully. Handled in a way Mihawk was entirely unaccustomed to handling things.

He pulled the other chair over alongside your own—effectively blocking your path to the door in the process, a precaution he considered necessary—and set down a first aid box he had found tucked away in the back of one of the cabinets and a nearly full bottle of what smelled like strong whiskey. He pulled down the damp rag he had slung over his shoulder, shrugged out of his coat and laid it across the oposite side of the table to avoid getting any blood on it, and sat down, pulling your hand and the blood-drenched rag away from the wound.

It was a clean cut, considering how sharp you kept your daggers, and that alone was good. He pulled the clean damp rag down that he had draped over his shoulder and set to wiping the drying blood away from around it, glancing toward your face. Your eyes were still turned down toward your lap, your hands trembling a little now as you folded them together.

He sighed to himself, shaking his head a little.

What an absolute mess this day had turned out to be.

"Are you angry?"

The sound of your voice very nearly made him jump—he paused with the rag just beneath the shallow gash, his eyes darting back up to your face. Your voice was so quiet he might have thought he imagined it, if not for the way you swallowed and averted your gaze further away, toward the table at your other side.

"No," he said after a moment, keeping his tone level. Calm. "A bit frustrated, perhaps." You bit your lip, and gave a short nod. "And...curious as to why."

You hesitated a moment, still biting your lip. Your hands squeezed together briefly in your lap while his gaze lingered on the subtle shifts in your expression, long enough that you glanced over and your eyes met briefly.

The pain and hopelessness in yours made you look years younger—perhaps like the fourteen year old girl that had witnessed the destruction of her home and the cold-blooded murder of the woman who raised her.

Mihawk turned his gaze back to your arm after a moment.

"How much did Garp tell you?" you asked quietly.

"Far more than I bargained for," he sighed. He paused when you grew tense for a moment, realizing immediately how his words could have been taken. "Not like that," he said lightly, shaking his head. "I simply wasn't expecting anything of that magnitude." You still remained tense as he finished cleaning the wound, and kept the rag pressed to it as he picked up the open bottle of liquor. He decided to steer the topic slightly away, to attempt to ease into the main issue at hand. "I'm honestly curious how you managed to survive escaping into the Grand Line on a dinghy."

You glanced over slightly, not quite meeting his eyes. Your hands shifted in your lap, gripping lightly at the hem ofnyour shorts.

"I was lucky," you said quietly. Shrugged your other shoulder. "I was able to procure enough rations to last for a week. It was a time of year where the waters were relatively calm in that particular part of the Grand Line. I woke up the seventh morning to find a merchant schooner hauling my boat in. They saw it was a Marine boat. Discussed taking me in until I blurted out what happened and they took pity. Let me work as a deckhand for room and board and safe passage. They were bound for Loguetown. I got off there, worked odd jobs around taverns and inns that were as far from Marine territory as possible. Saved up enough Berries to purchase a sloop and sustain a comfortable lifestyle over a couple years and set out on my own."

"The Marines wouldn't have bothered you regardless." Your eyes twitched in his direction, then back down to your hands. "As Garp so aptly put it, you'll remain off their radar 'as long as the correct people remain in power and you don't do anything stupid.'"

You scoffed quietly. "Did you tell him he was wasting his pity?"

"No," Mihawk said slowly, pulling the rag away from your arm as he lifted his gaze to look at you. Not yet, he decided. You were still too tense. Too combative. "Frankly, I stared at him like he was speaking another language until he elaborated." The corner of your lips twitched the slightest bit, and your tension eased a little amid a small sigh. He lifted the bottle over, and you glanced over at it. "This is going to—"

"I know," you said. You drew in a deep breath, shifting back in the chair a bit, and held your arm out. "Go ahead."

Mihawk lifted his eyebrows a bit, his eyes lingering on your face briefly. Passing down the length of your arm, the line of scars winding down the limb beneath your newest wound, wondering for a moment exactly how many times you had done this yourself.

Then he tilted the bottle, letting the strong alcohol pour over the inflamed cut. You drew in a sharp breath through your teeth, your eyes snapping shut in a grimace, tensing up and shaking for a moment. You held your other hand out, your eyes still closed, and he handed the bottle off to you, watching you take a deep swig of the amber liquor.

You drew in a deep breath as you set it heavily on the table, and let it out in a shaking sigh, laying your head back against the back of the chair.

Lifted it and took another drink, and he plucked it from your hand as you lowered it this time—too much and you would only succeed in thinning your blood and bleeding all over the damned place again. You didn't question it, letting the bottle slip easily out of your grasp, your hand falling back to your lap as you caught your breath. Mihawk leaned back to set it aside on the counter, keeping his eyes on you. You were a ticking time bomb right now—one wrong move, one wrong word, and you were going to go off. There was no avoiding it.

There wasn't much he could do beyond attempt to lessen the blow—or simply get it over with.

It took only a moment for Mihawk to choose the former. Once you lifted your head, still breathing a bit heavily, he stretched his arm across the back of your chair.

"Did you ever intend to mention you mention you were raised by one of the most notorious pirates in modern history?" he asked.

He was a little surprised when you shook your head no, your head drooping, your chest still rising and falling heavily. "I...try not to think about her much," you replied. The pain seemed to have had something of a sobering affect on you—you spoke a bit louder now, a bit more confidently. You swallowed swallowed, running a hand back over your hair, and you turned your head, leveling your eyes with his.

"My last memory of her is watching a vengeance-crazed Marine Admiral saw her head off of her shoulders with a bowie knife."

For a moment, Mihawk could do nothing but stare in your eyes—not moving, not breathing, absorbing the toneless quality of your quiet words, the pain and anger in your gaze. After a long moment, he lifted his hand and pinched at his temples, shaking his head and drawing in a slow, deep breath. He lifted his other hand to the back of your neck and pulled you in so your forehead rested against his shoulder.

"She wasn't a pirate when I knew her, anyway," you said quietly. "I knew she had been, but she never talked about it. Not around me, at least. I think she was trying to avoid glamorizing it so I wouldn't follow in her footsteps. I probably still would have. At least she's not here to be disappointed in me." You gave a slow sigh, the breath trembling a little as it left your lungs. "Though she likely would be here if I had just done what she said and stayed out of sight."

"Don't do that." He kept his voice low but his tone firm—you weren't doing yourself any favors if your were blaming yourself for something as heinous as that. You drew in a sharp breath, and let it out as another slow, trembling sigh, your shoulders tensing a little again. He lowered his hand, wrapping his arm around them. You had a tendency to bolt any time you started to get the least bit vulnerable, and he had no intention of letting you. Not this time. "And it's not worth hurting yourself over."

"Yes it is," you said sharply. You stil didn't lift your head, but he still tightened his hold around your shoulders, just to be sure. You cleared your throat, but it didn't quite hide the hitch in your breath. "She wouldn't tell me about any of her scars." You swallowed audibly, your voice breaking as you went on in a softer tone. "She...told me they were hers to bear. Not mine. That they were reminders of her regrets and mistakes she made. I...I guess I didn't understand until I got this one." You lifted your hand to your neck, the same place Garp had indicated earlier when Mihawk had asked him about your scars. "Every time I saw it in the mirror all I could see was her. Hear her telling that goddamned Marine son of a bitch that he could do whatever he wanted with her as long as they let me go."

Your breath came in short, controlled bursts, your knuckles white as you gripped at the hem of your shorts.

"I have to remind myself. Any time I lose. Get too confident or let my guard down. Any time I make a mistake." Another deep breath, trying and failing to harden your nerve, still shaking like a leaf. "I have to remind myself that *one* mistake and I could—I could lose everything all over again."

"God dammit..." he muttered under his breath, lifting his hand to your hair and briefly lowering his forehead to the crown of your hair. You had this so deep-seated into your mind, so firmly established that it was like a law to you. A code that you had no choice but to follow, that you had no choice but to suffer for every mistake you made and trap yourself within a web of regret just to keep yourself safe.

Mihawk lifted his head from over yours, and took your face in his hands to lift your head. You swallowed as your eyes met, and for a moment the sight of the tears streaming down your cheeks made him freeze, made his chest ache, his own shoulders tense. You were on the verge of shattering like glass, and he didn't have any choice but to let it happen. He drew in a slow breath, keeping his gaze locked onto yours.

"You agreed," he said slowly, "some time ago, that you belong to me." You swallowed. "Which means that these..." He lowered one hand to your arm, and you tensed the same way you always did when his fingertips brushed across the column of scars extending down your soft skin, "...are not just yours. And that you're hurting more than just yourself— Don't," he added firmly when you clenched your eyes shut, your breath hitching, and you opened them again after a moment. "You learn from mistakes you've made and move on. You don't trap yourself inside them and live in misery." Your gaze fell from his as you bit down hard on your bottom lip, openly flinching when a whimper left you. "I personally have trouble believing that was what your grandmother intended for you when she gave her life to ensure you kept yours."

That was it—that was the straw that broke you. Your head fell, your eyes clenched shut, a torrent of tears falling from them. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you against him again, lowering his head over yours as your arms wrapped around his ribs so tightly that it was almost painful. You sobbed into crook of his neck like a child, broken apologies scattered between the sharp hitches in your breath, and he remained silent. Kept his own breathing slow and steady, cradling your head against his shoulder, letting you spill your heart in a way your solitary lifestyle had never allowed you to before.

Letting you calm down on your own terms, your tension slowly, slowly giving way until you were all but limp against him. Your breathing slowed until there was only an occasional hitch in your breath. It felt like hours had passed even though daylight still poured through the open door behind Mihawk,, casting his shadow over you while he combed his fingers through your hair.

"You won't be doing this again." You gave a small nod in agreement, not lifting your head.

"N...no stitches." He lifted his head a little at your quiet words, your voice hoarse. "This one has to scar." You sniffed, lifting your head finally and meeting his eyes. "I have to remember it so I never do it again."

He glanced down at the cut a couple inches above your elbow, and sighed. "Fine." He shifted his gaze back to your bloodshot eyes, and lifted his hand to rest it against your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears still clinging to your skin. "Fine. But never again."

You swallowed.

Nodded shortly, your eyes remaining firmly on his as you repeated the words back, your voice quiet, trembling, but unquestionable in its intensity.

"Never."

[amethystamanda]

Pitcher and Basin Set (6 items)

This is a set I started, as far as I can tell, last September. It started as 'how hard is it to convert something from TS3?' It's been converted before, but I didn't really care, because it was just to see if I could do it.

Then, of course, I couldn't leave it at that. I wanted the basin and pitcher together and separate. I wanted them empty and filled with water. And then, when I came back to it, I wanted different designs and colours, and I wanted a sink to match--I would not have been able to do that when I first started working on these, I think, and it's still far from perfect.

There are six items, to mix and match throughout your sim's home:

An empty pitcher

A pitcher full of water

An empty pitcher in a basin

A pitcher full of water in a basin

A basin full of water

A basin full of water that works as a sink (identical to the deco basin but functional)

The basins come in 8 colours (the original 3 from TS3 and 5 solid colours), matching the pitchers.

The pitchers come in 38 colours (the original 3 from TS3, 5 solid colours, and 6 different flower designs on the 5 main colours).

Everything is properly tagged for the base colour.

The 5 deco items are tagged as sculptures and bathroom accents. The sink should be off-the-grid compatible.

Poly count is 148 to 492.

Everything costs 100 simoleons.

About the sink:

There's clipping when it's being used. I can't fix that without remaking the mesh so that it doesn't match the other parts of the set.

It gets dirty without being visibly dirty. It's probably fixable, but honestly I want this in my game now instead of spending potentially hours to days figuring out where I went wrong with that.

You can put it anywhere you can put small deco objects. If you put it too low, sim animations will happen in mid-air. If you place it too high, sims will reach inside the surface of whatever it's on. As far as I can tell, there's nothing I can do about that, because the animation is based on the sim, not on the object--the game expects the one off the grid basegame sink with decent stats to be in a counter, and animations are at that height.Linzlu's Samantha's Commode (used in the picture above) is the closest to being the correct height, which is probably because she also converted the same pitcher and made it into a functional sink. You can get both here https://linzlu.tumblr.com/post/613615726759215104/samanthas-collection-i-teased-a-remake-of-my

It can break. I am not currently aware of how to make a sink unbreakable without creating custom tuning (which makes it more likely to break with patches, which is not worth it for this set in my opinion).

Make sure the arrow is pointing in an accessible direction! It needs to point towards where your sim will stand.

I don't remember WHY I didn't make a bowl with no water, but I remember there being a reason, and I don't want to create a whole new item right now. Maybe later.

Download, individually or a zip: http://simfileshare.net/folder/222502/

[pedge-page]

Rough Day

Joel x f!reader smut

Warnings: rough sex, spanking, free use, unprotected, kissing, some soft joel at the end

18+ only, minors DNI

- - - -

You love when Joel has a bad day.

Not because you want him to suffer or struggle, but rather because you know he'll need to take all his angers out on something. At the end of the day, you do what you can to make sure that something--is you.

You hear the front door slam, his shoes kicking off and bouncing against the wall. You peer over from the kitchen to see his angry huffing, chest puffed out, biceps tense and straining over the sleeve as he rolls them up his arm. He makes eye contact with you and you gulp, trying your best to hide your smirk. He's anything but happy to see you. He strides towards you, his dark eyes locked on yours, making you feel small, puny, like prey, as he grows closer and closer and becomes larger and larger against your small frame.

Joel's meaty left hand immediately grips your throat, hard enough to lift you just barely on your toes. His mouth seeks purchas on yours, swallowing your lips whole as he devours, eats, consumes you with a lust filled kiss. His tongue dives into your mouth and overwhelms you with aggression. Despite the agression, you know this, you know Joel, and you can't help but melt into his touch.

He pulls away, snarling, casting down on your beady eyes. His hand tenses, palm spayed across your cheeks while his thumb pulls at the corner of your mouth. He'll be leaving finger print bruises across your face withe grip he has. You try to suck his thumb in the awkward angle. His growl vibrates in his chest.

It's as if he's asking if you'll be the one thing that works right today, that behaves. You nod once.

Joel roughly yanks you around, bending you over the sink as his hand makes its way to the back of your neck to hold you down. You feel his feet kick yours, legs spread wide so the he can step between you and oh God you can feel the hard outline of his denim clad bulge pressing against your ass. You let out a heady whimper, arching your back so slightly to let him know you're begging for it. He pulls your pants and panties down in single motion before his palm comes down on each cheek. You breathe out harshly, the stinging pain sending a gush of arousal between your legs. You don't see the satisfied smirk plastered on his face as he soothingly rubs the red marks on your ass.

With his right hand, he pulls his jeans down below his balls, cock bouncing up to his shirt. His slides it against your wet folds repeatedly, slicking it up in your juices. You shiver as the tip of his cock slaps against your clit a few times, circling your entrance without warning, he's slamming his dick balls deep in one go.

The stretch is magical. Your stomach tenses as your cunt squeezes around his massive length. Joel groans above you, and you feel the slight lessening of tension in his grip above you.

He needs this. He needs you.

Joel sets a rough pace, fucking his cock with no regard for your comfort. Your whimpering only turns him on more. His right hand grips your hip as his thighs slapping against your ass, driving himself forward. More, more, more, rocking your whole body until you're gripping the edge of the counter, on your tip toes, to prevent yourself from falling forward into the sink basin. He grunts loudly with each thrust, staring at where his glistening length disappears into your tight heat and fuck, it's a sight.

You love it when he uses you like this. Neither of you have any regard for your own orgasm, only his. You feel like a doll made to be used as he sees fit, ONLY for his pleasure. And that alone gets you wet enough to take him like this.

