#car stock surge

[diagnozabam]

Acțiunile Dongfeng cresc spectaculos pe fondul zvonurilor privind o fuziune cu Changan Auto

Acțiunile producătorului auto chinez Dongfeng Motor au înregistrat o creștere impresionantă de până la 85,8% pe bursa din Hong Kong, pe fondul speculațiilor privind o posibilă fuziune cu Changan Auto. Această evoluție vine după ce societatea-mamă, Dongfeng Motor Corporation, a anunțat un plan de restructurare, alimentând zvonurile despre o posibilă consolidare în industria auto chineză. 🔥…

[catboyieejeno]

seventeen reaction ˚୨୧⋆˚

⋆ hhu ver.

oddly specific details/key points of their relationship with you

cw: sfw, 'girl' is only mentioned once in wonwoo's, mentions a period once, and mentions showering together in mingyu's but it's not sexual, npr!

masterlist

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ seungcheol

⋆ seungcheol, who refuses to wake you up when he leaves early for practice/schedules, no matter how much you insist that he should.

when you bring it up, he always promises you that he will next time, and in that moment, he really isn't lying! he fully intends on fulfilling your wishes and waking you up to let you know he'll be heading out; in fact, there's nothing he wants more than to selfishly wake you and bid you a proper goodbye each and every morning he has to leave for work. except on the day of, when his alarm rings at nearly six in the morning, his plans change completely. he spends the better part of an hour talking himself up to the grueling task ahead of him, reminding himself that you literally want him to wake you up.

after he's showered, gotten ready, and is moments away from heading out, seungcheol's eyes land on you, face poking out under all the blankets that you love hogging, cheeks smushed and drool gathering at the corner of your lip. that's when he realizes he doesn't have it in him to disturb your slumber, and he probably never will. ultimately, he breaks his promise, settling instead for leaving a lingering kiss on your cheek and a note or text where he expresses his apology and explains that you deserved the rest. secretly enjoys the earful he gets later, and makes it up to you so sweetly.

⋆ seungcheol, who doesn't let you lift a finger when it's not necessary: "don't worry, i'll take care of it."

it doesn't matter to seungcheol that everyone sees him as responsible and reliable—what really matters to him, is that you see it, too. has no problem with you being independent, but he definitely feels a healthy surge of pride at the prospect of being able to facilitate things for you. having you depend on him, or at the very least having you know you can depend on him for anything, is so important to him. no task is too grueling, and babying you is a partner privilege i can't see him not indulging in. the members definitely call him out for it if it ever happens in front of them, but he could not care less.

if your car needs an oil change, he'll go get it done while you're taking a nap so you don't have to worry about it later. if he notices any laundry piling up throughout the week, he'll do it while you run an errand so that you have one less thing to do when you get home. if you want to redecorate or renovate something, he's invested in your ideas, learning how build complicated furniture and polish floor tiles—anything it takes he'll do, as long as it means he can make you happy. very much an 'acts of service' kind of guy.

⋆ seungcheol, who calls everyday to check-in.

it might seem like it's the bare minimum, but when he works the job that he does and is as busy as he is, knowing that he puts time aside to call you throughout the day is so, so meaningful. especially when he's in a different time zone, staying up late into the night or getting before the sun so that he can wish you a good morning/night. always asks if you've eaten, what you're planning to do that day, etc. and he'll talk to you until he's confident that you don't feel neglected in any way. you're never a second thought to him, and he wants to make sure you feel like he's dedicating time and attention to you, even when he's not physically there to do so.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ wonwoo

⋆ wonwoo, who replaces all of your favorite things the moment they run out.

the level of attention to detail he has for things involving you is both concerning and extremely endearing. he's so attentive to you and remembers all of the things you like and dislike. at the start of your relationship, it was pretty subtle: keeping your favorite drinks and snacks stocked up at his apartment for when you came over or buying a few pairs of shorts or sweats (since you’re obviously wearing his shirts) for when you’d stay the night. keeps them neatly folded in a drawer for you to wear on days need to cover up a bit more, like if Mingyu is around.

eventually, this evolves into restocking your favorite shampoo and conditioner when he's showered at yours and noticed you're out. same goes for your favorite perfume that's running low, and other house-hold things like your detergent or your favorite candle.

always makes sure you're taken care of during outings—brings hair ties and little battery-powered fans for hot days, and on cold winter days, opens his jacket so you can hug his waist and he can wrap it around you, swaying the two of you side to side. presses his cheek against yours to warm it up or kisses the icy tip of your nose.

⋆ wonwoo, whose love language is ambiguous

not only is he receptive to any love language you may have, he is somehow amazing at giving you all five (regardless of which one is your actual favorite).

gift giving? the most thought-through, special gifts for his special girl, as frequent as he deems necessary, too, because you deserve nothing less. quality time? one of his favorite things is sitting with you in a comfortable silence, making occasional jokes and comments to get you to crack a grin. a smile is his favorite look on you. acts of service? waters your plants, cooks for you, cleans or organizes things just how you like them so that you're at your most comfortable, massages your shoulders and feet after long days, runs warm, scented baths—you name it, he does it. physical touch? scoops you into his lap because he's obsessed with how warm you are, and the way your weight feels on him is so, so infatuating. likes leaving light and airy kisses on your cheek or pressing his lips into the crook of your neck. all of his kisses take your breath away, but the ones on your shoulder where he mumbles soft confessions of love are particularly awe-spiring. words of affirmation? don't be fooled by his quietness—he always has something he's eager to say to you, and if it's to pay you a compliment, there is no restriction to his words. loves telling you just how happy you make him, how pretty you are, how you're his safety-net and his soulmate and all of his favorite things put in one.

⋆ wonwoo, who sets aside time for you

you'd never have to ask him to put a book down or hop off a game. the moment you appear, he's putting everything aside to greet you and hold you and ask how you've been. if you're upset or sad, he'll glue himself to your side until you feel better. he seems like the type of person who feels very deeply for the people he cares about, so it's extremely important to him that you are always feeling your best, for his sake and yours. listens so deeply to your concerns and complaints for any matter—whether it's in an argument and you're sharing your views, or after a bad day at work where you ramble and rant about what went wrong.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ mingyu

⋆ mingyu, who is impatient when it comes to you

he's understanding of the fact that the two of you cannot always be together, considering his career and the fact that you're also busy at times; regardless, he has an inability to be away from you for longer than a few hours. it’s endearing, his neediness showing in the form of longing text messages or voice notes where he whines and mumbles, “what are you doing? i miss youuuu,”

his impatience is also evident in person, like how he runs up to the door when he hears your keys jingling because he's that eager to greet you. most of the time if he's cooking or tasting something, you end up tasting the food on his lips because he's never patient enough to wait until he swallows a bite of food before he kisses you.

⋆ mingyu, who is so gentle and thoughtful with you

loves pampering you, whether its by scrubbing your shampoo into your scalp as he sits behind you in a hot bath, or getting up before you to bring you breakfast in bed. most of the time, showering together isn't even sexual; he'll hold you close and mumble soft compliments or talk about his day, wrap you in a towel when you get out, dry your hair for you, apply lotion, whatever your regular routine is— and he truly enjoys every part of it. if he comes home after you've fallen asleep, he'll make sure your phone is plugged in and any alarms you may need are on. finishes any tasks around the house you may have forgotten to do prior to your slumber, like folding clothes you left in the dryer or washing any dishes in the sink.

treats you as if you were made of glass, covering the corners of tables when you walk by or holding your hand while you cross the street. pouts while he takes care of you if you're sick or injured, cooing and bandaging your cuts and scrapes or insisting you take your medicine around the clock and rest (perhaps even excessively... you could have seasonal allergies, and he'll still scold you for wanting to get out of bed).