After only a few minutes, you can feel his pace falter, now just grinding his hips into your ass as he searches for the deepest part of you. His grip on the bsck of your neck tightens as he pulls you upright, your back flush against his chest while he grinds. His hand snakes back to the front of your neck and pulls your head to the side, forcing you into a needy kiss. He's trying so hard to breathe through his nose, harsh breath against your cheeks, refusing to separate his lips from yours. The soft grunts from his throat become louder. You can feel his heavy balls tensing, only a moment later he stills as deep as he can go, breathing out the headiest, filthiest moan into your open mouth. His eyes squeezed closed, he empties his seed inside you, pulsing with each rope.

He keeps you in the uncomfortable position, panting as he comes down from his high, kissing your jaw, the corner of your mouth, cheek, so soft and gentle in complete contract to how he handled you just moments ago. It's his way of taking care of you, thanking you, caring for you. Of reminding you he loves you, even if he's never said it: he's a man a few words. But these moments speak louder than he ever could.

You spin around to face him fully. Your lips meet in a gentle, loving kiss. He pulls away with a heavy and satisfied sigh. You can feel the stress leaving his body, shoulders and arms losing their tension. His fingers gently wrapping around your waist to pull you close.

Joel's eyes linger on yours, foreheads pressed together. He scoops you up into his arms and carries you to the bath.

[harrieatthemet]

Needle

Summary: in which Harry brings you flowers to minimize the pain of a needle, and you've decided to throw out your baby books.

Word Count: 2.6k

Author's note: taking it to the very beginning and gifting all of us (myself included) the series of events that brought us to our reigning queen: Angel Baby.

It's her world, we're just living in it: she lives here

It’s resting menacingly between his fingers, staring you down as though it’s got a mind of it’s own. There’s a very familiar sensation that’s starting to conjure itself up in the pit of your stomach; fear and the anticipation of unavoidable pain. Honestly, the longer you fixate on the bulk of the needle the more the feeling that started in your gut starts to expand towards your chest. 

“Just do it,” you blurt out, “get it over with.”

You’re not intentionally trying to squirm. Fight or flight is just loitering deep within your instinctual reflexes, which is making it kind of hard not to writhe around a bit. You don’t know if it’s the gush of cool air that falls in through the cracked window or the way Harry moves closer to your exposed abdomen but you can’t help but jolt a bit. 

“Just hold still poppet, promise m’gonna make it quick.” 

He’s eye level with your lower back now, crouched down with his knees hovering brazenly above his feet. Before he advances any closer he peeks up at you. It’s almost as if he’s silently asking for permission to get on with it. You just nod before sealing your eyes shut, like you typically do. 

There’s an entire routine for this that’s he nailed down to a T. In an attempt to soothe a bit of your nerves, he always lays his hand flat to the base of your stomach. That’s where he lets his thumb rub a few circles as a way to ease the nerves a bit; not just yours, but his too. His newest addition is delivering a small kiss to the spot he pokes you with the needle. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, but he feels like an extra step for good luck couldn’t hurt at this point. He doesn’t mind that this particular shot goes into your butt. He’s big on good luck rituals, so he’s not about to fuck with the juju on this one.

One bit he refuses to change is to dig up something distracting to draw your attention elsewhere. It doesn’t always work. In fact, you don’t think it’s ever worked at all. You’d never outwardly admit that it’s a useless ploy; you know he’s just trying to take some of the edge off. Each time it’s something different and he always tries to pick something ridiculous or outlandishly stupid. 

“Y’know,” he grins as he takes the fleshy part of your belly in between his thumb and index finger “I literally just kissed your ass.”

A proud smirk plants itself on his mouth when he hears an exhale-like laugh slip out of you. It fades into a frown though as he jabs at you with the needle, because you suck it back in with a sharp breath. One of your hands is gripping onto the basin of the sink, and the other is digging it’s fingers into the flimsy material of his shoulder in an attempt to offset the impending burning sensation. He can almost feel your fingernails creating small crescents into the surface of his skin. 

It’s a relief once he can finally pull the needle out. He hates seeing you in pain. Even though this was an endeavor you both willingly agreed to embark on, he hates being the one to put you in pain. That’s why he breathes out in comforting release when he can put the empty needle onto the kitchen counter. 

“S’all finished now,” his tone is so calm because he knows the stifling burning sensation is well underway, “no more shots.”

His eyes are trained on you as you wiggle your jeans back up your legs, wincing a bit when the denim veers over the injection spot. And you fiddle with the zipper before looping the button back in, smoothing out your shirt over the waistband as a way to push the last 6 minutes completely from your mind. 

Finally you bring your gaze to meet his, moping a bit in the process, “You said that last time.”

“I mean it,” he tuts, the coolness of his rings meeting your cheeks as he lays both hands flat on your face, “can feel somethin’ different this time.”

He doesn’t care that he goes in for a peck on your mouth and still feels the frown on your lips. For good measure, he delivers a few more at rapid speed until he finally feels your frown lines subside. That’s how he can start to feel a little more content. He’s completely at ease when he pulls his face back a bit, analyzing the more lax expression on your face while he strokes his thumbs near your temples. 

“Maybe” you answer flatly, “I’m not getting my hopes up, though.”

Though he’s limited in what he can do to mitigate all that comes with the IVF process, he’s made it his priority to over-compensate in what he actually can do to try and make up for the things he can’t. If he could physically take the shots himself he would in a heartbeat. But he can’t, so he teeters on the border of helplessness when you get down in the mouth like this. He’d compensate with long vacations, drowning you in little gifts sporadically or planning quirky dates to keep your energy up. There was a shift after the most recent miscarriage that even doubling the size of your wedding ring diamond couldn’t reverse. So now he just tries to stick solely to offering his optimistic support whatever chance he gets. 

“Thank you for these,” you hum in gratitude as you bring the bouquet of flowers beneath your nose, “I feel like I should be getting you flowers, though.”

“Flowers fo’ me?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you, “Why’s that?”

“Didn’t you just open mouth kiss my ass cheek?” 

His laugh starts in the back of his eyes as they crinkle in amusement, tickling the back of his throat as it spills from his mouth and echos through the kitchen. With a shake of the head he mocks you for a minute by puckering his lips, handing you the ice pack he fished out of the freezer so you could minimize the burn from the injection site. 

He gleefully accepts your invitation to handle the flowers; unwrapping them with nimble fingers as he peels back the paper to expose the stems. There’s amusement twinkling in his eye as he catches you slipping the bunny shaped ice pack inside the butt of your jeans, fidgeting with it so it’ll stay in one place. The amusement quickly deteriorates though when he opens the garbage to throw out the paper and greeted with something of a much more somber tone. 

“Y/N,” his shoulders drop a bit, “y’wanna tell me why these are in here?” 

Though your back is turned to him so you can’t physically see what it is he’s referring to, you already know exactly what he’s talking about. If he’s got the garbage open you know he’s looking at the pile of baby books mounted at the very top. You know how he is, how he wants to take care of everyone all the time. And because of that, you willfully decided to omit your brief breakdown earlier when you went through your nightstand and stumbled upon those books hidden beneath a couple pairs of tights. 

“Not particularly” you admit, back still turned to him, “just had a kinda weird morning.”

There’s a lingering silence that takes up a chunk of space in the room. You’re not willing to divulge anymore than you already have, and Harry waits a minute before throwing out the paper before closing the garage. He wants to make sure he strings together the proper things to say to you before saying anything at all. 

It’s once he gathers what he needs to that you don’t hear him, but feel him; the front his body pressing into the back of yours. He smirks a bit when he feels the chill of the ice pack through your pants, hands slithering around your waist before he interlocks his fingers and rests both hands on your stomach. A hum of approval gurgles in his throat when he feels you lean into the embrace so he can rest his head atop your shoulder. 

“S’gonna happen” his whisper is like a lull in your ear, his lips right up against them, “We’ll go t’the doctor in a few days and do th’extraction and just take it day by day. Good news this time, I promise.” 

He delivers it with kisses to your head in between words, as though it’ll somehow permanently ingrain into your mind and become a staple in your thought process. 

In a way, it almost does. 

On a loop in your mind his words play; over and over throughout the next few days without pause in sight. He tries to reiterate them as much as he can whenever he feels like you need a little extra support; the egg retrieval, the implantation process, all of it and everything in between. If this has been a difficult road for him to go down, he truthfully can’t imagine the cross you’ve been bearing through it all. All he can do for the next couple of days, though it pains him there isn’t anything more he’s capable of, is offer as much moral support and words of encouragement that he’s capable of producing. 

“How y’feeling?” He’s asking with a wide, forced smile as he peeks over at you from the driver’s seat, “Feelin’ good?” 

His hand unoccupied by the steering wheel is making itself useful on your upper thigh. It’s where his fingers are tapping in tune to the key of the music humming from the car stereo. And every so often they’ll stop to give your leg a squeeze; his way of comforting you on the trek to the long-await, very dreaded doctors appointment. The tone of the afternoon is overkill perkiness, and Harry is setting the mood by sparing no gesture big or small. 

“Har relax,” you laugh, “I’m all good.” 

There’s no point in rebutting with anything or doubling down on the enthusiasm like he’s been doing all morning. You’re answer was definitive enough to tell him that you weren’t interested in dragging that conversation any further than where you left it. That’s fine; he’s playing by your rule book today anyways. 

It’s why he doesn’t make that cheesy cat joke to the girl behind the desk at the doctor’s office. He’s said it about a million times and knows you’re sick of it. He doesn’t stand up when the attending nurse hangs in the doorway of the waiting room, calling out for a ‘Ms. Styles’ and being corrected by Harry with the usual (and polite) ‘it’s Mrs. Actually’. He’s so sure to keep you in a calm and collected state that he doesn’t make a vampire joke or pretend to pass out when the nurse puts the line into your vein to take a blood sample. 

“No fake faint this time,” you muse teasingly, “they grow up so fast.” 

From his seat in the corner you watch him playfully roll his eyes, mimicking you under his breath before he stands up and straightens himself up. He wants to take a firm stance by you, who’s perched meekly on the examination table swinging your legs back and forth to pass the time. 

You won’t tell Harry in fear of him leaning into the overcompensating role of ‘caretaker’ and ‘fixer of all problems’, but you’re stomach is in a million tight little knots and your eyes are starting to glaze over. At first you wanted to fault it to exhaustion; you barely got an hours worth of sleep last night because the onset of anxiety was too overbearing to keep your eyes shut for more than a few minutes. 

“I don’t think I’m meant to be a mom,” you sigh forlornly, and his eyes go wide at the bluntness, “I don’t think- I don’t wanna do this again if it doesn’t work, okay? Is that okay?”

It’s almost an a-ha moment for Harry. He’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop because he couldn’t really wrap his head around how mild you were being. But there it was, the revelation from you’d he’d been holding his breath for. It’s not what he wanted to here but nonetheless, he knew it was bound to come at some point. 

"Whatever y'want, poppet. Just want y'to be happy."

He nods in agreement as he says it, hoping it's enough. If this was the end, than it was the end. All he can do is offer a kiss before a long-lingering hug, which you take as confirmation that he understands you’re just not equipped to keep at this further than the point you’re at. 

“How’re we doing today?”

Both you and Harry stiffen out a bit once the doctor immerses himself into the room, answering with a chipper ‘good’ in unison. It tells Harry to prep for the impending bad news. It feels like he regressed and sunken back into the last time he was here. The memory is almost too vivid; the perpetual ball of dread in his stomach, the look of disappointment that swept across your face before a few tears dribbled down your cheek, the sob or two you choked out in the otherwise silent car ride home. The memory is subconsciously prepping him for what’s to come, and he’ll be here to pull himself up by the boot straps to make sure you have plenty of space to crumble once the doctor reads off the plastic board in his hands. 

“Tell me how you’re feeling,” the doctor asks, plopping himself down in one of those backless spinning chairs to scoot himself closer, “anything worth making a note of? Nothing is too big or small.” 

“Not really” Harry answer is simply a mindless, knee-jerk response, “just like-oh, y’asking, no ok-ok sorry.” 

The doctor chuckles a bit, saying something to Harry about how nerves are normal. Honestly, you’re only half listening and both of them are as audible as white noise. You’ve mentally checked out as you anticipate the news to come. You wish you were out of your body or anywhere else.

“Just tired,” you admit, slowly nodding as you purse your lips, “really tired. A little bit of cramping, too. Mostly tired, though.” 

That’s about all you’re willing to disclose for your quaint audience of two. Though you are literally and physically exhausted, perhaps there was a bit of a metaphoric meaning to it too. This process is tiring. Consistent bad news is tiring. Being physically incapable of giving Harry the child he so desperately wants is so fucking tiring. 

All the doctor does is nod his head in a way to in-audibly tell you he’s making a mental note of your vague list of symptoms. There’s a terse pause where the room falls into a quiet pause. The only noise to be heard is when your doctor flips one of the pages on his clipboard before swiftly folding it in half. 

“Well,” his breath out is in a more positive tune, “all normal symptoms for the first trimester.” 

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion before your body begins to go completely numb, though Harry’s hand gives your a comforting squeeze. He looks at you first, lips spread in a little O as his eyes nearly double in size. Frantically he tries to rack his brain for something to say, and while nothing seems to be coming out, the doctor swoops in to do enough talking for him.

The doctor extends his hand out to you, the folded paper in his palm and a grin etched on the lower half of his face, “Congratulations.”

[rynneer]

Misty Memories Cold

When you wake in Fíli’s bed with no recollection of anything after an accident in Mirkwood, he’s ready to risk anything, even his uncle’s wrath, to bring back what you had together.

< Previous | Next >

Chapter Two

You’ve never missed plumbing more than you do now, looking around the bathroom. Polished stone walls, a polished stone floor. Just like every room in the mountain. Oh, how you long for a warm, hardwood floor.

Small basins sit on a granite counter below a mirror, with a bucket tucked underneath for easy refilling. The mirror is covered with a heavy cloth—Fíli says it’s been shattered and will fall apart if the cloth is moved. The rightmost basin is spotless, reflecting the light from the lamp hanging over your head. Another is decorated with long hairs that you pulled from your head when you tried to brush your poor mane.

Though at first you chuckle at how neat Fíli keeps his side of the counter, it dies in your throat. Maybe he no longer does it, but you recall that early in the journey, he would only tidy his things up when something was bothering him. To see his side scrubbed so clean—he must be very bothered.

It doesn’t take much to figure out what’s bothering him, either. It’s been a few days since you awoke in the middle of the night, head emptied of your life together. And while you certainly have feelings for him, your schoolgirl crush falters against his fierce love. Your heart leaps when you imagine touching him, yet you flinch from his hands. The right balance has yet to be struck.

With a sigh, you swipe your hand along the cool metal of your washbasin, gathering the hairs into a ball and flicking it onto the counter. You’ll dispose of it when you finish.

Fíli, eager to tend to your every need, already filled the large, marble bathtub with hot water. A pleased sigh escapes you as you step in. But your heel slides forward on the bottom of the tub, and you fall with a yelp, your head smacking the stone before you slip under.

drowning. drowning drowning drow–

Sudden panic shocks your system. You surge back above the surface, your breaths coming in short, shallow bursts.

“Y/N!” Fíli bursts through the door. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

Instinctively, you hug your knees to your chest to hide your body. Fíli rubs your shoulders from behind. “Easy, love. What happened?”

You take a moment to compose yourself, taking deep, steady breaths. The back of your head throbs painfully. “I just fell. I’m alright.”

“You’re not alright,” comes his worried voice from behind you. A groan of pain escapes you when he touches the tender spot where your skull met the stone. He leans forward over your shoulder and rinses his hand in the water before standing and snatching a towel from the counter. You stare dumbly at the red liquid falling through the water from where his fingers left it. With a shaky hand, you probe the back of your head. Your fingertips come away red with blood. More pain, as Fíli presses the towel against your hair.