⋆ mingyu, who dedicates a section of his phone to you

loves candid pictures and loves your face. simple.

there's a hidden photo album on his phone with all the pictures he has of you and with you and there are various playlists dedicated to you, too. any song that reminds him of you is on a playlist with a cheesy name. another playlist consist of songs he knows you like or even thinks you might like. plays these for you on drives where his hand clutches yours and the windows are down.

if you're an individual who gets their period, he has your period tracker on his phone so he can plan accordingly and make sure he's extra sweet to you around that time. has recipes you like/he wants to make for you set aside in a pinterest board or bookmarked on his search page. also keeps your favorite shopping apps with the cart full of things you mentioned so he can get them for you.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ vernon

⋆ vernon, who can't watch shows without you

there's certain tv shows that he completely avoids unless you're there to watch them with him. even if the guys beg him to watch it, he'll refuse and lock himself in his room so there's no chance it might be spoiled. when he's with you though? a few nights of the week, the two of you sit down with snacks and sugary drinks to watch your favorite series together like an old married couple watching their nightly programs.

loves when you you curl up in his lap, both of you wrapped under one blanket with your head resting on his shoulder and his arms circled around you. his gasps and laughs and overall reactions are so loud by your ear but it's adorable and it's such a domestic and comfortable experience. it feels very familiar, and more often than not, both of you prefer this to going out.

⋆ vernon, who rests the best when he's around you

needs his afternoon naps, but specifically, he needs them with you. limbs tangled and light conversation before you drift off that just becomes slurred, pointless babbling. quiet snores and soft breaths take over as the early afternoon hours go by. just the warmth of having you near makes his heart so happy and his rest so fulfilling, especially before practice or after long hours of travelling.

it's a treat to wake up beside him after these catnaps, too. the sleepy features and tousled hair are so very boyfriend, and the way he looks at you when his eyes peek open is so cute.

⋆ vernon, who always tries new things with you

a yes man, any time, all of the time. whether you ask to go on a grocery run at two in the morning or a hike at dawn, he's saying yes. whenever you want to try something new, vernon is your partner in crime and your greatest alliance. he's not only your boyfriend, but your best friend, and it makes everything so fun. always puts a smile on your face, too. he's so goofy and easy going that it's difficult to not feel great around him.

enthusiastic and supportive when you wanna try new hobbies. always asks so many questions so you know he's interested and invested, and will get you any tools or resources you need to excel. trying new foods and restaurants is also high up on the list of things the two of you like to do. he might like keeping a little list of your favorite spots so he can find similar ones to try with you.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

[wannaeatramyeon]

Gun Park x Reader: Feverish Confessions

G/N. 1.8k. You kindly take care of Gun. Soft. Masterlists

You were under the notion that Gun Park could not get ill.

That his antibodies also had ultra instinct and there was no virus strong enough to even consider invading his body.

But alas, you found out he was human when you discovered him unsteady on his feet, pink cheeked and sweat sheened.

"You ok?" You ask, reaching out the back of your hand to feel his forehead.

"Don't touch me," he says without any of his usual bite. That was the first warning sign.

The second one comes when he fails to dodge your grasp and you do make contact with his skin.

"You're burning up."

"I'm not."

"You're ill."

"I'm not."

"You're being a child "

"I am not."

.

.

You decide the best course of action is to get Gun home. He's in no fit state to find his own way back and Goo is no help. In fact, no one is any help at all when Gun's energy quickly drains and he struggles to stay upright.

"How fucking heavy are you," you grit out, trying to push his weight off you.

"Fuck you," Gun mutters as Goo whispers something to Kouji and he snorts.

"Poor oppa," Crystal titters, a smirk on her face, watching you both with sharp eyes.

"Fuck you," Gun now directs in her general direction.

"Yeah, fuck you all," you snap in agreement, staggering under the heft of his body.

.

.

With a strength and patience you didn't know you possessed, you wrestle him into the passenger seat of your car and drive Gun home at breakneck speed.

He murmurs, delirious fever-induced ramblings, between laboured breaths as you hum in response, keeping your attention on the road.

To your surprise, you catch him speaking your name and each time your eyes flicker to his, you find him staring at you, even if his own eyes appear glazed and unfocused.

Gun repeats your name again, like a question.

"Nearly home," you tell him as a way of comfort and seemingly appeased, he doesn't say anything else.

.

.

"All that money and you still live in a junkyard," you comment, holding on to his arm around your shoulder and the other around his waist, slowly ambling towards his shack.

"Shut up."

"I'll shut up when you don't live in a shit hole anymore."

"Shut up."

"Make me," you stop in your tracks and send a cocky grin his way.

Gun, in his weakened condition, only manages to glare back.

"That's what I thought."

"I said shut up."

.

.

Gun collapses into bed, or more accurately you try and throw him off you and hope for the best that he lands onto a more comfortable surface.

You take in his sorry state and actually find yourself feeling sympathy for him. All that money and power but when it comes down to it, who is there to look after him when he needs it? It's a lonely existence.

(Not that you're faring any better but you push that thought out of your mind.)

"Don't you dare kick me," you warn, bending to take off his shoes.

"Stop," he moans, barely lucid and you know that if he was any healthier, you would have been booted in the side of the head.

You look at him again and probably against your better judgement, decide your next move.

"I swear I'm not taking advantage of you," you say, holding your hands up to show you mean no harm and making quick work of his clothes - unbuttoning his shirt and his slacks and removing his socks.

Gun doesn't respond and he doesn't fight you. You know this looks questionable. Undressing an unconscious person is never a good sign. Except he's lying there with his flushed cheeks and clammy forehead, fringe flopping down and sticking to his face and you couldn't help but feel a surge of warmth for him.

Once he's down to his underwear, you tuck him under the covers.

You hum to yourself, feeling for his forehead again. Gun groans under your touch but he's no worse than this morning.

.

.

Gun's pantry, despite the threadbare surroundings, is exceptionally well stocked.

You know from your many outings together of his high standards though you didn't expect that he was much of a cook himself. Of course, you should have known that Gun Park doesn't do anything by halves.

After rooting through his cupboards and drawers, you find what you need. You cover a saucepan with rice and adjust water levels according to the length of your finger knuckle, seasoning it with various spices and adding ingredients from his fridge.

What you're doing for him is above and beyond. You've already assured his comfort, cooking him rice porridge is unnecessary, and you can imagine unappreciated-

However, you think of all those times you've been out with Gun and Goo, drank more than your fair share of Soju and Gun is the one who has delivered you safely home; Gun’s cruel taunts when you come back from fights with bruises and cuts and his disparaging comments even as he makes time to train you to be a better fighter; how Gun never snaps at you the same way he does Kouji, or talk to you how he does Crystal, or treat you how he does Goo and-

Well. Maybe he does deserve a little of your kindness.

.

.

An hour later, just as the sun starts to dip below the horizon and you’ve had more than your fill of doom scrolling - the rice porridge is ready.

You spoon a small bowl for Gun and set it on his nightstand.

“Who are you?” comes Gun’s croaky voice, hand shooting forward and snatching at your wrist.

“It’s me,” you say, “And be careful you don’t knock this off.”

HIs grip lessens but he doesn’t let go. “Knock what off?”

“I made you food,” you sit down on the bed next to his lying form.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why, look at you!” 

“What do you want?”

“Nothing, don’t be an asshole.”

Two blinks, then - “Why are you taking care of me?”

“Because!” you huff, feeling your face flush.

“Do you like me?” Gun asks, and the question is so left field you’re reeling. You don’t have a chance to respond or even collect your thoughts before he continues on in his fever haze.

“I caught a fragrance the other day that smells exactly like you. It’s odd that I know this.” He looks towards the ceiling, mind a blur of thoughts.

“When did I start to hoard these facts like a pathetic idiot? I barely know who you are, what you like and what you dislike. And yet I look at you and I can tell exactly what you're thinking."

"Can you do the same to me?" Gun turns to look at you, eyes a dull bronze and you forget to breathe. There’s a startling clarity as his gaze pierces yours. 

“Wh-what?” You stammer at his sudden confession, the sight of his natural eyes leaving your sanity further hanging by a thread. Did he just- Did he mean?

“Maybe not.” The clarity fades. Gun closes his eyes and finally lets go. "Only a fool wouldn't be able to tell."

"Oh." Then you add, “Am I a fool?”

"Only a fool would like another fool."

.

.

The bowl of rice porridge is left uneaten. 

.

.

You watch Gun, coughing in his sleep, and message Crystal that you won’t make it into work the next day.

.

.

That night, you’re left alone with your thoughts.