“It’s not too bad,” he says after a long silence, lifting the towel and gently parting your wet hair around the wound. “Just a cut. Head wounds always look worse than they are.”

You’re not sure if he’s trying to reassure you, or himself.

Fíli dips the bloodied towel in the water and wrings it out. He places it in your hand and brings it to your head. “Hold that there for a moment.” You hear him bustling around in the wooden cabinet by the door. He mumbles something under his breath about dust and cobwebs before grunting in frustration. “There!” His bare feet slap against the floor. For the first time, he comes around in front of you. In his hands, he carries a roll of bandages and a small flask of alcohol.

You almost drop the towel from your head in your rush to cover your chest. Heat pulses from your face in waves so intense that he must be able to feel it.

Fíli’s shoulders sag. “I’m your husband. You do not need to cover up in front of me,” he reminds you, though you both know you won’t listen. He strips his belt from his trousers and places it in your hand. “Close your eyes. Bite down on this.”

Your brow furrows, but you do as he says. Fíli removes the towel from your hand. You hiss in pain as he presses an alcohol-soaked bandage against your head, burning like a brand of fire. You’re glad for the belt now as your teeth dig into the leather. You lean forward instinctively to escape the pain, but Fíli quickly puts a hand on your forehead and pulls you back

“Hold still,” he grunts as he begins to wrap you up. You strain against him, the pain starting to make your eyes water. “I said, hold still!” he snaps this time, fingers digging into your temple.

Surprised at his harsh tone and rougher handling, you relent. After days of feather-soft touches and kind, understanding words, it’s almost a relief. Maybe he hasn’t quite lost his edge yet. Silence falls as he finishes his ministrations.

“I’m sorry, amrâlimê,” Fíli says at last. He shifts so he’s kneeling at your side instead. “I hate to see you in pain, and then my touch caused you more pain when I was trying to help… it’s too much like the first time.”

“The first time?”

Fíli winces and curses. You guess he didn’t mean to let that slip. He holds out his hand, helping you out of the now lukewarm water. It takes all your willpower not to hunch over, to cover yourself in front of him. He reaches up to the curtain hiding the mirror. Before you can protest, remind him that it’s broken, he sweeps the cloth away and wraps it around you as a makeshift towel.

The glass is pristine, newly polished. Not a single flaw mars its surface.

“I didn’t want to add more to your worries if I could help it,” he explains. “I wanted a chance to warn you before you saw.” Fíli leads you to the mirror.

When your face comes into view, you gasp. A harsh pink scar slices across your right cheek, ending on the underside of your jaw. You raise a shaking hand to trace the path, feeling now the slight dip in your skin. A few other scars pepper your body, ones you’ve already seen, but none as obvious as this.

“I tried to keep you out of the fighting, I really did,” Fíli’s whisper is shaky. “But we got separated… and then it just wouldn’t heal properly and–” He breaks off, tears welling up in his eyes, the memory clearly upsetting him.

With tears in your own eyes, you step closer and lean against him, resting your head on his chest. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “For everything. I’m so sorry, Fíli.”

Fíli takes you into his arms, laying his cheek on your head. The two of you stay like that for a long time. He was right—you do fit very nicely in his arms at this size.

“Y/N? Fíli?” There’s a thudding on the door. “Are you finished yet? I need to take a piss.”

Fíli kisses the top of your head, pulling away from you. He adjusts the curtain around your shoulders and smooths the bandage over your wound. “We’ll get you a proper bath later. Promise.”

We’ll get through this, you hear instead. Promise.

He ushers you out of the bathroom, barely dodging his little brother as Kíli blows by you and slams the door behind him.

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. He really needs to piss.”

Fíli shakes his head and chuckles. He flings open the wardrobe doors and pulls out a long, dark blue dress, trimmed with silver. His colors. “I thought you might wear this tomorrow night,” he explains, crossing back over to you and holding up against your front. “I just had it made.”

“It’s nice,” you hum in agreement, rubbing the velvet sleeve between your fingers. “Um, what’s tomorrow night, again?”

He rolls his eyes. “Amad insisted on a big celebration for my first birthday in Erebor.”

You snap your head up. “Your birthday? Fíli, I’m sorry, I didn’t know–”

“I’ve had eighty-two of them already,” he reminds you. “It is not that big of a deal.”

“Not a big enough deal to tell your wife?”

He replaces the dress in the wardrobe, grabbing a discarded nightgown from off the large bed. “My wife has had other things on her mind.” Fíli pulls it down over your head, smoothing it down your sides as you finally drop the curtain. There was a hint of a smile on his face when you called yourself his wife.

“Re-learning her way around Erebor, for one.” Kíli emerges from the bathroom and gives you a friendly shove, sending you stumbling.

One thing you’ve learned well, the brothers are a package deal. Fíli doesn’t go far without Kíli dogging his steps. You’re almost surprised he doesn’t share your chambers—but his chambers do neighbor yours.

Fíli catches you, flashing him a glare. “Careful, Kee.”

Kíli returns his brother’s look with wide, innocent eyes. “What? We’ve got to toughen her back up.”

“She’s hurt her head.”

“Oh, I thought the bandage was some sort of new fashion.” Kíli pulls you away from Fíli, lifting you by the waist and tossing you onto the bed. “Straight to bed for you, then!”

“Kíli!”

The cold air stung your eyes and shocked your lungs as you made your way, haltingly, back to the gates of the Lonely Mountain. All around you, soldiers celebrated triumphs or cradled fallen comrades. Most remained on the fields, but a few dwarves were also making a beeline for the mountain. Company members, all of them. You’d hastily agreed to assemble in the entry hall whenever it seemed the battle was over.

Bofur. Ori. Nori. Glóin. As you reached the gates, you found yourself taking inventory, scanning your companions to make sure everyone was accounted for, and mostly intact. It made you feel like you were doing something useful.

Five were missing.

You turned your anxious eyes towards the Ravenhill. Thorin. Dwalin. Bilbo. Fíli. Kíli.

A hand squeezed your arm. “Lass–”

“Don’t, Balin,” you interrupted him. “Please don’t tell me they’re gonna be okay.”

He cleared his throat. “I was going to say, you need to get your face seen to.”

“It can wait,” you shrugged him off. Your face had long since numbed. Unfortunately for the rest of your body, it was better shielded from the cold by the thick clothes you’d borrowed from the dwarves. Your left ankle throbbed, sending twinges of pain up your leg with each step. A trail of dried blood led down your arm from a laceration to your shoulder, slowly scabbing over.

Balin shook his head and led you to sit down by the wall. You leaned your head back against the stone. Every breath billowed out in a frosty cloud.

He pulled a handkerchief from somewhere in his coat. “Óin!” he called to the medic, checking up on Ori a few yards away. “Anything for our lass?”

There was no response from the half-deaf dwarf until Ori swatted at his arm and gestured towards you. Óin grumbled something and tossed a flask in Balin’s direction. The old dwarf wet his handkerchief and started gently wiping at your face. You winced at the cold touch.

“Look!” someone shouted.

You lifted your head, dreading what you would see. Two figures appeared over the crest of a hill. Bilbo and Dwalin, you assumed. Canon survivors. You held your breath, tracking the movements of the eagles in the sky, waiting for them to descend with dead bodies in their talons.

But none did. Behind Bilbo and Dwalin, three more dwarves followed. Alive—one limping, another clutching at an arm. But alive.

You scrambled to your feet, ignoring Balin’s protests, and sprinted as fast as you could. Jolts of pain shot through your leg until you could run no more. Fíli caught you in his arms as your ankle finally failed beneath you.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” you gasped, clutching at him. “You’re okay!” You’d forgotten all other words.

He hugged you to his chest, burying his face in your hair. “We’re alright. Everything is alright, amrâlimê.”

“Are you hurt?” you mumbled.

“Not badly.” Unsatisfied with the closeness, Fíli’s gloved hand curled around the back of your head and brought it even tighter against him.

You stifled a hiss of pain as his armor rubbed against your cheek.

He pulled back immediately, his eyes round and worried. “Oh, Mahal, Y/N,” he breathed. Fíli bit the end of his glove and yanked it off, tracing his thumb along a sensitive path on your face. When you again winced, he scooped you into his arms and rushed to catch back up with his brother and uncle.

Kíli, the limping one, nevertheless flashed you a quick grin. “We did it,” he panted.

You didn’t know what reaction you’d expected when Thorin and the boys returned. Cheers, celebration. Instead, they were met with silence, all activity stilled, the Company eying Thorin with uncertainty.

Thorin looked around. You could see him doing the same thing you had done, conducting a headcount. Satisfied, he gave a short nod. “See to the wounded. Balin, Dwalin, a moment.” The three dwarves gathered in the corner of the hall, heads down and voices low.

Careful of your ankle, Fíli sat you down and began cleaning your thawing face with Balin’s abandoned handkerchief. The gentle motions were comforting, until the alcohol-soaked cloth passed over your cheek. You jerked away with a yelp at the unexpected burst of pain.

Fíli winced, but he took your chin in his hand firmly. “It’s a bad wound, Y/N. I need to clean it.” He stripped off his glove. “Bite down on this for the pain. I’ll be as gentle as possible,” he promised.

Your eyes watered as he wiped you down, but you squeezed them tight and sank your teeth into the glove.

“I’m done,” he said at last. He patted himself down for a second, tearing off a scrap of his tunic and holding it against your cheek as a makeshift bandage. Taking his glove back, Fíli gave you a small smile.

You looked into his blue eyes, so full of life. Not hollow and sightless, the face that haunted your dreams. And Kíli, resting against the wall as Óin examined his leg. Not bleeding out in the snow. Thorin, talking quietly with his friends. Not lying atop the Ravenhill.

They were okay. Everything was okay. Finally, you let the walls holding back all your anxieties and fears fall. You collapsed against Fíli, weeping.

“Shh, shh,” he pleaded. He pressed gentle kisses into your hair. “Amrâlimê, please, please don’t cry.

“You were going to die,” you whispered, your breath hitching. “Please don’t leave me.”

His hand rubbed up and down your back. “I won’t ever leave you. I want to marry you!” Fíli drew back to look at you, his brow creased with sudden worry. “You will marry me, won’t you?”

You blinked away tears, voice still shaky. “Are… are you proposing?”

“Are you saying yes?”

The word stuck in your throat and it took you several tries to get it out. “Yes.”

The tension melted from his face. Fíli grinned, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours, still careful of your wound. “We’ll be alright, amrâlimê.”

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

The Witch and The Doctor Chapter 2

Bucky thought he could make a difference, getting a medical license and trying to change people’s minds.  But the 1600s New World is a harsh place with cruel people.  After being accused of witchcraft he makes a run for it, facing the dangers of the woods and the rumored witch that lives within them.

Warnings: violence; animal attack; mentions of death; smut; language

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Bucky woke to the sound of sizzling.  He slowly moved, groaning and hissing when the pain in his back shot through him.

“Go slow Bucky,” he heard her voice say as two warm hands rubbed his shoulders.  “It’s going to be really sore today.”  He grunted as he tried to move to a sitting position, feeling her hands help maneuver him up.  His eyes slowly focused until the face in front of him was the same that had haunted his dreams.

“Oh…so it wasn’t a weird dream,” he said dumbly.

Y/N giggled and shook her head.  “No, unfortunately.  I’m real.  The bear was real.  Are you hungry?” she asked as she turned back towards the fire, prodding at something in the pot she was using.

“Yes,” Bucky groaned as he tried to stretch his muscles without hurting himself.  He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the cabin.  He hadn’t been able to see the night before but now in the morning light he looked around and noted how much the cabin really looked like what he would envision a witch’s cabin to look like.  Next to the hearth with the fire was a kitchen area with a counter for preparation and shelves above it covered in jars holding all kinds of herbs and plants, and some even holding what looked like bones of animals and a snakeskin in one.  There were wooden cups and bowls and a stone mortar and pestle with remnants of herbs and food on the counter.  Near the wall there was a gap from outside that had a wooden spout coming out of it with a crank of some kind, water drops falling periodically from it into a basin set into the counter.  Underneath were baskets filled with cloth, fabric and knitting needles.  Along the other walls were flowers hanging upside down and drying out in different stages, a shelf of books, a few knives, the bed, a broom in the corner closer to the door, some other pots and pans hanging from the opposite wall near the hearth and rocking chair, and next to the door a dresser that had a large bowl on top of it with trinkets inside, like rocks, coins, a bright colored piece of soft fabric, a feather, and a tiny stoppered bottle with an amber liquid inside it.  There were two windows on either side of the cabin, and next to each of them hanging from the ceiling beams were mobiles made of twine and colored glass, casting bright colors into the cabin as the sun shone through the window.  Above the door was a white painted rune.

Bucky found himself smiling as he looked around, admiring the amount of things she had and her impressive stock of herbs.  “Alright, here you go,” Y/N turned around holding a bowl and spoon.  Bucky gingerly took it from her and looked in to see a stew with cooked meat and what looked like carrots.  Bucky thanked her and slowly ate.  She handed him a small bowl of berries and got him some water from the pipe in the corner.  As he ate she sat in the rocking chair and continued sewing something.

“What are you making?” he asked, trying to start a conversation.

“A shirt.  For you,” Y/N said, focusing on the needle and string in her hand.  

Bucky looked down and remembered she had to cut off his shirt.  “Oh, right.  Thank you.  I don’t think I properly thanked you last night, so, thank you.  For everything,” he said, giving her a small smile.

“You’re welcome,” Y/N said, not looking at him.  “Once you’re done eating I’ll need to check on your back and redress you.”

“Right,” Bucky sighed, turning back to his food.  When he finished Y/N stood and took his dishes and set them in the basin in the kitchen.  She got to work getting a bowl of water and the paste she put on him last night ready, then walked over to him.  She stood between his legs again and untied the bandages around him.  Bucky lifted his arms to help her reach around him better, wincing at the pain it caused.  He felt himself blush again as she was close to him, her breath fanning his face and shoulder as she pulled the bandages away and heaped them on the floor to clean or throw away later.  

“Lay down on your front,” Y/N instructed him.  He did as he was told and Y/N skimmed his back with her fingers.  He was still very sensitive, and as she washed his back with the water he tensed at the pressure she applied.  She put more of the paste on his skin then had him sit up again and wrapped fresh fabric around him.  When she finished she looked at the scratch on his cheek again.  “Don’t worry, you get to keep your pretty face,” she winked at him as she took the old bandages and put them in a basket for washing.  Bucky blushed even harder at the compliment.  Y/N took a blanket off of the bed next to him and wrapped it around him.   

“Thank you,” he said.  “What is that paste you made?”

“It’s a mixture of honey, lint from vegetable fibers, and grease from animal fat,” Y/N rattled off.  “It’s been the best wound care I’ve found.”

He watched her gather a few things together then asked, “So how did you become the witch in the woods?”

Y/N laughed.  “That’s a long story,” she said, continuing with what she was doing.

“I’d like to hear it,” Bucky pushed.

Y/N sighed and looked up at him.  She walked over to the bed and sat next to him, angling her body to look at him.  “Magic has been in the women of my family for as far back as we can remember.  My mother brought me here when I was a child because the village we were in wanted her hanged, and my father rejected her…rejected me,” she said, looking down at her hands.  “After she passed I tried to go to a new village, then another one, then another one, but I was rejected and cast out or they tried to kill me.  One village almost succeeded,” she said quietly, her hands wringing in her lap.  “So I came back home.  I still go to the village north of here twice a year for certain supplies, and they’ve been good to me.  They will barter and trade and they don’t ask a lot of questions.  I’m just the magic lady with the toys and tinctures that helps them get through the winter without too much trouble then disappears until spring.”  