Gun’s timeworn sofa digging into your back and his jacket as a make-shift blanket keeping you warm.

It smells like him. Of course it does, it’s his. But you realise you recognise his scent too.

.

.

Gun spends the next day floating between half-conscious and sleeping. He no longer has any burst of energy to compose his thoughts or spill his desires.

You check in on him every now and then, pleased when you find his bowl empty and refilling it each time. 

You hand searches for his forehead. It never fails to smooth the furrow between his brow as he murmurs your name in his sleep.

.

.

It’s sort of funny how those few words changed how you look at this man.

The other day he was a pain in your backside, and you could have sworn you were one in his too.

You’ve lost count of the amount of times you wanted to punch him for his scathing remarks, that arrogant glint in his eyes, that smirk on his face.

Yet now, those feelings don’t really lessen, but you wonder if Gun would keep smirking or would he shut up if you kissed him instead.

.

.

Crystal: Assume you’re not coming into work tomorrow?

Y/N: Sorry, Gun still looks bad.

Goo: Gun????????

Goo: You’re shacking up with Gun????

Y/N: What?????

Y/N: No!!!

Y/N: I’m not shacking up with anyone!

Goo: Liar 

Kouji: Ok…

Kouji: But

Kouji: You’ve been skipping work to look after hyung?

Y/N: …

Y/N: No?

Y/N: Maybe…

Crystal: Yes you have

Goo: What!!! Nooooooo

Kouji: Pay up, Goo Kim. I was right.

.

.

Gun’s fever breaks the day after.

Your hand reaches out to feel his forehead and he opens his eyes, dark as night once more, to look at you.

“You’re still here?”

“I am,” You give him a smile when you feel his temperature back to normal.

He reaches up, large hand and long fingers wrapping around your own, and manoeuvres it down to rest your palm against his cheek.

“You’ve been here all this time?”

His fever has subsided, but the contact makes you feel like you’re on fire, “Yep.”

A hum, then “Good.” 

Gun leans into your hold, turning his head, the side of his lips lightly grazing your skin.

“Can you tell what I am thinking?”

You’re rewarded with a smile, small and serene, when you roll your eyes and tell him yes, and that you're both fools after all.

[kmuradesu]

Car baby

DadHusband!SimonRiley x PregnantWife!Reader (afab)

Summary: A couple days after your due date, your water broke but you persisted to stay at home while you had the opportunity to - even though Simon hated the idea. And because of that, you are now having the baby. On the way to the hospital.

———————

word count: around 1.2k

cw: pregnancy, depictions of intense pain - a little blood, bad language, dangerous driving, car birth.

———————

sorry if they’re spelling mistakes, i didn’t go through it properly properly. kinda lost it at the end, but enjoy !

“Hold on— bloody hell, woman.”

One minute you were trying to rest on the settee with a warm tea in your grasp. And the next, you were hunched over mumbling in pain. The tea had jolted from your hand and split over the carpet.

“..fuuck!” Your voice a sharp groan as his arms quickly found way under your own.

“We should’ve gone to the hospital..” No, he wasn’t scolding you but Simon was a little irritated at the fact your persistence had come to this. In labour in your own home, which wasn’t that ideal.

A wavering whimper left your lips, your fingers curling tightly into his muscle as he gently lifted your pregnant body up.

“Lovie, s’alright just hold onto me. And breathe.”

“Isn’t breathing what I’m doing?!”

“Not exactly, more like whinin’ your guts out.”

The burly man took most of your weight, leading you quickly to the car that sat outside on the drive with duffel bags already stocked for the trip. But it shocked you to think it was all happening now.

Simon didn’t even think to put a towel down before seating you in the car, but everything was going on at a rapid pace he had forgotten.

Once you were sat he did the seatbelt for you before closing the door and rushing to the driver’s side.

“We’ll get to the hospital. All will be fine ‘oney.”

As if he wasn’t shitting his pants right there and then.

Getting in the car, it didn’t take long for you to be pushed back into your seat by an invisible force. It kinda took the breath out of you.

But so was the baby that was literally about to pop out.

“Shit— I know we’re in a rush-” Your voice strained, followed by your brows knitting together. “But slow down!”

Of course Simon didn’t listen. However he did look back and forth at your rounded stomach quite a couple of times. The last thing you would’ve wanted right now was to be caught in an accident.

A harsher surge of pain had swept through your back and lower stomach all the way to the disc of your spine, causing you to choke on a loose sob as your hand took a vice-like grip on Simon’s arm. He cursed something under your moans.

He focused on trying to get there safely, but on a condition that he could cut down on minutes.

As cars swerved out of the way of your oncoming vehicle, which was not going to stop, you held onto him for dear life. Pretty sure there’s bound to be a bruise on his bicep after this.

“Simon, I think I’m bleeding!”

Your cry of words is what snapped 3 quarters of his attention to you. The poor man’s head was on a swivel, returning between both you and the road.

He stuck his hand out and placed it on your bare thigh.

“Hell- is that normal?!”

“I don’t think so!” Your pained moans were swapped with pained cries.

It was making Simon feel sick. Not because you were bleeding, no, but because of the immense pain you were feeling and not being able to do a thing about it apart from reassure you.

A soft hand of yours snaked down below your pants.

Touch.

Take out.

Red. A lot of red.

God the sight could’ve made both you and Simon faint.

“Christ.” A mutter under his cold breath.

He rubbed his toughened hand up and down your thigh, adding pressure as he steered with the other.

“Don’t worry love, we’re pulling over..”

————

Your cries of agony were deafening over the hushed woman’s voice of an ambulance emergency operator. It was almost embarrassing, but fairs to you, a newborn was making itself known.

Simon was on your side out of the car, listening to what the woman was telling him to do.

‘Have you got towels?’

“Uh yes, in the back.”

‘Use those for the baby when it’s out.’

“..alright.”

‘Is this her first?’

“Yes—”

Another one of your screams. But it seemed to have supported her next instruction.

‘When you are pushing honey, you need to push for 6 seconds, then take a 10 second breather okay?’

“..okay.” The word wobbled from your lips.

Simon took your hand and placed another on your bent knee. Props to you, you were doing this without a damn epidural.

There was blood literally everywhere, all down your thighs and hands, even on Simon. But he really couldn’t care less.

Your grip tightened as you pushed, feeling the sharp tense radiate through your core as you felt tension building up.

“..keep pushing love.” Simon grunted uneasily, wincing a little at the deathly grip of your hand interlocked with his. “Fuck that’s hard—”

‘Breathe 10 seconds..’

‘Then push again.’

God, you were pushing and pushing. If only tough Simon could experience this, my, would it be brilliant.

As you pushed you felt the tight head of the baby force itself out, followed by a sense of relief and loose pressure.

“The heads out!..” Simon said in quite excited tone, pulling a wonky confused face from you. But it was nice to see Simon show such enthusiasm.

‘Good. Just keep pushing mama, the baby’ll be out in no time.’

All that was coming out of your mouth was just endless cries of pain and weakened mumbles of suffering. It was making Simon feel ill again.

“..jesus— the shoulders on this thing—ah!”

..‘this thing’ was the baby.

“Just the shoulders.. and the baby will be out. Alright lovie?” He kissed you on the head.

You gave a loose nod, hair sticking to your forehead with sweat, and tears staining your peachy cheeks that were washed away with Simon’s thumb.

He then got towels, as the operator had told him to, ready to catch the baby when it slips out. You couldn’t help but feel a little violated of your space, but the man’s seen it all before sooo.

You pushed, along with the woman’s voice through the phone on the dashboard and Simon’s little but effective encouragement. Christ, the tension was too powerful, were you tearing or something?

But it wasn’t too long, before it felt like you had been emptied from the inside out. The relief.

“It’s out— the baby’s out!” Simon called, a small smile plastered along his face. That was something you almost never saw in a while. Sarcasm by the way.

‘Put it bare on the mother’s chest, pat its back until you hear a cry.’

He did as he was told and used the towel to gently place the baby on the unclothed part of your chest, his brows furrowing a little at the fact that for it to be alive, it needed to cry.

Your shaky hand was a bit late to lightly pat the newborn, Simon was already getting to it, but you felt so weak at the moment it was almost unbearable.

“Breathe baby. Breathe.”

The man whispered.

To you or the baby?

The silence was awfully mute, a high pitched ringing the only thing loud in your ears apart from Simon’s bated breath.

A cry.

The breaths everyone had been holding were blown as the baby announced itself to the three of you. Simon dryly chuckled. You swear you heard the operator chuckle too.

‘Congratulations Mum and Dad. Is it a boy or a girl?’

Simon’s eyes laid softly on you with your newborn, a hand on his child, and the other on your meaty thigh.

“A girl.” He said with a small smirk, kissing you again on the forehead as you looked dazed.

‘How’s the Mum?’ Worn out. Exhausted. Little light-headed. Icky. Nauseated.

“..I’m fine. I think.”

You thought it was better just to act.. okay. Although to Simon, it was obvious that you needed space, and possible to be checked over my doctors. Your bronzed gaze looked down at the pair of lidded eyes on your chest.

‘That’s good. The ambulance is nearly there to take you all to the hospital, for them to take a look at you and the baby.’

A tired sigh left your lips, your eyes heavy as your hand rested on the wailing newborn.

“..you did bloody brilliant.” The man reassured, his hand brushing away sticky strands of hair from your forehead.

Your look returned to him, searching for something in his eyes before he pecked your lips with a small kiss.

Damn. You just had a baby.

[urhoneycombwitch]

howdy, honey!

part I

older!cowboy!Eddie x honey!reader

foreword: idk what this is. other than the start of a new series I may or may not have time for lmao. just… love the idea of honey!Reader and wanted to show the origins of cowboy!Eddie into their life <3 honey!Reader is a bit of an abrasive spitfire but I heart complicated women and Eddie is the right amount of gruff to put up w/ that bratty ass <3 I’m sorry if any truck stuff is wrong I swear I researched a bit but dear god I am not a car girly plz forgive me

cw: Appalachian no magic AU, cowboy!Eddie, older!Eddie, age gap (Eddie is at least 40, R implied as younger), R is on the run from a Troubled Past ™, R has breasts (non-sexual mention) and a tattoo (no skin tone/color mentioned), smut planned for following chapters, as always +18 mdni!

wc: 5.3k

The last thing you want to hear behind you approaches: a vehicle slowing down, tires crunching to crawl at your walking pace in the gravel ditch of the road. 

Maybe it’s just a concerned citizen. You soothe yourself internally, even as your guard surges up to take stock of the environment, to calculate the quickest route to safety. 

To your left- a rusting red pickup, its unknown driver, the flat expanse of tarmac and heat lines rising blearily for miles on end.

To your right, just a sprint away- the line of a lush, thick forest, unfamiliar birds calling amidst the Appalachian wilderness.

Then, an even worse sound of the truck's window being rolled down. 

“Not interested, pal,” you call out, in a tone you hope is commanding. “My thumb ain’t out. Keep driving.”

“I just-” it’s a man’s voice, because of course it is, who else would stop in the middle of an abandoned road to harass a young thing like you- “It’s about a hundred degrees out. Hotter than a two-buck pistol and you’re hiking in it.”

“Mind your damn business.” You don’t know this guy’s angle, but you don’t really care- if there’s anything you’ve learned from the past two weeks on the road, it’s Don’t trust strange men and keep your wits. 

Heart thumping an unsteady rhythm, you swallow the fear and hike your duffle bag higher onto your aching shoulder, resolute, even as the guy sighs. As if he has the right to sound weary. “Darlin’. I don’t wanna see you die of dehydration, is all. Got some water in the back, ‘least let me offload some onto you.”

The offer is tempting enough to still your steps- your canteen is empty, ran out about an hour after being filled at the last town’s hostel. Constant thirst has been an unfortunate side effect of this journey; so far it seems you've been the only one desperate enough to actually be outside in this unrelenting heat.

The man must take your pause for acceptance because he rolls to a stop just ahead of you, brake lights giving one quick flash before the engine cuts out. Both boots hit pavement at the same time, revealing a tall, lanky figure in dark denim and a cut-off tee. 

As he rounds to the trailer bed, you notice a smattering of tattoos- bats flying up one arm, a lariat and a floral piece on the other, some sort of mythological creature sitting over his heart (only spotted as he bends to unhook his truck bed’s latch, shirt shifting forward to reveal a pale expanse of skin beneath).

He’s a confusing, delightful mix of punk and cowboy- jeans just a touch too tight for working, silver hoops lining the shell of his right ear. You’d probably get a better sense of his age if his hair wasn’t hiding in a bun too shadowy to see properly, nestled under the brim of his black cowboy hat.

Eyes dark as bittersweet chocolate but kind and calm turn towards you, observing silently with crossed arms in the ditch a yard away. He closes the gap, wiping his palm on the black bandanna lining his pocket before stretching an appeasing hand towards you. “Waterin’ time.”

A laugh would signal comfortability, and you prefer to keep your cards as close to your own chest as possible, so you smother the noise, turn it into a disapproving twist of your mouth before taking his proffered hand. 

He’s stronger than he looks, pulling you up to the road with an easy flex of his forearm; his other hand automatically fits to your low back to steady you as your pack shifts with the climb, but he drops all points of contact as soon as you’re stabilized.

There’s a thunk from the nearby truck, the sound of something dull hitting into the metal. On instinct, your hand snaps to the butterfly knife tucked into the front of your bra band, hidden by the extra padding but close enough to whip out at a moment's notice. 

A dog sits eager and obedient in the truck bed, black and leggy and long-snouted- some type of Shepherd, if you had to guess. His long feathered tail hits the wheel with each enthusiastic wag, oversized ears perked forward.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. 

Adrenaline leaves you feeling sticky and strung-out, even more than the heat. Between your breasts, the knife sits waiting, metal cool to the touch and reassuring through the fabric of your tanktop. You hope it just looks like you scare easily, hand over your heart with nerves and jumpiness instead of trained defense mode- cards to chest, and all that. 

Safer for you, to be underestimated. Always harder to see a hit coming from someone unexpected. 

This time, though, you aren’t fixing to hit. The back of your hand, like some gravitational force, draws you to the mouth of the truck bed. 

A slash of pink tongue splits the all-black dog’s mouth when he licks you, thumping tailbeat picking up speed. 

The man who owns both truck and dog leans a hip against the wheel, watching as you smooth your palm over the silky head of his companion. “Name’s Goblin.”

“So, your parents were hippies, I gather?” A joke slips out before you can catch and wrestle it back to be the most unassuming version of yourself.

The man laughs- full and rich, crow’s feet bursting like sunbeams, dimples springing into his cheeks- the action knocks a decade off his face. 

You’re transfixed, unable to look away, Goblin nudging your hand for more pets while you memorize the way this stranger looks, laughing on the side of the road in the middle of goddamn nowhere. 

“The dog is Goblin,” the man says, humor twitching at the corners of his plush lips. He takes off his hat to rest against his chest, chocolate eyes still twinkling. “I’m Eddie.”

In the truck bed next to Goblin, there’s a bulky case laying sideways, a handle on one end for carrying. It’s the last push you need, apparently, as the logic part of your mind speaks with finality: Ted Bundy never played guitar. 

So you give Eddie your name. Your real one. You haven’t used it in weeks, opting for anonymity and the comfort of a pseudonym at the seedy spots you’ve been staying.

As soon as you say it, something loosens in your chest, flutters free into the bright blue sky as Eddie repeats it like something precious- like he’s known you for ages. 

“Well.” As if a matter has been settled, Eddie puts his hat back on (you weren’t quite done memorizing the long pattern of his curls, shot through with grey, pulled taut against his skull to settle in a bun at the nape of his neck). “More’n welcome to take the water and send me packin’, but now that we all know each other’s names, how about a lift to town?”

Eddie scratches Goblin behind the ear, absentminded as he adds, “Could even sit in the back, ‘f you wanted. That way you could just jump on out if you think I’m tryna pull something.”

Your shoulder suddenly aches with the weight of your duffel; you let the straps slide to the crook of your elbow, then set it next to Goblin who seems happy for something new to sniff.