Bucky looked at her sadly.  She was alone here for most of her life.  “I’m sorry people have been so awful to you,” he said, reaching a hand out and taking one of hers.  “I had a feeling that something would happen to me when I went to Andover, but I guess I just hoped that maybe they would be willing to learn from me and I could help them.  But…” he trailed off and Y/N stroked his knuckles with her thumb.  “So what exactly does your magic do?”

“Hm, I don’t know if you’re ready for that yet,” Y/N teased him.

“Oh come on,” Bucky said.  

“Are you sure?” Y/N leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously.

“I’m sure,” Bucky replied, narrowing his eyes back at her.

“Okay, you asked for it,” Y/N shrugged.  She stood and walked over to the door.  She looked at the cabin and rubbed her hands together.  She said something in a different language and cupped her hands together, bringing them up to her lips as she spoke.  A light started to glow from inside her hands and Bucky’s eyes widened.  She suddenly released her hands and a flash of light that looked like the blue fire from the night before skipped throughout the cabin.  Dust was suddenly cleaned up, the dishes magically washed, the rags that needed washing instantly clean, dried and folded into a basket, the shirt she was sewing suddenly cutting and forming itself into a recognizable shirt and then it happening again a few more times with other fabrics that were in her baskets, as well as pants, socks, and underwear.  A few pairs of shoes were formed from materials around the cabin and slid next to his feet.  The fire grew and warmed the cabin and a soft rumble echoed beneath their feet, making the animals he didn't even know were outside all make noise.  A wind whipped through the cabin as the little orb of light bounced from one surface to another.  It bounced around him in a fast whirling motion, and he suddenly felt cleaner and more refreshed, the pain in his back lessening considerably.  The light zoomed back towards Y/N who caught it and then smashed it between her hands, the glow disappearing.  

Bucky looked in awe around the now tidier cabin, a whole new wardrobe folded at the edge of the bed for him and the tinkling of the glass mobiles making the rainbow effect dance on the walls around them.  “My god,” Bucky laughed.

Y/N shrugged again.  “It’s nice.  Helps me get a lot more done.  Anything like shadow or dark magic isn’t something I normally dabble with.  Too many mistakes can be made,” she said as she went over to the bowl on the dresser and waved a hand over it, making the trinkets inside wiggle.  “Do I scare you now?”

“No,” Bucky smiled.  “You fascinate me.”

Y/N eyes widened at his words, but she quickly schooled her expression into a smirk again.  “Well, you should be scared.”

“I’m sure,” Bucky laughed.

The next few weeks went on about the same.  Bucky healed and Y/N showed him around her little plot of land and taught him about what it was she did with her magic.  There was a chicken coop out back, as well as three paddocks for a few goats, two cows and a horse.  She had created a water system from the well near the house with the wooden pipes that brought the water inside rather than her having to lug it back and forth in a bucket.  She knew about most of what he had learned in medicine, and taught him things that she had found or had been taught by her mother.  

Bucky found himself very quickly falling in love with Y/N.  Not only because she had saved him and taught him a lot of new things, quickly becoming one of his greatest friends, but also for her confidence, self-assurance in spite of having been rejected by many people, her love and respect for nature and her infectious laugh.  He found her incredibly attractive and was being pushed to his limits with her physically.  They shared the bed every night, and on more than one occasion had woken up entangled in each other’s arms.  The first time it happened Bucky had been very apologetic, but Y/N waved off his concern.  She didn’t mind, and so he let it be.  He loved waking up to her nestled against him, one of her legs in between his legs and her hands resting on his chest.  Other times he woke up to his face nuzzling her breasts with her damned nightgown always too low, her hands in his hair and her leg hiked over his hip.  She had definitely felt his arousal too many times to count but had ignored it, acting like nothing was wrong and going about the day as usual.  He sometimes wondered if she just didn’t find him attractive, and maybe it was just a mutually beneficial sleeping arrangement that they both found comfortable and comforting.

As the wind blew colder and the Autumn leaves fell, Y/N announced one day over dinner, “It’s time to go to the village.”

Bucky nearly spit out his food.  “What?”  

“I need to stock up on supplies, and I’ve got plenty of trinkets and tinctures to sell or barter,” she continued.  

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Bucky asked hesitantly.  Y/N gave him a confused glance.  “Going to the village?  The people…” he drifted off, swallowing harshly.

Y/N gave him a sympathetic look.  “The people have been kind to me.  They expect me every spring and right before winter, it would be no surprise.  And besides, the children love me,” she smirked. 

Bucky chuckled.  “Oh really?  And why’s that?”

“I’m the witch in the woods,” Y/N said, narrowing her eyes at him.  “I’m a ghost story.  And I bring gifts!” she said, perking up.

Bucky laughed.  “Okay, well, do you need help?  Or company?” he asked. 

She smiled widely at him.  “Both would be wonderful.”

[starqueensthings]

Dork Love: Part Two

Ao3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Summary: Life had returned to normal. Despite the budding adoration that had plagued you since meeting him, hopes of any type of relationship with Tech had diminished as time continued to pass, and you’d shifted your attention to the continued demands of owning a successful business. Until a surprise arrives to brighten your day…

Pairing: GN!Reader x Tech (can also read as ND!GN!Reader x ND!Tech if you look hard enough)

POV/Rating/WC: 2nd, all readers welcome, 7594 (I am so sorry lol)

A/N: This is the *slowest* of slow burns… borderline painfully slow, but writing accelerated intimacy feels really off-brand for Tech, especially when it’s a strangers to lovers trope. The man needs time to process! This chapter kinda drags a bit because there’s a lot of scene structure, but all of the seemingly useless details will play a part in chapter 3, I promise. Enjoy!

Thank you to @staycalmandhugaclone for beta reading ❤️

Days, differentiated only by the restful hours between evening and morning, passed underfoot without the appearance of anything even remotely as thrilling as the adventure of the riflescope. Mirroring the return of mundanity, the sun had become a recluse, the warmth of its exquisite majesty virtually smothered by a dark, dense veil of cloud that, despite the persistent bite of a cool wind, refused to shift aside.

This morning saw the clamouring chime of your chrono alarm rouse you from a slumber enriched with renderings of large brown eyes crinkled under the pressure of a shy smile, though the moment that yours fluttered open, unfocussed and narrowed against the jarring intonation that abruptly robbed you of your reverie, the imagery vanished from both thought and memory.

The recurring cool drizzle, falling mercilessly from the grey blanket above, had imbued the road outside of your shop so completely that it now more resembled a path of mirrors, capable of nothing except intensifying the gloom lingering overhead.

The drafty windows of your storefront whistled to the tune of the cold wind as if resolute that no area be free of its subjugate song, and in an effort to retain as much body heat as possible, a steaming cup of caf had found itself a permanent extension of your left hand. Despite the handicap that accompanied a continuously occupied limb, the counter behind your register was nearly barren, laden with only a sporadic collection of tasks left to complete.

Ten cold fingers had oriented themselves in a wreath around the ceramic mug still poised in your clutches, all of them trembling under the duress of your insistent need to sip at the warm pool of caffeine. With lips bunched to one side in a motion that inexplicably corralled your concentration, your eyes scanned the trio of trays scattered across the back counter. The urgency in which they needed to be addressed dwindled as the clock ticked the present into the past, and it was with a mumbled, “I’ll call them tomorrow” that you hastily stacked the containers and stowed them away.

A satisfied sigh poured from your lips and your shoulders squared pridefully of their own volition as you turned and departed the area, offering only a fleeting peek toward the mizzling outside as you passed. Semi-concealed in the shadowed corner beside the refresher, and adorned with an unostentatious sign that read “authorized personnel only”, was a door that separated the retail space from the backroom. On the left side past the threshold, and traversed so frequently over the years by various shoes that the stain itself had worn off the floorboards, was a piteous excuse for a kitchen. A single bank of cupboards anchored a derelict aluminum sink, the deep basin bespeckled with water spots and blotches that refused to dissipate despite countless, vigorous scrubs. The durasteel countertop flanking either side of the vessel still held much of its original integrity, though its formerly reflective surface was now hazy from decades of being scratched, buffed, and rescratched. An unpretentious caf machine found itself perched on the end of the counter nearest to the door, and its repeated call-to-arms as a reinforcement in your battle against early mornings and human fatigue, had seen it begin to look worse for wear, the heating element encrusted and charred in spots, and the glass carafe cracked and hastily repaired with industrial grade glue.

Arranged parade style in the depths of the sink was a legion of used and forgotten mugs, silently awaiting the shower that would free them from the sticky residue of a caf long since devoured. Their appearance wasted no time robbing your shoulders of their gratified posture, and you were reminded, once again, that mental checklists were growing increasingly insufficient in the thralls of your overstimulated mind.

“Wash mugs, water plants.”

Your chilled hands dug their way from one pocket to the next, furtively searching every crevasse and fold of your lab coat for any semblance of a pen; any tool that you could use to ensure the tasks did not continue to slip from the forefront of your mind. A cantillating chant erupted on your lips, repeating the small series of words as you yanked the cap off a red lens marker and hurried to ink a scrawled reminder on the back of your hand.

Your feet guided you thoughtlessly from the room, the familiar cadence taking you back atop the worn footpath and across the narrow hallway to the Mecca of your business: the workshop.

The fabrication lab was a modestly sized and minimally furnished room, and likely appeared to the untrained eye as a recipient unworthy of the several thousand credits that you had funneled into its refurbishment, yet the space had become both your sanctuary and your perdition. Several purchases later, all of them procrastinated in the name of thorough research, saw all new manufacturing equipment installed in the space. Despite your uncle’s repeated claims of their superiority to modern machinery, the equipment he’d bestowed upon you with the purchase of his business had deteriorated at a rate similar to his wizened mind, the tools habitually seizing mid cycle, their mechanics unable to overcome the strain that decades of neglect that had enchained them.

Their sophisticated replacements now encircled the perimeter of the room, meticulously and deliberately placed to maximize functionality in the void of square footage, and their sparkling infancy created a drastic yet welcome contrast to the decrepit cupboards of which they sat atop. But the flame ignited by the potential of efficiency upon their installation, was aglow for only hours before being snuffed completely by an unaccounted for realization: voltage requirements had apparently changed since the previous equipment had been wired. It was now a frustratingly common occurrence for fuses in the electrical panel to blow if you didn’t maintain a hyperfocussed awareness of which machines were cycling simultaneously, the infancy of the equipment now a hindrance, as your role of mechanical babysitter emerged.

The lights overhead buzzed menacingly as you brought them to life, and it was with haste that you added “call electrician” to the tasklist on the back of your hand, but despite the dirty dishes having stolen a portion of your resolve, the tower of orders waiting to be manufactured saw your cold knuckles cracked into action, and your sleeves yanked to your elbows before the flickering bulbs ceased their warning.

With knitted brows, you turned your attention to the counter on the right, hands instantly working to dismantle and sort the acrylic containers into an arrangement with some semblance of priority, while your eyes searched relentlessly for a specific triad of exigent orders; three small pairs of the glasses, the colourful frames fated to remain lens-less for only minutes longer now that the opportunity to initiate their fabrication had finally presented itself. You found your prize in the third tray from the bottom, you gaze quickly unfocussing upon the invoice as the sight of their exotic names launched your mind’s eye into a recollection of that humbling day:

Tarlu, a Twi’lek man from the 22nd level of Coruscant’s underworld had made the trip into your shop several weeks ago, a stunning turquoise chain of clasped hands stumbling in tow behind him; three small children, all of whom appeared at first glance to be a spitting image of their broad shouldered father, though their sparkling, violet eyes, dancing around the foreign corners of your shop, were largely unlike the electric blue of his own. He uttered a cautionary warning to them, a demand for the respect of good behaviour while he ‘spoke to the nice shop owner’, and the half dozen steps that he took away from his children, purposefully orienting his back to them in some semblance of privacy, were not lost on you.

Age and the innate understanding that accompanied life experience had yet to rob the children of their naivety, and innocent shrieks laden with insouciant joy left their mouths as they disobeyed their father’s plea, running amok around the confines of your shop. Their violet eyes blind to the slump in their father’s dejected shoulders; their youthful minds still too ignorant to identify the tension that riddled his brow as he quietly and solemnly confessed his desperation. Their mother was blind, he explained grimly, diagnosed at a young age with a degenerative visual condition called Retinitis Pigmentosa. Her most recent years had seen her vision and her hope recede to nullity, and it had taken every credit left in their savings to purchase a transport ticket and hire a protocol droid to see her safely returned to Ryloth.

Coruscant, he divulged, and its esteemed medical field had offered them a glimmer of hope in the face of impending visual darkness; whispers of a corrective procedure inaccessible to them in the primitive outer rim saw them willingly and enthusiastically uproot themselves… their family… their entire lives. But the usurious capital planet had repudiated them, and the system had swiftly exposed itself as corrupt, only willing to accede to the needs of those whose wallets would support their owners plea’s, shunting all others into the cold embrace of exorbitantly long waitlists.

A grave shift in the children’s behaviour since last seeing their mother had only amplified his despondency; tantrums, repeated condemnations from their school teachers, fights escalated over trivial issues, an increase in their desire for isolation, a rejection of things and experiences that once brought them joy. The intelligent Twi’lek man couldn’t and wouldn’t deny that the fracturing of their family had likely acted as the catalyst for the behavioural decline, though he admittedly couldn’t shake the dread that something else was amiss.

The way your voice shook under the constraints of suppressed emotion offered the truth before your lips had finished somberly wrapping their way around the explanation, and despite every effort to remain professional, your glistening eyes betrayed your composure as you confirmed his suspicions; his children were all showing signs of the same condition that had robbed their mother of her sight and her freedom. “I can’t stop the progression,” you whispered with a quivering chin, “but give me a couple of weeks and I’ll make some glasses that will maximize what vision they have left.”

“I have no desire to linger here.” His tone was that of a man utterly broken, a man whose hopes had been stripped and excoriated within an inch of complete eradication. “Nor do I have the funds to pay you for your services. I will need every available credit to transport us back to Ryloth. The children need their mother, and I need help.”

Despite every cell in your body yearning to ease the father’s dejection, the gift of hope was not one that you were capable of bestowing on him, as the recent past had seen his very soul calloused by the greed of business and politics; you could not promise him that his children would have a future free of obstacle, all of them destined to walk in their mothers footsteps with the unbearable weight of depleting vision on their shoulders, but what you could offer was a helping hand: three free pairs of glasses and the promise to expedite the process to the best of your ability so he could leave the planet that had forsaken him and return home.

It was their tray held firmly in your grip as you marched across the lab toward the lens generator, refusing to deviate your attention to anything and anyone until their needs of this family were satiated…

As if determined to challenge your resolve, the harrowing tinkle of the doorbell saw you halted in your tracks barely two paces from your destination, drenched in the cold realization that, in your haste to recuse yourself to the lab, you’d overlooked the routine task of locking the front door.

“For kriff’s sake…” you grumbled, your eyelids aflutter in frustration as a familiar cool, damp draft whistled through the gaps of the door and raised the fine hairs on your arms. An unceremonious flick of your wrist saw the plastic container tossed onto the counter beside the machine, and an irritable huff sagged your shoulders as you turned on the spot and retreated back toward the door.

“Hello,” you called blindly, summoning the pitiful remnants of your patience from the depths of your soul as you pulled open the door that led back into the retail space, tugging your sleeves back down.

For the second time in as many seconds, you found your steps halted abruptly and another intense wave of gooseflesh erupting across your skin. “Tech!” His name escaped your parted lips drenched in startled disbelief.

A tall, poorly postured figure stood patiently at your counter, and it was the prompt of your voice echoing around the quiet room that had him turn to face your direction. His magnified gaze was alert and twinkling with an unexplained light as it fell upon you, and the ingenuine smile that you’d hitched onto your face at the prospect of an unexpected interruption, lost all sense of insincerity at the sight of the familiar, thick goggles.