Unfortunately for Eddie, you’re starting to like him, which means the filter for your sarcasm and teasing has completely eroded. “Ri-ight. Like I’m gonna just sit in the back of your truck when you could floor it and fling me over the side like a ragdoll.” 

Those big, doey eyes of Eddie’s roll skyward. “You always this stubborn?”

“Only on days that end in Y.” 

“All right.” There’s something in his tone that makes your spine straighten- not from fear, just… something else that you’re trying hard not to analyze right now. “So sit in the damn front and put a seatbelt on, since you’re so worried ‘bout my driving.”

Eddie shuts the pickup’s gate and mutters all the way to the driver’s side door, some comparison being drawn between you and one of his cows that gets herself stuck in the fenceline, refusing sesnsible help. 

The air in the cab is stale and still, warmth from the cracked leather seats soaking into the back of your shorts and bare thighs as you get in and buckle up. You’re suddenly aware of how desperately you need a shower, being in an enclosed space and next to someone with (presumably) a working sense of smell, but luckily Eddie’s already rolling down the windows.

“Air’s broke,” he says by way of apology, waving in the general direction of the AC vents before reaching to open the sliding rear window.

Something cold and wet presses against your ear- Goblin, saying hello. By the time your giggle is over, the grumble of the engine has kicked on, and the dog has found a headrest in the form of your pack, his tongue lolling into the fabric with rhythmic panting. 

“Radio?” You ask, already reaching to twist at the knob on the dash- a crackle of static, and then, bliss. Johnny Cash croons from the speakers. 

In trying to keep your delight casual, you slip up, telling Eddie as he straightens out the wheel to pick up speed- “God, I haven’t heard music this good in months, not since-”

Fortunately, whatever system in your brain still holding on to good sense chops the sentence in half. To cover, you clear your throat, cross your arms, and keep your eyes fixed forward when you change the subject. “So, you play guitar?”

If Eddie notices your lapse he doesn’t comment on it, picking up conversation with an easy charm. “Nah. That’s just a cover for if Sheriff Hop gets me for speedin’. That case is filled with coke and guns and all sorts’a contraband.”

You fix the side of his head with a glare, and even without seeing it full-on Eddie sputters a chuckle and admits, “Fine. I play guitar, sometimes.”

While Eddie’s eyes stay on on the road ahead, you let your own gaze linger on his face in profile: the slope of his nose, the freckles that scatter across the apple of his cheeks and neck, the tail end of another tattoo winding up his collarbone.

Eddie catches you staring, this time, jolt like an electric shock coursing through your whole body when you lock eyes for a moment, before he flicks back to the road. “Looks like you got some ink, yourself.”

He must be doing his best to remain respectful, because he doesn’t ask what the J stands for, even as your other hand jumps instinctually to cover the breadth of your wrist, hiding the little inked letter from view. “Yeah. I get one every time I kill a man. In remembrance.”

Amusement twitches at the corner of Eddie’s mouth when he asks, “Yeah? Only one so far? Would’a thought you’d be racking up your letters by now. Fierce as you are.”

“Well, we’re in public. I can’t very well take off my shirt to show you all the rest.”

This earns you another laugh, and even with the wind whipping through the cab, it fills every inch of the space. Rattles into you like a thunderstorm, knocks dust off some deep part of you kept dormant ‘til now.

You like that he called you that. Fierce. You’re loath to admit it, but you also like the pet names. Most boys are condescending or double-edged with their diminutives, but when Eddie calls you darlin’ with that Southern drawl, it feels… endearing. 

Equal parts terrifyingly disarming and captivatingly charming. That’s how you’d categorize Eddie, so far, though you’re not sure what to file away about his arms- stretched out at ten and two on the Ford’s big wheel, soft white underbelly of his forearms fading into a natural freckled tan, smattering of dark hair over both. 

For now, you file it under Trouble and focus on the upcoming road sign.

It looks like someone stripped a big tree and cut out a thick middle piece just to drive it at a slant into the ground. The hand-carved words appear to have been painted over many times, discolored and weathered, obscuring some of the letters.

WELC ME TO C LINE

”It’s a nice town, Celine,” Eddie says conversationally as the sign gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. “Small, but good community. Lots of farming folks, like me, some strays and stragglers, like you.”

Johnny Cash gives way to an unfamiliar folksy number; you drink in the ramshackle buildings that make up the heart of the town. It’s reminiscent of old cowboy movies you grew up watching with your brothers- flat roofs, red brick, clapboard. A hitching post outside of a General Store, a group of kids tearing around on bikes in the empty lot of the movie theater. 

All that’s missing is a lone tumbleweed flipping lazily end over end across the road.

Eddie pulls his truck parallel with a stretch of curb outside a long building, another handmade sign that reads Celine Public Library. He leaves the engine running but shifts the gear to park, pointing to the phone booth just beyond your window.

“Phone’s just there, if you got someone to call. Figure’d here’s as good a place as any, if you wanna part ways now.”

Oh, right. Eddie offered you a ride to town, and he made good on it. Now is the part where you get out, collect your duffel, and wave while pretending to make a phone call until his truck has disappeared.

But you don’t. There’s lively guitar plucking over the speakers, twining with the purr of the engine. Eddie’s hands flex and unflex on the wheel, horseshoe tattoo on the first segment of his middle finger rippling with the movement like he’s working up the courage to say something,

You’d better not stick around to hear it. Fighting the thing that’s sticking you to the seat, you reach for the door handle. “Well, thanks, Eddie. ‘Preciate the lift.”

Your fingers are just grazing the handle when Eddie speaks again. “Wait-”

Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t-

His eyes are just as beautiful as before, when he’d laughed- and now they’re on you, longing and hopeful and a little unsure as he speaks, gaining speed as if from nerves- “I’ve got a spare room. Spare shack, technically- it’s not much, but I used to live in there real comfortably ‘til my uncle moved and I got the house. Please come stay, at least for the night. Please?”

With a hand still on the door to your other, safer option, you pause; though the main emotion that washes through you is one of relief and gratitude, you sink your teeth into the little flare of irritation, pulling it up to the surface like one last play. “I don’t want charity.”

”Do I look like the church-goin’ type?” A bright flash of Eddie’s teeth as he grins (he knows he’s got you, goddammit). “And the shack door locks from the inside. Deadbolt. In case you’re worried about… I’m not askin’ anything from you. Just- please.”

Your hand drops from the door, falls limply into your lap as you breathe out. “And you’re not in some… weird, cowpoke-Satanic cult where you’re gonna use me as human sacrifice?”

“What part of deadbolt do you not get,” Eddie retorts, pleased, hand at the gear shift. “And my cult only meets on the full moon, so. You’ve got a few weeks of safety, at least.”

A genuine laugh bubbles up out of you, and the smile that Eddie fixes you with would’ve knocked you sideways had you been standing. 

You’re both relishing in the moment too deeply to notice the bicycles approaching from behind; Goblin gives an excited yip, front paws planted on the lip of the truck, wagging up a storm as the group squeals to a halt, surrounding you and Eddie on all sides. 

One of the kids, a boy with a curly mop of hair who looks on the young end of 15, slams a hand down on Eddie’s open window. “Hey!”

Eddie is the one to nearly jump out of his skin this time, hand flying to the top of his hat and cursing. “Fuck. Christ, Henderson. Whaddya want?”

“Do you require our assistance at the market this weekend?” The kid speaks in a funny, oddly formal tone as Eddie sighs and sets his hat on the seat between the two of you. 

“Unfortunately so.” 

“C’mon, Eddie, don’t be like that.” The boy is practically leaning through the window at this point with eagerness, one foot on the ground to keep his bike from tipping. You smother a giggle at the way Eddie’s jaw ticks. “School’s out, we’re bored as hell, and-”

He stops mid sentence when he spies you in the passenger seat, eyebrows jumping up to the curls covering his forehead. “And who might this be?”

“None of your damn business,” Eddie grits out, but you ignore the all-bark-no-bite tone to stretch across and offer your hand in introduction.

“I’m Dustin,” the boy says, in answer to your own name, and rapid-fire points at the various figures loitering around the truck, naming his friends too quickly for you to store them long-term. “Now, Edward, about our payment…”

There’s a girl with red braids near your window, the only one not on a bike. When you give her a friendly smile, she glowers and plants a sneakered foot on her skateboard, rocking it aimlessly up and down the asphalt. 

In the back, Goblin is basking in the attention of the rest of the group; another boy with a close-cropped Afro rubs the dog’s head lovingly, while a girl with serious brown eyes and shoulder-length curls (Eddie’s relative, maybe?) makes tentative strokes down Goblin’s side. 

There are two other kids- boys, you think- near the back of the trailer, but their backs are to the group, close as two people can be while still on their own bikes. Dustin’s conversation floats back into your comprehension- he’s making a valiant attempt at twisting Eddie’s arm where ‘payment’ is concerned.

Untwistable, Eddie shakes his head. A few strands of hair have come loose from his bun, curling around his jaw with the overdramatic move he makes to throw the gear shift into drive. “All right, enough, ya scoundrel. Round up your crew and go be a pain in someone else’s ass.”

Unperturbed, Dustin straightens, grasping his bike’s handlebars with one hand and wrapping a tight fist around the metal of the truck’s side mirror. 

This seems to be some sort of signal, because the rest of the group latches on like some choreographed play- hands, one from each kid, coming up to grip at any free space left on the truck, shoulders hunching forward as if preparing to be shot forth like a rubber band. 

“Damn kids,” Eddie grumbles, but you can hear the fondness in his voice as he lifts his foot from the brake.

The truck lurches forward, and with it, the extra wheels; Goblin’s revved-up barking joins the excited chatter and whooping of the kids hanging on, a joyous cacophony of sound as you all head further down the empty street together.

Eddie picks up speed; there’s a twinge of fear as you watch the speedometer tick up to 10- and then he honks, once, and in perfect synchronicity all the kids let go. Some of them pedal furiously to keep up the momentum, others- like the girl on the skateboard- take advantage of the added speed to simply coast.

Soon enough, their cheerful waves and laughter recede into the distance along with the rest of the town as Eddie keeps his boot on the gas.

The heat in town was dizzying, so you’re relieved when the road dips and bends into the comfort of shade- courtesy of the wild forest flanking either side. 

It’s about a ten minute drive to Munson Farms, and on the way, Eddie tells you all about it. You learn that his Uncle Wayne raised him, taught him how to work and live off the land- when Wayne retired and moved a few miles down the road, Eddie took over.

“Not really a lucrative venture, farming,” he says, trees passing in a blur as he navigates the road curves with ease. “But the end of summer Town Fair pays well, ‘specially for sheep penning demonstrations. Got a couple of dairy cows, chickens that won’t stop laying- between that ‘n Wayne’s orchards, we got more than enough to get us through the winter months.

And then there’s the hives-”

“Bees?” Unable to help the interruption, your head whips in his direction, interest piqued. 

“Yup. Got about six hives right now in the southern pasture. Don’t know much about ‘em, truthfully- got a friend named Chrissy, comes once a week or so to make sure they stay maintained. I mostly just help come harvesting time, and try to stay out of her way for the rest.”

There are about a thousand other questions you want to ask- what kind of bees? Are they near your garden plot to promote pollination? Any bears in the area?- but you tamp down your excitement, settling on a neutral, “Cool,” before looking out the window again.

The sign for Munson Farms is handmade, too, but upkept much better than the one in town- it swings gently in the breeze on metal links as Eddie turns down the adjoining dirt road. About a quarter mile in, you start to see signs of life- fence lines running through the trees and the shush of a nearby water source- and then, a house.

It’s small, probably no more than a bed, bath, and kitchen inside. There’s a red brick chimney separating the straight lines of the blue-painted wood planks, ivy crawling up one side to frame the eastern-facing window. 

On the covered porch, a big, long-haired white dog lifts its head at the sound of the truck pulling in. Goblin gives a greeting bark, practically tripping over his oversized paws to launch out of the truck even as Eddie gripes at him to “Be careful, dammit!”

As you follow Eddie out of the truck and to the porch, the white dog shambles over on a stiff back leg, ignoring the playful jumping and licking Goblin gives in favor of coming up to sniff you. 

“This is Rosie,” Eddie says, patting her greying muzzle with a gentleness that twists something in your stomach. “She’s near older than me, was a great livestock guardian ‘til her age caught up. Been trying to train up Goblin to take her place but between you ‘n me I think his head might be full of rocks.”

As if he’s aware of the insult, Goblin gives an indignant yip and paws at Eddie’s knee; he gets laughed off by the two of you, zipping away with a deep sense of importance into the nearby forest while Rosie shambles back to her cozy porch spot.

It smells incredible, here, surrounded by so many trees- you take a deep breath, inhaling the rich pines, the verdant underbrush. Just past the house, there’s a fenced-in area with various plants spilling out of raised garden beds. You can almost smell the summer strawberries and crisp veggies. 

On the other side of the fence is a plastic-sheeted greenhouse, LED lights inside making the whole thing glow artificial purple. Eddie catches you staring, then gives a wink, laying one long finger to the side of his nose. “Don’t go tellin’ the Sheriff on me and I’ll give you a joint for your troubles.”

“Deal.” Wasn’t a hard sell at all- at the rate this is going, you’re dying to get high with this man. 

Eddie grabs your pack out of the truck bed and leads you across the dirt road, pointing out the fence lines in the distance, and a barn that you can just make out through a gap in the trees. 

“Sheep, cows, horses, all that way. This way-” his hand rests between your shoulder blades, steering you towards a boot-worn path, “-is the guest shack. Beehives’ll be just down the hill from where you’re stayin’.”

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder at you- “I’ll take you to see ‘em tomorrow. Promise. I just don’t want you goin’ by yourself and getting stung to death, y’hear?”

Not for the first time today, you wish, desperately, to tell him things you shouldn’t. I was actually an apprentice beekeeper for a year, I know my way around a hive. Studied entomology and agriculture in college before I lost myself in the worst mistake of my life. You know that pesky little J I’ve got on my wrist…?

But if you start talking, you won’t stop. And besides, you’re not planning to stay here long enough for your secrets to matter.

So instead, you press your lips into a line, looking solemn, nodding in agreement until he’s satisfied and continues on. 

The dirt path leads right to the shack, and Eddie opens the door to let you in. It’s about the size of a studio apartment- wood stove and sink next to the bathroom door, twin bed draped with a thick quilt budged up under the single window. Small, but homey and clean.

As you take it in, spinning in a slow circle, Eddie sets your duffel next to the bed and runs a hand over the top of his head, haloed frizz of his hair springing back into place. “Ain’t much, I know- usually just host the town rascals; they bring their sleeping bags and fight over who gets the mattress. But the sheets are washed, and-”

“Eddie.” You stop his rambling with a hand to his arm. “Seriously, it’s great. Better than great. I was probably gonna end up sleeping on the streets tonight, and you saved me from that. So… thank you. I mean it.”

The vulnerability in your own voice catches you off guard, but you decide to lean in to it. Eddie’s been nice for no reason- or, rather, because he seems to be a kind person- and you want to make sure he hears how grateful you are for a place to stay.

He’s staring down at your hand on his bare arm, eyes clouded with something you can’t parse out; you draw your hand back, which prompts him to speak- “Shit, darlin’. It’s nothin’. Don’t worry about it. You can stay as long as you like.”

“It’s not nothing,” you insist, arms crossing over your chest, rocking back on your heels. There’s a sudden swell of panic rising like bile in your throat; this morning, you were hell-bent on leaving, and now, you think it’ll kill you not to stay.

“Listen-” Eddie’s eyes snap up at the urgency in your voice, but you manage to push through- “I know I didn’t tell you much, about where I came from, or what I did to end up…”

On my own. The words stick in your throat, tears pricking threateningly at the corners of your vision. “...out here. But I grew up on a farm. I’m used to working livestock, riding horses- I can be helpful. Can earn my keep over the weekend, at least, doing whatever you need-”

Eddie interrupts with a shake of his head, your stomach plummeting until he says, “Got enough farmhands as it is, honey. Don’t need you getting your pretty hands dirty.”