“Hello.” His answer came accompanied by a respectful nod, his fingers suspending their dance across the device in his hand to needlessly shift his goggles on the bridge of his nose.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you admitted, crossing the handful of steps between you and leaning against the counter next to him. “Either of you. Did my fix on the scope not hold up?”

“On the contrary,” he began after a quiet clearing of the throat. “Crosshair remains quite pleased with your repair. The rigidity of his nature does not coincide with being a proponent of change, particularly so with his weaponry. Your repair has ensured his continued satisfaction, indirectly maintaining symbiosis amongst the rest of the squad… for now, anyways.”

The familiarity of his curt, matter-of-fact tone only intensified the smile on your face, forcing you to fleetingly avert your gaze to the floorboards below your feet, eager to minimize the flush rising to your cheeks. Your attraction to him was as enigmatic to you as he was; the simplified truth was, you knew almost nothing about him, other than the fact that he was exceedingly poor sighted without the aid of his goggles, and that he was remarkably well educated to have been brought up by the indurate embrace of combat training and war, and yet you were drawn to him with an unexplained appetence.

“Good, I’m glad,” you answered, leaning onto an elbow. “Your goggles look like they’ve stayed in decent repair since I last saw you, too.”

The departure of his eyes from yours to the void of space over your left shoulder saw you promptly regretting your comment, as the swift flush of his cheeks and the deliberate bob of his Adam's apple exposed the fact that your unintentional scolding of his dirty lenses during your previous conversation had rendered him somewhat embarrassed.

“Ah… yes,” he murmured, the warmth of his eyes only blessing you with a fleeting glance before departing again. “I have since managed to incorporate a routine cleaning into my morning regimen, though despite having extensively researched varying techniques, I can not seem to achieve the same result as yourself.”

Disapproval bathed his every feature, the corners of his lips inverting into a reproachful frown more adorable than any quirky half-smile he’d previously gifted you, and it was with great difficulty and another quick aversion of your eyes that you repressed the chuckle threatening to spill from your lips. Intent on alleviating even a portion of his indignity, you permitted your brows to offer a jesting, egotistical wiggle and uttered, “Well… you won’t.”

His gaze darted back to you instantly, lids narrowing only slightly in befuddlement at the smirk twisting your lips. “Opticians have the magic touch. Hand ‘em over.”

You extended a hand toward him, the eagerness to award him with even a fraction of the same satisfaction that you’d somehow gifted his brother outweighing all else in that moment, but his response to your gesture was as apprehensive as yours was determined. His affronted gaze danced across your awaiting palm, his long fingers fidgeting needlessly around his datapad as he seemingly blinked away a myriad of intrusive thoughts. Reassurances flooded the tip of your tongue, poised to express promises of meticulous care and affirmations that you fully understood how desperately he relied on his goggles, but your lips had barely parted wide enough to permit an intake of breath before the datapad was released of his grip and placed gently atop the counter as his hand reached instead for the strap around his head.

A blend of gratitude and adoration welled inside your chest as your fingers enveloped the rubberized surface of the unexpectedly rigid frame, your pinky fingers hooking themselves securely around the strap lest the staggering weight of his lenses cause the equipment to fall from your clutches. If any apprehension or doubt of your abilities lingered in his exceptional mind, it was seemingly usurped by the need to massage his tired eyes, as he forewent the motion of possessively watching your hands to grind his knuckles against lids clamped tightly closed.

Dismal as it may be, the dwindling daylight meekly cascading in your windows threw into sharp relief the poor condition of his spectacles, and the thoughtless action of retrieving the trusty cleaning cloth in your pocket was halted entirely by the sight of several deep gouges across his lenses, all of which had been previously hidden from your scrutiny by the darkness of the shooting range.

A contemplative hum rumbled past your pursed lips, the rounded edge of your thumbnail trying in vain to scrape away the remnants of a mysterious, encrusted substance from the front surface, achieving nothing but imparting another microscratch to the wide array of others. A scoff of contempt threatened to escape you, scorned by the fact that someone in Tech’s situation, so highly reliant on their eyewear, would be issued such a subpar set of lenses; the material obviously too soft to uphold the demands of his lifestyle, the subjective magnification exacerbated by the poor choice of curvature by whichever ignorant being had manufactured them, the coatings improperly sealed before being thrust into the scrupulous edging process.

‘I bet these are Polycarbonate…’ you thought to yourself with a disdainful roll of your eyes. ‘But only one way to find out.’

Without even a breath of hesitation or an ounce of consideration for his potential reaction, you gripped the goggles tightly in one hand and applied firm pressure around the rim of the right lens with the other. His knuckles fell from his eyes immediately, the ungodly snapping sound of the lens separating from the frame triggering a wave of horror to erupt across his features, but you remained blind his unspoken objection, too deeply enthralled in the abhorrence of his glasses to notice his mouth falling open and his unfocussed eyes widening in terror.

“Did– did you just–?” His stammered query trailed away to an aghast silence, too appalled to finish vocalizing the question that he feared the answer to.

“Hmm?” you hummed innocently, wrenching your rolling eyes away from a series of small pressure cracks in the plastic between your fingers and directing your attention back to him. “Oh! No, they’re not broken!” you hurried to assure him, recognizing the semblance of panic tugging his eyebrows together. “Lenses are manufactured with an angled bevel to permit repeated insertion and removal, as long as you apply the pressure in the correct place.”

He swallowed heavily, his gaze still affixed at the disc-like plastic clutched loosely in your palm. “I just wanted to identify the lens material,” you continued pleadingly, convinced that if you provided a detailed enough explanation for your objectively impulsive action, there may be a chance you could placate his evident fear and surging mistrust. “I’m assuming they’re polycarbonate lenses based on how easily they’re damaged, but without seeing the initial paperwork, the only real way to tell is the sound that the lens makes when tapped against a rigid surface.”

To no avail; periodic blinks over widened eyes robbed of their warmth was the only indication that he hadn’t simply died of fright. “Listen,” you beseeched, gesturing for him to step closer and prepare to witness the presumed madness behind your methods. His gaze reluctantly followed your hand as it began gently tapping the very edge of the lens against the counter top. “Hear how it sounds kind of… tinky and light? Polycarbonate is a fibrous material so it makes a sharper tone compared to resin plastic. Resin is a powdery material, so it makes more of a deep thunk.”

The dramatic expansion of his eyes softened significantly as they watched you extract the orphaned plastic lens that you’d pocketed this morning after finding it astray under the desk, his gaze intent on following your every move as you knocked it rhythmically against the surface to demonstrate the difference.

“That is… fascinating,” he admitted in a mumble, the tension in his shoulders dissipating enough to collect the pieces you were extending out to him.

“Do you have a few minutes?” you asked him, teeth nibbling against the smile threatening to tug at your lips as he immediately turned and began percussing the lenses against the countertop. “I’d like to give them a thorough clean with my favourite solution, but it’s a peroxide blend and needs a good five minutes to neutralize.”

“Thank you, that is very kind of you,” he replied with a nod.

“My pleasure,” you answered with a bashful shrug, another wave of heat surging to your cheeks as his already narrowed and unfocussed eyes shrunk even further under the expanse of his bashful smile. “Would you mind flipping the sign and locking the door for me?”

He followed your gesture to the entryway, the lights of your shop reflecting brightly in the glass door against the dark backdrop of the deepening sky beyond, before nodding and departing the counter, lenses pinched protectively between his long fingers. An empathetic frown tugged at your lips as you watched him fumble to engage the deadbolt, his movements clearly impeded by the lack of depth perception, robbed of him by the removal and disassembly of his glasses. “Just come meet me in the backroom when you’re done,” you called, sending him one last adoring glance before retreating through the threshold to your workshop.

You were granted only a short minute to calm the bounding of your heart against your chest, launched into a fervent dance by Tech’s unexpected appearance, yet despite funneling every effort into stifling the persistent smile on your face, the joy that his visitation had triggered simply refused to be so easily contained. Your confession to him had been truthful, the concept of seeing him again was one that you’d actively avoided entertaining since your introduction, for it was simply too impractical of a hope; he was a soldier living too nomadically to risk establishing relationships of any kind… yet here he was, but why?

The thunk of his boots on the wood floor alerted you of his approach, and you hurried to clear the surging giddiness from your mind with a gentle shake of your head before retrieving the bottle of cleaning solution from the cabinet below the counter.

“My apologies,” he offered as his tall frame filled the expanse of the doorway a moment later. “I did not familiarize myself with your hours of operation prior to arriving. I hope I am not keeping you from any prior endeavours?”

“Not unless you consider several hours of grinding lenses a ‘prior endeavour’.” you chuckled, upturning the bottle until the entirety of its contents drained into the small steel bowl perched in front of you. He folded his arms across his chest in a near perfect impression of his sniper brother, a passively curious expression on his face as he watched you finish formulating your concoction.

“Do you still have your other lens?” you questioned after submerging the entirety of his goggles into the effervescent, blue liquid.

He gently dropped the loose disc into the tub with its counterparts, stooping comically low to study the bubbling substance, the tip of his nose barely an inch from the surface, and eyes narrowed to nearly full occlusion in an effort to refocus his vision.

“I didn’t mean to scare you when I popped your lens out,” you offered apologetically, leaning casually backward against the counter and watching him. “It does tend to freak people out, I should have warned you.”

He stood and cleared his throat quietly, unfolding his arms in a motion to shift his goggles on his nose, only to remember half way through the gesture that there was nothing presently on his nose to shift, instead justifying the awkward motion with a small scratch of his reddening ear.

“I will admit my knowledge of the Optometric industry to be lacking in comparison to other subjects,” he voiced, turning to lean on the counter beside you. “My brothers and I are subjected to visual testing on Kamino as a subsection of a routine complete sensory examination. My oldest brother has senses heightened to a nearly inhumane degree, and by the time the result of our inspections have been collected for further processing, departing the clinic for the comfort of our barracks is typically his first priority. I have never lingered long enough to expand my limited knowledge of optics and ophthalmic correction.”

“Heightened senses?” you repeated instantly. The snippet of information had been delivered so blithely that it had almost failed to register, yet the implication of the statement could simply not be ignored.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “All clones are genetically modified in the embryonic stage of formation to allow several decidedly ‘desirable’ characteristics to take precedence during growth. Regular clones have an enhanced sense of loyalty, obedience, tenacity, and stamina amongst several other attributes. My squad was the first and only to have our DNA further reconfigured to enhance additional qualities. The aforementioned brother is our leader, and Hunter has senses incomparable to any other being. He perceives every movement, hears every sound, feels minute vibrations, senses lingering energy signatures… As such, he became plagued with recurrent episodes of extreme overstimulation while in the depths of our training, but has established a sense of near-complete autonomy since our convocation.

“My genetic structure was deviated to permit the rapid collection and categorization of data. I am able to perceive much of which the typical mind overlooks, with the subsequent ability to recall information at a moment’s notice. As you may have deduced by my chosen moniker, an interesting and perceptibly correlated mutation has bestowed upon me a particular proclivity with technology and mechanics, and during rare instances where I am not able to direct my thoughts into research or the customization of various equipment, I too can become overstimulated.

“Wrecker is our resident ordnance expert, having extensively studied the science of detonations and their various implementations in warfare, and is both the physically strongest and arguably the most emotionally intelligent member of our squad, though a recent poorly-timed detonation has compromised a large portion of his eyesight and an even larger portion of his mental reasoning skills, a challenge of which we are still shifting to accommodate.

“Crosshair, our youngest brother whom you have met, has a mathematical brain that could rival most modern software. He can process calculations and formulations in mere fractions of a second without the plague of human distraction. Paired with his remarkable eyesight, his mutations have formed him into a marksman of incomparable skill and ability, though at the cost of charisma; he would rather concede his crown than to engage in a lengthy conversation of any topic.”

The effervescent cleaner had long since stilled, only mere remnants of the microbubbles tasked with removing surface grime and grease were still clinging to the rubberized surface of Tech’s submerged goggles. Both thought and speech were robbed of you; unable to fully compute the implication of his explanation, you could only stand there, lips parted to permit shallow breaths from your lungs as your eyes unfocussed on his features.

The information itself was a repulsive dichotomy of fascinating and horrifying. Largely sheltered from the ramifications of the war, your knowledge of the Clones from Kamino was limited to only that with which you had firsthand experience; that they were typically lovely people, barred from extensive interaction with civilians though seemingly drawn toward the dynamic of humanity. The science of genetic manipulation was not one that you’d ever heard of before, and despite finding the notion of it unethical, there was no denying that it was medically captivating.

But layered atop the affronting information was the casual tone in which he delivered it, as if he was merely describing a mildly unusual childhood, or reciting a paragraph that he’d written in the book of his upbringing, and if ever he had shared in your feeling of revulsion, he’d long since learned to mask all evidence of it.

“That’s… wild.”

It wasn’t the correct word… if there even was a correct word, though ‘wild’ suited the horrifying notion more appropriately than anything else that came to mind; it certainly wasn’t tame, or humane.

Hurrying to conceal the conflict ghosting behind your eyes, you turned and retrieved his dismantled goggles from the basin on the counter beside you, gently shaking the excess liquid from the frame before swaddling it in a soft towel. Tech watched you nurture his glasses intently, showing exceedingly more interest in the technique you used to reinsert his lens than he had while discussing the unique dynamics of his family.

“Nothing can remove the scratches unfortunately,” you lamented, wiping away the last of your fingerprints from his lens before handing his goggles back to him. “But they probably haven’t been that clean since you first got them.”

“That is likely an accurate estimation,” he answered, shifting their weight on his nose and attempting to blink away the strain that several, prolonged minutes of blurred vision had imbibed on him.

“Isn’t that an oxymoron?” you chuckled absently, tossing the damp hand towel over your shoulder.

His attention returned to you so urgently that it stilled your hand on the empty bottle of cleaning solution, the dripping container poised in your fingertips mid-way to the trash bin below the counter. You’d seen that look before, and it had adorned you just as urgently then; wide eyes, lips parted, gaping at you as if you’d just uttered the very secret to human existence. It was an expression reminiscent of your first encounter, interrupting you mid-muse about the dislodgement of a focal plane in a riflescope with the sudden intensity of his eyes, and the vulnerability setting your skin alight under his awestruck gaze was no less palpable the second time around.

“What did you say?” he probed, brows furrowing slightly.

Hesitation paused your response, momentarily abashed by the dubious smirk beginning to tug on his lips as his eyes continued to look upon you quizzically.

“Wouldn’t– wouldn’t that be considered an oxymoron?” you repeated tentatively. “I mean… you can’t really have an ‘accurate estimate’. They’re technically opposing ideologies, thus making that an oxymoronic statement…”

All semblances of a smile that had previously blessed his features were instantly outshone by the grin unfolding across his face. The doming of his cheeks under the embrace of a true smile lifted the goggles off the bridge of his nose, and it was quite possibly the most attractive thing you’d ever seen.

“Yes,” he answered, with a reassuring nod. “It is precisely an oxymoronic statement. Excellent catch. I am impressed.”

“Um… thank you,” you muttered, barely able to wrap your own grinning lips around the two measly words as the pounding of your heart nearly deafened you. “Not just a pretty face… I guess…”

“No, you are much more than that.” The deep reddening of his cheeks rivaled only that of your own, and that moment saw both of you equally embarrassed by the comment that had seemingly poured from his mouth without second thought. “I– I surmised your intelligence almost immediately upon gaining your acquaintance,” he continued, the aversion of his eyes entirely negating the welcome shift of his body to face you. “Your practiced recital of the laws of refraction was fluent and precise, and your charitable willingness to assist Crosshair with his problem in combination with the extensive knowledge that you possess of a topic that has always been of intrigue to me, is the reason for my intrusion… not just your attractive features.”