“There has to be something. I can’t cook worth a damn, but I can clean-”

“Hey.” Eddie’s tone of voice slips into a low, soothing register, like you’re a spooked animal caught in a trap. He steps closer, and when you don’t flinch, he settles his big hands on the tops of your shoulders. “Shh. It’s okay. Like I said earlier- I’m not expecting nothin’ from you. Okay?”

There’s gotta be some sort of magical effect happening, an old Celtic carving under the floorboards, maybe a witch's spell braided in with the dried herbs hanging on the far wall. You’ve never felt so looked at before, like you’ve swam beyond your depth and Eddie’s hands are a life raft.

His eyes flit around your face, taking in the expressions you’re surely flickering through before he says, quietly- “If you want, how ‘bout you stay ‘til the end of summer. Help out where you can, and come Fair time, I’ll deal you in on the profits.”

You open your mouth to argue, and smooth as butter, his right hand slips up your shoulder, tattooed fingers wrapping firm around the back of your neck, thumb tapping the pulse point under your jaw, insistent- “This way, you’ll have cash enough in your pocket to go anywhere you want. It’s a good deal and you damn well better take it.”

You wonder if he can feel the jackrabbit pulse of your heartbeat under his thumb. When you nod, he gives a dimpled smile, satisfied. “Good. Now I’ll let you settle in and get washed up for supper. Come on over to the main house when you’re ready.”

Before the door shuts behind him, Eddie adds, “And don’t get too excited. I ain’t much of a cook, neither.”

After his footsteps have retreated down the path, you collapse onto the mattress, springs squeaking. You flip to stare up at the ceiling, running your fingertips over the ghost of his touch branded against your neck, almost nauseous from elation.

A whole summer. On Eddie’s farm. With Eddie. 

After a few minutes of deep breathing, you get up to unpack your duffel, then fold your meager clothes supply neatly into the top drawer of an old oak dresser in the corner, still room enough for your canteen.

The last thing in your bag is a twine-wrapped leather pouch. Your butterfly knife makes quick work of the knots, and then, the last of your most precious things in the world are laid out on the bed. 

A certificate of completion from Indiana U’s Beekeeping Department, folded and creased but still valid, signed by your last field mentor. 

A driver’s license with your old address, square photo of a younger and more hopeful you smiling back.

And lastly, an engagement ring. Gold, with a teardrop-shaped diamond center and sparkling accent stones trailing up either side of the band. 

It twinkles when you hold it up to the evening sunbeam streaming through the window; reflective pinpricks of light scatter and dance across the quilt.

In quick succession, you slide everything back into the pouch, securing it with the drawstring before burying it inside the hidden pocket of your bag.

Then, you shove the duffel under the bed until it hits the wall, and turn away to wash up for dinner.

[wtchland]

Immoral

Divider: @i04rei

Summary: Joel has a night off and he hits a strip club

Pairing: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Warning: Stripping, protected pnv, bad bad writing, needy joel, dad joel, joel feeling like a perv, mentions of reader having a tattoo, biting, hickeys, scratching, pervy motel neighbors, shitty motel, perv mens, joel feeling obsessive

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: very unedited, and i am suffering trying to make a part two of say it, like someone yell at me to write. How do i make a smutty story with a pregnant woman

Joel never went to clubs. So him going to a strip club was out of the ordinary. He needed to blow off some steam. Between a daughter and work Joel was tense. So after he dropped her off at a sleepover he tried it.

Joel was there for only 10 minutes. He was already bored and felt like a perv. He was someone’s father, these girls are someone’s daughters. He kept telling himself that.

He was nothing compared to theres other men. Joel could beat the shit out of them for half the things they were saying about these women.

Joel was standing up at the bar preparing to leave when the lights went from the basic red it’s been all night to purple. He looked towards the stage. You were more attractive than the other girls. The way you held yourself gracefully.

You were fucking gorgeous. Joel sat back down captivated by you. The beat to gibson girl played. Joel didn’t recognize the song but he had a feeling it was just as dark and beautiful as you.

The full 5 minutes of the song Joel was yours. And you were his.

He didn’t truly realize you had his attention back. You like how he was sitting awkwardly, watching you. You liked how he wasn’t whistling or tossing cash at your ass.

You danced almost for him. Everything in that moment was for him. The red light change. The crawl and the way you rode the floor with your eyes closed. In that moment in that dance you were fucking him.

You were riding him and flipping your hair while the guitar solo blasted. He was your climax. Your hips moving against the pole was him holding your thigh as you rode your high.

Then.

The song ended.

You opened your eyes and everyone clapped. Joel stuck cash in the box for your performance before leaving. Something told Joel not to leave yet. He knew it was you.

He felt delusional, embarrassed for wanting some poor girl on a pole who probably wasn’t attracted to any of the grey old men like him.

After about 20 minutes of standing in the cold there you were. In a fur coat walking outside. You light a cigarette when you see him. And he sees you.

You smile at him and he smiles back giving you the invitation to walk over. You offer him your cigarette and he places the red stained lipstick between his lips. You stand in front of him looking up into his eyes.

Joel doesn’t know where he got the sudden surge of confidence but he had you by your waist and his lips crashed against yours.

You wrapped your arms around his and his hands were squeezing your ass. The way you were making out you would think it was the end of the world.

You pull away and whisper “We can go to the motel”

For the 2 minutes you were in the car you had loss stockings, and heels. Joel got your Motel key 40 seconds flat and had you in his lap

Lips attached to each other like superglue. Joel never did this. It kept running through his mind that maybe hes taking advantage of you. That maybe your not thinking. Maybe you didnt really want to make out with a old man.

Joel pulled away and looked into your hypnotizing eyes. On stage they were dark. Distant, longing for something more but they were still mesmerizing.

Now with you on his lap your eyes looked brighter. Almost like an angel. That’s when he felt the need to ask you “Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel forced.”

For some reason you trusted him. You didn’t know why and he for damn sure didn’t know why. You got up and slowly removed your heels, then your tights, your coat and your dress. Joel watched. Afraid he would accidentally blink and you would be gone.

You got on your knees between his legs. Those beautiful eyes looking up at him. You unzipped his jeans and tried to tug them down. Joel slowly pulled your hands away and helped you pull his boxers and jeans down.

His cock was stored so good away in his boxers that it slapped you in the face when it was freed. Like a tentacle. You knew it was big. No man would be so hesitant to drop his drawls unless he knew it would be so big your organs would fill it.

And tonight your organs is going to be rearranged. Properly, because this man is way too sweet to rough you around and not clean you up.

You grip his thighs and take his cock in your mouth. You worked your head up and down. Moving in a circular motion.

Joels hands hovered over your head. He wanted to gag you. He thought about it just a little. But the last thing he would do was something you didn’t want.

Joel cared too much, liked you too much to run you off. You felt his fingers brush against your hair and look up at him. Slowly pulling his cock out with a little pop.

“You can pull my hair if you want. I don’t mind you can do anything”

You were too sweet, too fucking nice. Someone could hurt you. He couldn’t let that happen. You were his now.

Joel tugged your hair and pushed you back down on his cock. You gagged a little before sucking. You liked the way he was grabbing you. Forcing you, choking you.

He wasn’t like the other men using you for their pleasure. He was gentle under the roughness. He wanted to make you happy under it all.

After Joel came he held your chin. He watched you swallow. And right after he inhaled your lips. The way he kissed you was enough alone. He pulled you up in his lap and tossed you down onto the bed.

Joel hovered over you, looking down in your eyes. Joel caressed your cheek. It was almost like he was falling for you. Joel had to tell himself that was ridiculous, you just met. You just met and he wasn’t ready to scare you off.

Not yet. Not when he just got you.

Joel pulled your purple slip over your head. He took you in. Black lace bra, black thong, black tights. Everything matched. You were a stripper, of course everything matched.

You were his stripper. Joel kissed from your neck down, between your breast, under your breast, your stomach, your hip, your tattoo.

Joel pulled back and read your little ink tattoo on your v line. Joel ran his thumb over your V line.

“Immoral”

He fucking loved that. You could be immoral together. Immoral tonight. The way he planned to fuck you that would be Immoral.

He kissed your tattoo again and single handedly unhooked your bra. A condom sat between your tits. Joel grinned amused.