If you hadn’t known it to be completely medically ludicrous, every credit would have left your bank account on a bet that the butterflies in your stomach were rearranging your organs as if they were pieces of furniture. Yet greater than the uncomfortable flap-a-bout happening inside of you, was the sudden and mystifying crave for his touch; an increasingly gnawing desire to feel the solidity of his presence, desperate for the affirmation that his enigma wasn’t just a trick of the mind. A gentle hand, trembling slightly from the spontaneity of his flattery rose into the space between you, palm facing him with softly bent fingers.

He swallowed heavily and cast an apprehensive glance toward your gesture, his hesitancy to mirror your intimate motion swatting violently at the butterflies in your stomach with the paddle of rejection. It felt like years were passing under the disguise of mere seconds on the clock, his eyes darting back and forth between yours as the tips of his fingers fidgeted anxiously against each other. His jaw clenched, once, twice, until… at long last…

The slippery material of his gloves felt strange against your skin; unexpectedly metallic and silky despite the apparent density of the material, yet it accommodated the swell of his knuckles with ease as his fingers interlaced yours.

Had the clock simply stopped now? Had Father Time so easily forsaken his fateful duty, halting the progression of anything and everything else to permit you this quiet moment of delicate connection? Or was it the gentle caress of those stunning brown eyes atop your features that manifested the wistful longing stay in this lingering second for eternity?

Despite the nimble swipes of his thumb along the back of your hand pulling a shiver down your spine, it wasn’t until the lights overhead launched into their menacing flicker that you returned to some illusion of cognition. “So… hang on,” you muttered, pausing to briefly nimble on your bottom lip. “Are you here to hangout with me? Or to learn the laws of refraction?”

“Um… my priority was the former,” he admitted, “Though I would quantify both being a desire of mine.”

“I can do both,” you offered through a giddy grin, relaxing the entanglement of your fingers from his until your hands separated. “You said you have an affinity for mechanics? Maybe you can help me grind some lenses, and I’ll serenade you with facts about the deviation of light waves through a prism with a biconvex curvature.”

The speed of which he mastered the lens manufacturing process quickly eradicated any lingering scrutiny in your mind of the validity of his mutations. It took less than three complete demonstrations to have achieved a near flawless understanding of what each piece of machinery did and how it accomplished its goal. The clock had barely ticked an hour into the past before Tech was independently running lenses through the sealant process, happily chirruping about his fascination with optics; about how he’d always longed for a deeper understanding of differing refractive indices, about how he found it truly remarkable that a minor decrease in curvature on the front of a lens, when paired with the correct backside curvature, could drastically alter the magnification through the lens itself.

Thrice more did he reach for your hand, his fingers long since freed from the protective confines of his gloves and draping themselves around yours with affectionate intention; every fleeting glance he sent your way, every barely-there brush of his arm against yours continued to reinvigorate your enrapturement for each other.

“How’d we do?” you probed him coyly, sneaking a peek at the sparkling, blemish free lens that he held delicately over the ocular of the lensometer. “Prescription accurate?”

You nibbled gently on your bottom lip, teeth only barely containing the knowing smirk tugging at your lips as you held your breath in expectation of his response. “It is precisely correct,” he answered without diverting his attention from the screen in front of him. “Perfectly on axis, with zero induced prismatic effect. It seems I have attuned my lens manufacturing skills quite remarkably, if I may say so.”

The irony of his words threatened to dissolve your feigned complacency; a man so intelligent that he’d achieved a near mastery in optical technologies in record time, unable to determine that the lens clutched between his fingers being so heavily scrutinized by his eyes had been manufactured to his prescription.

“You may,” you permitted slyly, disguising the grin on your face as nothing more than a reaction to your own audacity. He merely offered you a small snort, exchanging the lens in his fingertips for its counterpart. “You know,” you choked out, lungs nearly seizing under the controlled repression of a chuckle. “That last pair of lenses that you made are for yo—”

The admonition so desperately vying to leave your tongue was robbed of its overdue spotlight by a sudden and complete blanket of darkness. The whirring chorus of engines descending into utter silence inducing a stark ringing in your ears more deafening than the hum it replaced, and you hurried to jump down from your seated perch on the counter.

“Kriff,” you grumbled, fingertips obtusely patting around in the darkness to reestablish a bearing of your positioning.

“It appears that we have lost power,” Tech mumbled introspectively from your right, his arm brushing gently against your chest as he stepped away from the equipment.

“Hang on,” you advised through an undignified grunt, bending over carefully to reach for the handle on the drawer situated somewhere in the proximity of your right hip. “I forgot to keep an eye on what machines were cycling together,” you admitted. “The generator and the polisher always… always trip the electrical breakers if… if they cycle at the same time. Maker have mercy, where is the fucking handle?”

A spotlight appeared abruptly on your right hand, illuminating the pair of pliers clutched stupidly in your grasp, the steel handle having felt convincingly similar to the drawer pull you’d been blindly hunting for in the utter blackness of the windowless room.

“Where is the electrical panel located?” Tech asked you, his free hand deftly snapping closed the pouch from which he’d just retracted his flashlight.

“On the wall beside the edger,” you advised, pointing uselessly in the dark toward the culprit across the room.

Visible only as a dark figure sauntering behind a stark beam of light, you watched him cross the room, the grotesque squeak of the panel’s aluminum door indicating through the echoing silence that he’d successfully found the perpetrator. “That is… alarming,” he muttered, triggering a snort of laughter from your nose. “The breakers in this panel are both drastically undersized for the required pull of amperage and… discernibly ancient.”

“I would merit that both of those claims are accurate,” you confirmed glumly, wincing as your fingers knocked dumbly against your nose in their intention to rub your eyes. “Getting an electrician has been on my to-do list for a shamefully long time.”

Several loud, familiar clicks saw the overhead lights flickering back into some illusion of life, and a cacophony of dissonant chimes erupted around the room as each machine simultaneously launched into a reboot cycle. Tech deactivated his flashlight and stowed it deftly away in the pouch strapped to his right thigh while his other hand trailed gently along the series of cobweb-laden breakers.

“I would estimate that the sum of the required amperage for each breaker largely exceeds the allotted amount for the panel in its entirety,” he mused, cringing mildly against the abhorrent squeak of the door as he pushed it closed and latched it. “It will be both a costly and a laborious installation.”

“Glorious,” you sighed, knotting your arms tightly over your chest, anxiety rippling through you at the implication of his conclusion.

“However, the odds that I may be of assistance are in your favour.” He hesitated for only a second before gently wrapping his fingers around your wrists, dismantling the hug that you’d bestowed upon yourself as anxiety began to simmer in your gut. “Commercial electrical panels are of a different mechanical structure than those regulated for areospace,” he continued quietly, lacing his fingers between yours, “but the circuitry should be vastly similar to that of my ship. I would be happy to attempt the installation for you, pending we can locate the correct mater—”

“Tech… Come in…”

A loud chirp and a foreign, husky voice issued from several feet to the left, robbing you of the listful smile that had begun to peel across your face at the reintroduction of his touch. His posture straightened immediately, his body reacting instinctively to the summons echoing from the comlink on his gauntlet, long ago stripped from his hands and buried under the thick blanket of his gloves on the counter.

He flicked his gloves aside impatiently, collecting the rigid plastoid piece and bringing it to hover in front of his mouth. “Sarge,” he addressed, his eyes flickering to you apologetically before adhering themselves intently to the blue light illuminating his chin.

“Where the hell are you? I’ve pinged your datapad a dozen times.”

“Ah,” Tech vocalized awkwardly, left hand absently patting the empty pouch perched on his lower back that typically housed his beloved device when not in use; the device abandoned to a live a solitary existence on the front counter. “My apologies. I… I fear my task of locating a spare condenser valve was hindered by a… um… distraction.”

“Does this ‘distraction’ happen to wear a labcoat?”

The jeering inquiry was bathed in a slithering smoke all too familiar to you, the mild distortion from the vocabulator failing to deplete any of its intensity. The image of Crosshair’s sneering face erupted in your mind as a ringing, potent silence ensued in response to his sardonicism.

Tech’s lips pursed into a thin line, eyes wide and unmoving as if his mind had simply seized under the effort of frantically searching for a plausible excuse that did not entail he divulge the truth of his whereabouts.

“Just get back to the ship… now,” the first, hoarse voice demanded. “We’re overdue on Ithica. Cody’s holding his advance until we get there.”

Tech offered a simple “understood,” before silencing the comlink with a prod of a button, and you met the return of his gaze with a fearful, guilty grimace. All-too thrilled to waste your time in his presence, basking in the joy that walked hand-in-hand with the emergence of his affection for you, time had simply vanished.

“I lament that I must depart so quickly,” he spoke, wiggling his fingers back into his gloves. “I have unknowingly delayed my squad’s departure significantly.” He paused to reaffix the plastoid pieces to the backs of his hands, flexing his joints until satisfied with the comfort of their positioning.

“Don’t worry, I get it,” you reassured him with a meek shrug, meeting him at this position in the doorway. “Thank you for coming to waste your time with me.”

“Time with you is never wasted, darling.” The endearing term embraced you with a warmth so layered that you doubted even the sheets of cold rain cascading from the clouds above could have robbed it from you, your adoration for him only intensified by the brazenness he was now showing in the face of his frenzied departure. “And if it is,” he continued scooping your hand into his, “I will happily do so again when I return… if you would still desire my company.”

Your movements stilled, breath halted in your lungs, lids refusing the innate need to blink lest you miss a fraction of this moment. His eyes attuned to you, soft yet determined, as he gently guided your hand upward, setting your nerves alight with the tender press of his lips to your skin.

“Oh, I will,” you reassured him in barely more than a whisper, the tingles radiating from the spot where he’d adorned your hand with a kiss, rendering you numb to the gentle squeeze that he gave before releasing it.

Budding disappointment forced a slump into your shoulders as he offered you a small nod of salutation and turned toward the door. “Tech!” you interjected, watching his tall figure begin to disappear behind the doorframe. His head poked back through the doorway, cheeks aflush and eyes atwinkle. “Good luck.” It left your lips somewhat meekly, the two words nowhere near expressive enough to convey all the thoughts and reassurances of understanding that you couldn’t verbalize.

He paused, reaching up to pacify his feelings by shifting his goggles on his nose before granting you a smile, the same quirky grin that had stolen the breath from your lungs hours earlier. “The ideology of luck i—”

“Yeah, yeah… an ‘illogical concept’…”

Taglist: @anxiouspineapple99

[ask-icancraft-it]

Love's Retribution (Western AU)

((Whew! Well, it's been a long while since anyone's seen a multi-chapter fic from me, but here we are! )) Tamora Jean Calhoun is a widow turned bounty hunter. After a run-in with her primary target, the Cyrus Gang, she wakes up in the care of a gentle soul named Felix. Chapter Master List

---

Tamora blinked, her vision blurred as she looked down at her red-soaked hands. Her fingers trembled, adding to the dizzying double-vision she fought so hard to see through. 

Where was she? How long had she been riding like this? And was she still being followed? 

Turning to look backward, she winced as a deep, burning pain shot through her shoulder. Losing her balance, she slipped from the saddle, foot tangling in the left stirrup as she hit the dirt. And despite her desperate grunts, her horse persisted at its steady trot, dragging her through the brush. 

The blonde’s attempts to pull herself up were in vain, her vision slowly fading as she looked up at the star-studded sky above.

When Tamora came to, she was somewhere markedly different. The ground beneath her was soft, and the air around her was warm like a hug. 

She didn’t have the strength to open her eyes yet, but she could sense something scuffling nearby. Her horse? Damn thing, where’d it drag her to now?

Slowly regaining her senses, she smelled something savory and heard the soft crackle of a fire. A wooden clack caught her attention, followed by the gentle scuff of boots across the floor. Fighting to open her lids, she managed just enough to take in a blurred view of her surroundings. 

Tamora lay in a bed, covered up to her waist in a warm quilt. Across from her was a strange man, turned away as he cleaned his hands in a wash basin. Looking around for anything to use in case things got hairy, she spied a large bottle on the bedside table. 

The man began to turn around and she quickly closed her eyes and remained still, even as the stranger walked up and sat beside her on the mattress. What she would not stay idle for, however, was when she felt a hand brazenly reach underneath her collar. 

Like a rattlesnake, Tamora lunged, grabbing the bottle at her bedside and swinging it at the stranger’s face. The glass broke, leaving the smell of pure alcohol in its wake, and the man stumbled to the floor. 

He raised two trembling hands with a soft whimper as he knelt. As he looked back her way, Tamora clasped the top of her shirt shut, pointing the broken bottleneck in his direction.

“I-I apologize,” the stranger said, clearly just as startled as she was. “I should have checked on you before doin’ that. I was going to check your bandages.”

The man’s blue eyes focused on her shoulder, and she looked down, blood starting to seep through her shirt. Tugging at her collar, Tamora looked down at carefully woven wrappings across her chest. 

The man moved, and she returned to threatening him with the shards of glass. Pausing again, he regained some composure. 

“I don’t mean you any harm, ma’am,” he said slowly. “My name’s Felix…this is my home…and I’ve been caring for you these last few days.”

Few days? Tamora opened her mouth, and all she could get out were a few disjointed noises, her tongue like sand.

Felix retreated to the kitchen counter, plunging a tin cup into a bucket of water. Cautiously, he approached, arm outstretched to hand it to her.

Keeping the bottleneck in one hand, the blonde grasped the cup with the other, gulping until it was empty. Taking a moment to catch her breath, she tried again.

“Where am I?” she rasped.

“On the outskirts of a city called Niceland,” Felix offered to refill her cup and she accepted. 

Tamora blinked, having heard the name before some time ago. Dear lord, her horse had dragged her way up here?

“Anyone come looking for me?”  

“I thought someone might, but no,” Felix sat in a chair by the fireplace, his hands nervously running along his jeans. “Your wound’s opened up…We ought to take care of it.”

Tamora looked to her shoulder again, the red spot slowly spreading. Taking another sip from her cup, the blonde resigned. Turning away, she undid the last few buttons of her shirt, carefully removing her injured arm from its sleeve. Turning her head, she gestured for the man to come over. 

He stood behind her as he carefully removed the old bandages. After some struggle on his part, she allowed what remained of her coverage to slip away. “I suppose you’ve already seen all you could of me,” she deadpanned. After all, the clothes she wore weren’t her own.

“I didn’t do it for pleasure, ma’am,” Felix replied with a nervous timbre.

“Sure,” the blonde smiled. An almost companionable silence followed as the man redressed her bullet wound. When done, he stepped away to allow her to cover herself.

Grabbing his dustpan and broom, Felix began to brush up the amber bits of glass scattering the floor. 

“Would you like to hang onto that?” he asked, nodding to the bottleneck lying on the bed. 

Tamora felt a pang of guilt as she tossed it into the bin along with the rest of the shards. Looking up at the gentleman’s face, she winced as a purple ring started to form on his cheekbone.

“Ooh, your eye…” she said, spurring him to peer into a nearby mirror. “I’m sorry—”

“No, no; it was my fault. I shouldn’t have been so careless,” Felix sucked some air through his teeth as he prodded the tender area. “I’ll tell you this though, you mean business, miss—”

“Tamora. No more of this ‘miss’ and ‘madam’ business; I’m neither of those things. Not anymore.”

Felix frowned. It seemed the world hadn’t been kind to this poor woman long before she was brought to his doorstep. 

“Well, Tamora…are you hungry?” 

The blonde swallowed down two hearty helpings of rabbit stew before she was sated, and the gentleman was more than happy to offer her more. 

“So what is it you do out here in these woods?” Tamora figured she’d indulge him in some pleasant conversation. 

“I’m a handyman mostly. I do carpentry and some smithing. When you’re feelin’ better, I’ll show you my workshop,” Sitting by the fire, Felix drank from a tin cup. “What is it that you do?”

 This was the first time she’d heard any pointedness from the man, but she couldn’t blame him. It was only sensible to want to know what kind of person he’d let into his home. He knew she was being pursued, but by who, or why was still a mystery.

“I’m a bounty hunter,” she sighed. “And my bounty much prefer themselves to be the ones doing the he hunting…heard of the Cyrus Gang?”

“I can’t say that I have.” Tamora could barely fathom that answer. But then again, she had made chasing those parasites her sole purpose since they’d upended her life. Perhaps this was a good sign; that they didn’t ride up this far to wreak their havoc. 

“They’re monsters, all of them. Consider yourself lucky.”  

Felix nodded, opting not to press her further. It seemed she needed some words of comfort instead. 

“As I said, not a soul’s come looking for you here, nor in town. You’re safe.”

Part of her wanted him to be right, but her gut said otherwise. This man was putting himself at risk by keeping her here, so she was determined to recover quickly and leave. She couldn’t bear letting decent people get caught in the crossfire. 

A warm smile crossed the handyman’s lips, and he stood up when he noticed the time.

“Try and get some shuteye and see how you feel tomorrow,” he proposed, taking her empty bowl. “I’ll be in the next room if you need anything.” 

Tamora nodded, surrendering to the soft pillow and cozy sheets. “Thank you,” she said softly; sincerely. 

“No trouble at all, ma’am,” Felix winced, realizing his words. “Sorry, it’s a hard habit to break…Goodnight, Tam.”

He walked around the corner from her view, and despite herself, the blonde smiled at his silly little workaround. Curling into the quilt, she watched the fireplace grow dim before slowly drifting off.

[something-special-you-are]

yahh this is my ch1 of my first nellfia fic. it's a modern art student au set in the darkroom. go read it babay!!!! pasting it onto tumblr for convenience if u like.. feedback (or reading it at all) is appreciated so much.. i love u

Chapter One:

dead art/impossible things

Nell cursed herself.

She had a free afternoon, and owed Charles a favour - never, ever a good place to be. They were both Foundation students at Broadwater School of Art in Tottenham: old friends from the same year, though rather different disciplines. After a darkroom-related incident that he refused to dig into the details of, he had found himself in Sofia Blancheford's bad books - arguably an even worse place to be. She took rules and regulations very seriously, and though she didn't technically hold any power over what Charles did with his life, the lab was essentially her domain.

"You're not scared of her, are you?"

"Yes! Yes, I am. Please, Nelly, she likes you."

"No, she doesn't."

"Well, she tolerates you a little more than she tolerates me. Which is a big deal."

"Get Amadin to do it, she actually likes him."

"He's a busy man, Nell, and he hates conflict, you know this."

"What, and I love it, do I?"

Claiming pitifully to be banned, he had sent her downstairs to print the photos from a black-and-white fashion shoot of his, tooled with a thin plastic wallet containing the strips of negative film, a contact sheet with the best photos circled along with some numbers, and clear-ish instructions. Holding the sheet up close, they were lovely photographs, Nell thought - they displayed some of the elaborate costumes that Charlie had been crafting over the past couple of months. He was currently upstairs in the main studios, absolutely going to town on an embroidery hoop, desperately trying to finish the details of some decorative garment before the fashion crit next week - meaning he was especially grateful for her help.

The sculptor herself hadn't been in the laboratory since last year, and found it a generally disorienting place, smelling too strongly and all decked out in old, heavy, menacing equipment.

Unfortunately, she was a good friend - and since she rathered Charles not be killed, she stuck by her favour. Hopping down the stairwell, she passed the entrance leading out to the sculpture yard, where early March sunlight and fresh air pooled into the building. Clay dust floated from her jeans to swim around in the pale rays, and she walked a little slower. She turned the corner onto a hallway she rarely came by. The lightroom door was invitingly open.

As soon as she walked in, the harsh vinegar-like smell filled her lungs, and she grimaced. She'd reek by the end of the day. It wasn't a tiny room, but it was packed full; a chemical-stained metal basin stretched the length of the wall, which displayed dozens of safety information sheets, and grids declaring measurements; strings hung from the ceiling, dotted with paper hanging from wooden pegs; plastic equipment that Nell couldn't identify overflowed the shelves above the counter opposite. The door to the darkroom stood to the left, heavy and foreboding and plastered with warnings that Nell didn't bother reading.

She pushed it open and let it click shut behind her, allowing the pitch black to swallow her. Memories of a short, dark corridor returned - there was a second door up a few yards ahead, and all Nell had to do was find the handle - easy enough, but the consuming darkness disoriented her slightly. Fumbling with the final door, the dull red lamps that lined the darkroom ceiling were revealed, along with the quiet, albeit spooky whisper of running water. The light blue trim of her dirty white t-shirt turned grey. It was like stepping into another dimension. She knew the enlargers she needed stood against the walls, so clutching her materials, she moved blindly, and a little too confidently, away from the door - it was not as straightforward as that. She made it not two paces before colliding with an inky, fluttering shape that materialised in the middle of the room. Nell jumped and scrambled to get out of the way.

"Jesus Christ!"

"Watch yourself! And knock, please," they replied indignantly, clearly ruffled.

"I can't see a bloody thing! I thought I was alone in here, you scared me!" Nell protested, then regretted it slightly, because she had no way of knowing who she might be arguing with.

Squinting to adjust her eyes, she made out a dark head of hair and a sharp, cross little face. It was, indeed, Sofia Blancheford. She was not so lucky to have the lab to herself. They were classmates, and vaguely knew each other through Amadin and Charles, but rarely crossed paths - mainly because Nell was usually out and about in the yard, or bouncing around the studios, and Sofia was usually locked up in here. Nell had seen her work during crit; she was a fantastic student. She probably knew more about the darkroom than the technician did. As well as this, she was also reserved, aloof, and a little moody - not unkind, but no class clown, indeed. And now, Nell Trotter had waltzed into her domain and almost knocked her right to the ground without so much as a hello, how are you.

"It says 'knock,' in big red letters on the door," she snapped.

"Right. Well. Sorry. I'm not a big reader," Nell offered, somewhat sarcastically, somewhat flustered. Sofia gave a sigh of exasperation in response, and mumbled something about how it's a good thing I wasn't holding anything dangerous, strutting over to the basins to continue whatever sorcery she was up to. Nell rolled her eyes under cover of darkness, and located an enlarger to work on.

It was time to dust off her photography knowledge. According to her expertise, there was one thing she would need for certain.

"Um, where's the paper?"

There were a couple seconds of silence following Nell's sheepish request, before a curt voice crossed the room in response.

"In the fridge."

Low humming suggested the refrigerator running gently in the corner.

It glowed crimson on the inside to match the rest of the room, and was stacked with boxes of paper and film. She browsed the labels, and made the brave choice to crack a joke.

"No chance of me getting to store my lunch in here, is there? Only, the shared fridge is-"

"No," came the voice again.

Nell smiled to herself and picked the most familiar A5 package, and retrieved a few sheets. They were nice and cold on her fingertips. She inspected them as she sauntered away.

"People keep nickin' my sausage rolls, see," she lamented, to a resounding silence, and arrived back at her station.

Zoning back in, she fiddled with knobs and buttons until she felt confidently refamiliarised, and set to work inserting the first set of slides into the top of the enlarger; she adjusted the size and position, then happily lined up a sheet of paper under the projection, ready to print. She began to feel quite relaxed. The darkroom disoriented her at first, but the ambience of the low light, the gentle hum of electricity, and the soothing, aquarium murmur of the waterbath brought her peace.

She couldn't get too comfortable, because just as she was about to slide away the red filter and expose her paper to white light, Sofia broke the silence once more.

"Is it in focus?"

She was back at her own station, just a few paces to Nell's right, and poked her head around at her classmate's hasty setup.

"Huh?" Nell replied astutely.

"Your slide, is it in focus?"

Before she could protest, Sofia had already floated into her personal space, holding what looked like a little microscope.

"Is this Charles' work?" she interrogated, more than asked.

"I'm doin' him a favour."

Sofia hummed in response.

"Interesting," she muttered, in a way that made Nell wonder why it was interesting at all. "The paper's upside down."

Nell cringed at Sofia's blunt observation, and shamefully flipped it right-side-up, the shiny, light-sensitive layer revealing itself. The shorter woman leant over the paper, placing down her little tool and scrutinising it through the lens.

"It's not in focus. It's blurry," she confirmed, and twisted a little knob around in minute adjustments. For all her proud independence, Sofia was certainly a busybody.

"There. Look now," she ordered, and Nell peered through the little magnifier the same way her classmate did. She saw crisp shapes, the finest grains of the film emulsion. Not really caring, she stood up straight and attempted to shove the tool back in Sofia's direction.

"Right. Thank you. I can get on with it now, if that's alright," she dismissed, eager to be left alone, but Sofia was occupied by squinting at the numbers lit-up on Nell's equipment.

"You're going to overexpose this, surely?"

Nell sighed and shrugged, not really sure how to respond.

"Give me that," Sofia gestured at the contact sheet, somehow making it sound polite. Nell surrendered it reluctantly, and she scanned the digits Charles had scrawled.

"He's written them down, and everything, it's right here," Sofia uttered with confusion. It made Nell feel stupid. There's no reason why she should know what those numbers mean.

"They're his photos, I don't know why you care."

"If you're doing a favour, do it properly. I'll set the ISO and exposure for you, and you can print the rest," she announced decisively.

Nell threw her hands up, because she knew saying 'whatever,' out loud would earn her a nasty glare. She watched as Sofia turned a numbered wheel at the top of the enlarger. The image below got dimmer. She then adjusted the little control panel on the desk, decreasing a digital countdown timer from twelve seconds to four.

"There."

Nell mumbled an ungrateful thank-you, but it was clear Sofia didn't really care whether her help was appreciated or not. She was already busying herself on a different enlarger, once again consumed by her own work.

Turning back to the paper in front of her, Nell decided to just get on with it. She turned the projection off, removed the filter, and pressed a button, and it came back on in pure, gentle, white light. After four seconds it automatically shut back off with a pleasing click, and Nell whisked away the paper, satisfied.

Both students approached the basins with a piece of paper each. The station was a metal rectangle that jutted out at least ten feet from the wall, and was divided into three sections - two long, shallow troughs than ran side-by-side, and the waterbath, which took up the outermost end. The two dry areas had three labeled trays in them each, likely leftover from a workshop, and a tap and drain against the wall. There were pairs of metal tongs in each tray. A handy glow-in-the-dark clock overlooked it all, second hand turning, and a poster listing development times was displayed alongside. Sofia submerged her paper into the first tray, opposite of Nell, checked the clock, and began to tilt the liquid back and forth. Nell did the same, into the tray labeled 'DEV' - she was to leave it in there for sixty seconds, according to the poster. As time ticked by, she watched the magic happen before her very eyes. Under the shimmering reflections of overhead light, the paper at once went from pure white, to clouded with faint grey, to painted with deep, varied tones as the image shyly revealed itself.

"Holy shit," she muttered to herself in awe, and Sofia concealed a genuine smile.

Sixty seconds passed, and they transferred their prints to the trays labeled 'STOP'.

"Yours is dripping everywhere, let the developer drain off a little first. You'll dilute the other trays," Sofia nitpicked.

"Yeah, yeah."

Ten seconds passed in the stop-bath, and Nell scooped the photo up between the tongs.

"Try it this time, don't make such a mess."

Nell rolled her eyes, but did as she was told, and transferred the paper neatly to the final, stronger-smelling tray, labeled 'FIX'. Two minutes would pass in this one, and they passed without words. Sometimes Nell would glance up at Sofia, watching her waiting, and sometimes Sofia would glance back. It didn't really feel as awkward as it should have. Nell lost track of the clock, and snapped back to the task when Sofia moved hers into the wash. They mirrored each others' actions the whole way through. Nell drained hers properly before plunging it in, and they stood at the end of the station, looming over the inky water. Both prints spiralled around in the current amongst other unclaimed pieces.

Nell's (or, Charles') photograph had come out beautifully. The scribbled numbers were correct, and Sofia had adjusted the settings perfectly - the image appeared in sharp focus, with intense tones and exact contrast. She felt a subtle buzz of relief that she might not fuck up the entire batch for him.

The constant water flow babbled over the silence. They lingered there, watching the intricate, mottled images as they somehow contained themselves into neat little squares and swam hypnotically through the blackness. Sofia looked down at them fondly, before delicately rolling up her sleeves and dipping her hand in. The nebulous reflections on the water's surface scattered at her touch. Nell had a feeling that she might react similarly, in its place; Sofia's hands were fine, but agile, and professional in everything they did; they were tools of creation, or magic, or whatever you wanted to call it, and they were at work. She fished out her newest piece, after dragging it to and fro a couple of times under the surface to ensure the chemicals were washed away. Nell instinctually copied her, and the cold water felt good as it swallowed up to her wrist. Her own hands seemed rough and clumsy in comparison. Sofia made a habitat out of the lab; she belonged there, she suited it, in all her witchy, gossamer mystique. They were symbiotic. The woman's probably got night vision.

They inspected the prints together. Some kind of wispy double-exposure shimmered between Sofia's finger and thumb. Nell saw a drapey figure, barely there, disappearing into itself amongst the various other ethereal shapes. Most of it looked like fabric, a spectral veneer of some sort that gathered and stretched, and it glowed. A light source - a flame, maybe - made its way up the composition. The black space was minimal, but it located the subjects in an otherworldly, all-consuming nighttime.

Nell clutched a nonspecifically historical-looking portrait of Charles. Half of his monotone, made-up face was hidden by both a large, ornate fan - cradled in a silk white glove - and the shoulder of an absolutely huge velvet coat, the texture of which had been captured in soft, minute detail. Embroidery, feather trims, buttons, novelty seams, decorative tassels and lace all made for a display of delightfully handcrafted camp. His mouth was hidden, but his eyes smiled coyly at the camera - there was no trace of satire in his expression, or his pose. He might have been in character. He was elegant, feminine, sincere, and squinting in a manner she could recognise anywhere, from behind any outfit - for all of his elaborate, transformative costumes - to Nell, Charlie was distinct.

"He looks quite pretty," Sofia remarked. Nell smiled back at him.

"Yeah, he'll be thrilled to bits with these."

She looked back over at Sofia's work, struggling to find words for the deep, vague mourning - the intense feeling that she is missing something, that an opportunity has been left behind, that the past is running away from her faster than she can catch up with the future - that the picture brought onto her. Water trickled down her forearm and sank into her t-shirt.

"What's, um, your project about?" she asked, rather plainly.

Sofia's eyes flicked between Nell and the photograph, then tilted her head thoughtfully.

"I'm interested in impossible things."

Nell wasn't sure what she as expecting, but the answer intrigued her.

Sofia continued - "Imagine going back in time three hundred years, and showing this to someone. They wouldn't believe it. I can barely believe it. I'm interested in what we don't believe in - the supernatural, if you can call it that. Three hundred years ago, they would hang me for witchcraft, because they wouldn't believe this to be possible without witchcraft." She laughed, even at this morbid thought, without sarcasm; Nell couldn't help but smile at the usually no-nonsense woman's passionate affection for her work.

"I like the idea of comparing traditionally inexplicable myth and legend to the mysteries we've now since solved, and the technology we have today. We're always trying to rationalize things - I mean, analogue photography itself: we can study chemical reactions all we want. We can explain it and write research on it 'til our brains melt. It will never become simple, or dull, or earthly. Just because we understand it doesn't mean it isn't magic."

She looked up at Nell, in a genuine search for connection. She spoke every word like it meant the world, and to her, it really did.

"People can get focused on the most efficient way to get the most predictable end result. They look for corners to cut, control, replicability - making these reactions happen by hand is the antithesis of that. They treat it like a dead art. I love the process. I need the magic."

The whimsy her words held was like nothing Nell ever would have expected from Sofia Blancheford. She watched as those glittery eyes drifted gently back down to the print. Her hands and face were hazy and velvet in the crimson glow of the safelight; there was a mole under her lower lip. A halo of downy black hair incandesced in a similar hue above her head. Nell realised she must have been staring, and felt her own face turn a deep scarlet to match the party - she hoped it camouflaged well. She cleared her throat.

"Well, you're very smart, and the pictures are really good. I hope you write all that down. Very handy for evaluation."

Sofia smiled at her shyly, appreciating even the bluntest of praise. Nell dunked her print back into the cold water.

"I'd better do the rest of these bad boys. Thanks for fixing my stuff."

With that, she turned away briskly and attended to her station. The time passed rather smoothly after that - Nell fell into a peaceful, focused rhythm of work, and Sofia nursed her own creations a couple of enlargers away. Every so often, Nell would crack a joke into the comfortable silence, and Sofia would either ignore her, or crack a funnier one back. If she ever actually laughed, she did it very quietly. To begin with, the company was disappointing at best, and intrusive at worst, but now Nell found herself feeling content to work alongside Sofia - that was, when she wasn't being told off for something inconsequential. Gradually, she hated Charles less and less for getting in trouble and putting her into this situation.

There were around a dozen chosen photos he had circled, and each one was a treat, so it didn't feel like much work at all. He wanted to work in theatre, making costumes and puppets and the like, and his portfolio agreed with him - in the second, he wore a bandit's mask around his eyes, an excessively feathered hat, and a very meek pencil moustache.

In another, he wore a huge, cascading cloak of some sort, patched and quilted and embroidered with dozens of images, flora and fauna and people - a testament to his patience, it seemed. He looked away from the camera, and the garment took up most of the image. It was more of a textile artwork than a functional costume.

Someone lay on the ground in a landscape composition, crowded with faux-fur and other heavy textural materials. It could have been Charles under there, but it was impossible to tell. From the shoulders up, they were obscured by a large sculptural boar's head; it was papier-mâché - Nell had seen it before. It lay there as if dead; it was weathered and off-putting, but Nell's favourite of the bunch. Its monstrous nature, and the ambiguity of the wearer underneath, recalled ritual folk costumes depicting spirits and the like, blurring the line between man and beast. Things like this had interested her for a while. She supposed it wasn't all too different from Sofia's proposal - a deep fascination with the far-fetched - realizing all the wild, inconceivable stories that people must see to believe, and once they believe, they go in terror of.

"Very interesting work," came a voice in her ear.

Nell almost leapt out of her skin when she noticed Sofia peering at the photos from over her shoulder. She hovered like a phantom, wispy hair brushing against Nell's cheek; she didn't seem to care a bit that she had almost stopped the taller woman's heart, and just frowned at her.

"No need to be jumpy. There are only a few vengeful ghosts living down here."

Breezing behind Nell with a dry tray in her arms, she began fishing out the other prints floating about.

"I don't know why you decided to help with Charlie's stuff, if you're so annoyed with him."

Sofia cocked her head innocently. "Why would I be annoyed with him?"

The rather cutthroat photographer wasn't one to hide a grudge, and Nell wondered if she had gotten the story mixed up. Before she could ask any further into it, Sofia gestured to the small pile of wet papers.

"I take it you're all finished? Are you coming to dry them off?"

"Yeah, alright, don't rush me," Nell replied, and deposited her handiwork into Sofia's tray, who waited impatiently by the door for her protégé to gather her other belongings.

"Thanking you kindly," Nell bowed as she passed through the first door that Sofia held open considerately, but was called back with a sharp, "Wait," quicker she could rush to open the second, risking flooding daylight into their little liminal realm.

"Always wait for this door to shut. You could ruin someone's work. It's also why you knock," Sofia ordered.

"Right, wonderful. Well, to my knowledge, literally nobody is in there. Unless they've been extremely quiet."

"It's about the habit," she insisted. By now, the interior door had long since shut and they were arguing in pitch black. Nell didn't care to stay longer than she needed. She swung open the entrance to the lightroom and squinted at the sudden contrast.

"Christ alive, it's like coming out of a casket."

She turned to see Sofia emerging from the gloom - dressed in practically mourning clothes, long hair matching the tone, face as pale as a vampire.

"Explains a lot, actually."

Sofia looked up from the tray, not listening.

"What?"

"What are we up to, then?" Nell diverted, coming to stand annoyingly close to the other artist's side. She hadn't yet seen her under proper light that day, away from the dreamy veil of the laboratory, and gave her a once-over. She wore black, corduroy trousers, that flared slightly over equally black, practical boots. In a tasteful shade of very dark charcoal, she wore a thin, long-sleeved black top that came up high on her throat. The bright blue lanyard almost spoiled it. You'd think she was trying to camouflage in there. No wonder I knocked into her, Nell thought, wear a bloody hi-vis next time.

Sofia didn't care enough to budge, and instead handed Nell a small stack of prints.

"Peg these up, for now."

She turned on a rather loud drying machine and began to feed some photos through; Nell turned to the basins, where strings were suspended wildly from above like vines. They fell into another comfortable silence, facing opposite walls, and the clock ticked closer to the end of the day.

Eventually, Sofia turned the machine off (its absence was noticeable), and she came to busy herself alongside her classmate with a few contact strips that were too small to go through. After a minute, she glanced over at the taller woman, diligently working, and turned thoughtfully to face her.

"You've got a striking side profile," she casually commented. She reached up to Nell's jaw in her fingers and tilt it for a better view.

Nell felt her insides scattering and turning over themselves, like those silvery reflections in the waterbath. She was taken by surprise, but barely thought twice about letting the smaller woman pose her around like a show pony - before she came to her senses and batted the hand away.

"Buy me a drink first, yeah?"

Sofia didn't dignify her with a laugh.

"I don't do many portraits, but I should have you model for me."

She didn't really phrase it like a question. That was the thing about Sofia - she didn't need to speak in hypotheticals. She had that sure-of-herself, naturally commanding presence that seemed to come with being a bit posh.

"Not in a million years, sweetheart."

"I remember when Charlie swindled you into it. You're a bit of a natural. I'd put my own spin you," she reasoned, as if it were an offer she couldn't refuse.

Nell remembered that shoot too, from a few months ago, though fuzzily - it gave her feelings, ones she couldn't place. Sofia was there, to help with the setup, and so was fashion student Polly, as another model. The work was fantastic, but for all of Nell's can-do attitude and brash personality, she was implausibly camera-shy.

"I owed him, again."

"Then I'll have to find you in my debt, somehow."

Again, it came with being posh - but Sofia's intonation did make it sound slightly flirtatious. Nell stood her ground.

"Not happening."

Sofia placed her hands on her hips thoughtfully, narrowing her eyes at her stubborn classmate.

"I have given you my time this afternoon."

"I never asked you to. And that weren't for my benefit, it were for Charlie's."

"I could just as easily have left you to figure it out on your own. You'd have been here 'til dusk."

She raised an eyebrow. Nell squirmed under Sofia's persuasive gaze.

"Let me pick my clothes," she bargained, "And I'll think about considering it."

She held out a handshake, which Sofia suspiciously, hesitantly, reached for. A mistake - Nell, like obnoxious lightning, yanked it out of the way and ran a hand through her hair instead. It was an admittedly smooth execution. She sucked air through her teeth awkwardly as if it were an accident, and grinned mischievously at Sofia.

"Ooh, I ain't that easy, love. Cheers for the science lesson, though, yeah?"

Sofia did not smile. She very clearly seethed, but spoke calmly as ever.

"You are insufferable."

"Good one. I'll see you around, Sof."

The clock struck four. With a suave wink and click of her teeth, Nell took her folder (and blinding grin) and bounced out of the department door, disappearing out of sight - leaving Sofia alone with a flush of furious embarrassment and the familiar notion that something important had slipped through her fingers.

[the-badger-mole]

A Word Between Friends

When I first started writing this in 2012, I didn't realize it was going to be a prequel to Avatar: The Final Conflict I'm pretty sure I hadn't even thought about starting A:TFC until after I posted the last chapter. What this was meant to be was an exploration of Katara and Zuko's friendship, and a way to allow Katara a voice in her relationship with Aang. It's one of my earlier fics, and one of my first Zutara fics. Originally, this was meant to be a one-shot, and then a series of one-shots, but I decided it worked better together. It's my very first fix-it fic, and the ending of it is really close to how I wish the show had ended. I hope you enjoy it as well!

"What are you doing in here?" he asked Katara. She followed his gaze and flushed slightly.

"I couldn't sleep," she said. "I needed something to do. Toph got annoyed with me for pacing and I thought, the kitchen could use a good scrub. And, well, here I am."

"You clean when something's bothering you?" Zuko raised an eyebrow. Katara shrugged and played with her fingers.

"It's something I can control," she explained. "It's kind of sick, because under any other circumstance, I hate cleaning." Zuko looked around the rest of the kitchen and sure enough, the floors, counters and windows were gleaming in the torch light. Then he frowned. She couldn't have possibly have done all of this in one night. It was late, sure, but they had only gone to bed a few hours before, according to the clock on the shelf above the basin.

"How long did this take you?" Zuko asked. "This room was filthy."

"I've- ah-I've been at this for a few nights," Katara admitted. Zuko wondered briefly how no one had noticed how clean the kitchen was getting, before he realized that Katara did a bulk of the cooking. No one else spent enough time in the kitchen to notice her systematic cleaning. Zuko walked over to the small wooden table and pulled out a chair. He looked at Katara shyly.

"Do you…want to talk about what's bothering you?" he asked uncertainly. Katara hesitated for a moment before sitting in the proffered chair. Zuko sat across from her and they were both silent for a few minutes.

"What's wrong?" Zuko asked at last. Katara bit her lip and pulled at the sleeve of the pajamas she was wearing. They had been Fire Lady Ursa's and were a bit large on Katara.

"I don't know," Katara answered him, throwing her hands up helplessly. "I just feel like- there's so much going on right now. How can any of you sleep?"

"Are you talking about the fight with the Fire Lord?" Katara nodded and looked down at her hands folded on the table.

"Among other things." Then to Zuko's immense discomfiture, she burst into tears and lowered her head onto the table. Zuko looked around for something-someone who could help. He was completely out of his depth.

"H-hey! It's alright," he said, awkwardly patting her head. Katara looked up, bewildered by his attempt at comfort.

"Wow," she murmured. "You are really bad at this." Zuko blushed and pulled his hand back as if he had been burned.

"I haven't had much practice," he mumbled. He stood up and looked towards the door. "Look, why don't I get your brother? Or Suki? Maybe it'd be better for you to talk to another girl about -" Katara surprised him again when she started laughing.

"Zuko, relax." Katara, still laughing, wiped the rest of her tears away. "I'm sorry. I'm fine, really. I just haven't been sleeping well and I tend to get a little emotional when I'm sleep deprived." Zuko looked unsure. Katara sighed and pushed his chair out with her foot. "Please don't go. I could use the company."

Read the rest of the chapter here

[ms-scarletwings]

Every Dredge Aberration (2023), Bonus I

The infamous, nocturnal prowler of The Marrows. A monster resembling the luring fish of the depths, now lurking shallow waves in search of mightier prey. To most, the Night Angler will prove the first real threat faced along their journey. Her appetite punishes the folly of those who do not heed the early warnings of the mayor… at least, those who do so without the proper precautions. If her imposing mass or her ferocity was not enough clue to her otherworldly nature, one cannot deny her supernatural guise. From afar, the beast casts the ominous mirage of a lone fishing ship. If sounded at with a horn, her song echoes the call to add to the illusion; however, once she has spotted her target, she charges in single-minded aggression. As the false vessel emerges from the fog, its silhouette gives way to 8 eyes cast in the glow of the dangling light. What follows is a snap of teeth and splinters, and to the fortunate, a panicked rush back to port before she can return. This is the predator which quickly becomes familiar to the fisherman from early on in the story, but there is more to her than what can be seen just above the water.

An Abyssal Outcast

Following the pattern that all of the unnatural wonders of the sea were born from the corruption of the Deep, it can be readily imagined how the same madness twisted a once simple fish into this cunning nightmare. Nonetheless, the Night Angler’s exact origins are not so easy to conclude.

The anglerfish, which she shares the most of her looks with, would be nothing short of out of place in that bay. Typically, they are lethargic hunters, they call the eternal blackness of the ocean’s midnight zone their territory, and they are seldom spotted in range of the Marrows, even though they are frequently spotted in the Stellar Basin. While it is certainly possible that… “other forces” deterred the Night Angler away from the depths, one also cannot dismiss the possibility that the monster had actually belonged where it prowls all along. Native black groupers are harvested plentifully along the shallow coastlines of Little and Greater Marrow. They too only emerge under the cover of night, and grouper fish can be highly aggressive when protecting their home and in pursuing their prey. They are even known to produce “booming” vocalizations of their own as a threat display.

Either candidate could be a most likely answer to the Night Angler’s true identity, still ultimately left to others’ speculation.

Siren of the Night

Whatever the creature’s past, the present finds a menace to all nocturnal seafarers in the Night Angler. After the brine is obscured by the mysterious fog of this sea, she patrols her territory for interlopers, occasionally sounding off the distorted blare of a fishing ship. If called to with one’s onboard horn, the night angler will actually respond in turn as she begins her pursuit- similar to a twisted game of Marco-Polo. For her size, she moves with a frightening speed and does not give up a chase easily. The standard fishing boat, with no additional improvements, and rotten luck, stands no chance of surviving multiple engagements with her on the open waters. Indeed, this false ship may very well be the cause behind the previous Marrow fisherman’s disappearance.

Additionally, her mimicry ability seems to be tied with the fog itself. Whether the great fish can actually command its power or simply benefits from the miasma’s effect on humans, her true form is revealed by the light.

While she shuns the radiance of civilization, she is drawn to shiplights. It is no wonder she prefers the dark when it makes light itself such a powerful tool to hunt by.

Tactics

For all her eerie tricks and reputation, the Night Angler is thankfully well-countered with a little foresight and caution. She mainly exists to feast on the callow who would fall for the ship-in-the- distance ruse, and this disguise actually puts her at a disadvantage against the more wary. Her light juts out against the darkness at a great distance, and her patrol route is actually easily avoidable. She tends to keep to the south end of the Marrows undisturbed, and will only give pursuit if she detects a boat by sight or sound. Obviously, use of the foghorn during the night in this area is to be avoided unless one, for whatever reason, wants to draw the creature’s attention. Keeping the lights off can drastically reduce her detection range, at the trade off for the fisherman’s own peace of mind. The Night Angler rises from the depths at around 8:30pm each night, and retreats back between the times of 3:30am and 4am. In a chase, she can be outmaneuvered by a powerful enough engine set up, and will not follow a ship into the safety of the dock lights. Failing all else, the words of banishment can send the Night Angler into retreat, at least for time enough to find refuge.

*Note- Oftentimes, when nerves are running thin on the open waters, or around other regions, some may have spotted what appears to be the night angler’s illusion, to great concern. If one is not in range of her territory, rest can be assured. This vessel is also a lie told by the fog, but it is a harmless one that will dissipate on approach. Curiously, it will mimic a foghorn sequence blown to it as well, but it serves no further purpose than a mildly spooky encounter. You will never find The Night Angler far beyond the range of Blackstone Isle. After all, the other 5 areas already have their own monsters.