“Safe girl”

He tossed your brs and ran his thumb over your nipple. He took one between his pointer finger and thumb. Tugging it gently to earn a moan from you. And then leaned down and sucked the other.

Fuck he was a pro. For a middle aged men that was shy at the beginning he was a fucking pro.

He needed more. Instantly. Thunder cracked outside. You looked over out the window watching the ran. As you were hypnotized he pulled your thong down and tossed it to never never land.

Joel snatched the condom from between your tits and ripped it open with his teeth and slid it on.

Joel wasted no time, no warm up, no pussy eating just straight thrusting. He wasn’t gonna wait not no more. He didn’t have it in him. Not now.

He held your stomach, rubbing it as he fucked you. His mouth your neck. He fucked hard, he fucked needed you tonight. He needed you all night. From the start.

The whole time he fucked you he loved it. You loved it. He made you moan so loud the creeps next door listened. He made you moan so loud he didn’t know you could be so loud. You came three times in 25 minutes. He came twice. Your nipples had bite marks in both sides. Your neck had hickeys. His back had scratches, his hip had a bruise from where you hit him too hard. Your hair messy and sweaty.

Joel laid next to you and pulled you to his side. You yawned and laid on his chest. For a moment you listened to the rain. You watched as purple flashed into the room. Joel kissed your jaw.

You sat up and got out of the bed. He grabbed your hand and sat up to kiss you. You smiled against his lips as he rasped “Where you goin”

Got his voice was raspy. Texaian raspy. Damn. You murmured “Gotta pee” He let you go and you walked to the bathroom. The shitty motel bathroom that you got your world worked it. It was perfect, perfectly shitty.

From now on this would be your shitty hotel with Joel. Your immoral, shitty, thin walled hotel.

[rambheem-is-real]

Hurts So Good Part 1

pairing: Varadeva

warnings: NSFW in part 2

This one shot got longer than I thought so I'm splitting it into multiple parts, based on this post

-

It’s over. Deva has rescued Krishnakanth’s daughter from the Khansaar soldiers. There’s a surge of relief that at least this once, he was able to protect her. He can’t forget the look in Aadhya’s eyes from the day she went to the market and he had stayed holding onto the pole. How can he tell her, this stranger, about the promise he made to his mother? How can she know what he’s capable of? 

Deva hadn’t realized until he blasted the trucks open, that the men were from Khansaar, and that the shipment had the Salaar’s seal stamped onto every container. His own seal, staring at him after almost a decade. Not that seeing it earlier would have stopped his attack. 

Amma wanted him to keep Aadhya safe, Deva would keep Aadhya safe. 

His whole life had revolved around one word for the last few years: Amma. Her word might as well have been the word of god, not that he believed in one anymore. She did her best to protect him from falling back into old habits, strict as she was. He had heard the whispers from the women when he killed Vishnu: Kaateramma koduku. Rakshasudu. The woman doing tattoos had painted a devil onto his arm after seeing his future. At some point, those names started to feel literal, and only Amma had been able to calm him down. She had made him promise to never use violence again, unless she explicitly told him to do so, and Deva had not broken that promise in seven years. He looks over at her, the mother that hadn’t so much as given him a loving glance in years. 

Amma is looking out of the window, avoiding his gaze, as always. He smiles to himself. Whatever happened, he hadn’t broken their promise. 

The next second, their car explodes, and Deva loses consciousness. 

-

Deva wakes up in darkness. He takes stock immediately of the chains threaded through his wrists, and the ones tying his ankles to the floor. There’s a gag in his mouth and a blindfold around his eyes, preventing him from fully seeing where he is, but he doesn’t need to. He’s been in a cell like this seven years ago. This time it seems like they’ve taken precautions. 

Well, of course they would, because he would’ve told them how dangerous Deva was. 

His traitorous heart starts beating faster at the mere thought, and Deva tries in vain to conjure back images of him holding Amma at gunpoint. You can’t feel that way about him anymore, Deva tries to think, but he knows it's useless. His corpse could be brought back to life at the mere mention of that man’s name. Sometime in his childhood, Deva had given him his heart, and never found a way to get it back. The scars running down his arms are both a blessing and a curse, keeping Deva from forgetting the boy he once would’ve destroyed the entire world for. 

He estimates it’s about an hour before he hears footsteps, multiple sets. 

“Leave us.” There’s a quiet order, before only one set of feet walk into his cell, the rest fading away. 

Deva knows in his bones who it is, recognizes the melodic tone of the steps. Just hearing his voice had simultaneously elated and terrified him. Not for himself, of course he wasn’t scared for his own safety. He had come to fear the power that the other man had always held over him. 

It was for this man that he had stained his hands red, that he had killed the Ghaniyar leader in a fit of anger, just because he had dared to lay hands on his Sulthan. He can’t disappoint Amma again, he can’t break his promise to her. He doesn’t want more flashes of men dying by his hands every night, he doesn’t want to go back to being that monster. But for Varadharaja Mannar, Deva knows he would kill again in a heartbeat. 

There’s a few beats of silence. 

“I told you I never wanted to see your face again.” That beloved voice, now cold as ice. Deva can recall too well the anger on Varadha’s face when he had first issued the order to Deva, seven years ago. He stays silent. “Or did you not know, that it was the Khansaar cargo you disrupted? Bilal certainly seemed to think so.” 

There are calloused fingers on Deva’s face, tilting it this way and that. He thinks Varadha might be trying to see any differences, the results of age. 

“But the fact of the matter remains: You broke the seal you yourself imposed. The punishment for that in the Nibandhanam is death.” A glimpse of a memory, of his own hands writing out the consequences of tampering with the Salaar’s seal. “And for what?”

The fingers suddenly tighten, pressing hard enough to bruise Deva’s cheeks and jaw. “All this, for a girl?” Varadha hisses. “Is she your lover? You couldn’t pick anyone other than Krishnakanth’s daughter?”

Deva’s lips twitch. He understands more what this is about, now. As possessive as Deva is about Varadha, only he knows that Varadha is worse about Deva. The other man had only been calm his whole life because he never worried about Deva, due to some childhood belief that Deva was invincible. He wants to laugh at the thought that after all these decades, the only threat Varadha decided existed to Deva and his feelings for Varadha was a lady that couldn’t even yell at a bunch of unruly school children to shut them up.  

Deva knows Varadha sees the smile when he hears a sharp intake of breath from above. He’ll let Varadha come to any conclusions he wants. If he thinks Aadhya is important to Deva he might keep her alive, to use her as a bargaining chip. He doesn’t have any romantic intentions, but Varadha doesn’t need to know. He only genuinely feels bad for Aadhya. She had come to India to disperse her mother’s ashes, to respect her last wishes, and had gotten mixed up in whatever Deva and Varadha’s relationship now was. 

Friends? Not anymore. Enemies? Not when they were each other’s weakness. They were just somewhere in between, where the bad memories were outweighing the good. 

Deva’s head is yanked up by the hair. “I knew it,” Varadha spits. “You love her? You chose her?” Over me? is left unsaid, but Deva hears it anyway. 

Varadha seems to realize that Deva can’t respond, and yanks the gag out of his mouth. Deva knows what he wants: an explicit rejection. 

“Leave her alone,” Deva says, voice rough from disuse. It’ll sound like a confirmation that he loves Aadhya, but Deva doesn’t have to lie for it. He could never blatantly lie to his Varadha. 

There’s silence. Deva counts the beats in his head, trying to figure out what Varadha will do next. 

Finally, Varadha speaks. “The court wants you dead, for breaking the seal.” It’s a complete sidestepping of the Aadhya issue, and the sentence is uttered with barely suppressed heartbreak. Deva hates deceiving Varadha like this, but he has to keep Aadhya alive no matter what. Amma would be disappointed otherwise. 

“But you know as well as I do, that I can’t do that.” The fingers are on his face again, this time ghosting over his lips. “We’re too intertwined.” A pause. “Or maybe you’re fine, now that you have a girlfriend.” The bitterness is back. “But you’re still my weakness, my Salaar. So what now?”

The fingers press more insistently on his lips, and Deva doesn’t know why he does, but he lets them fall open a little. 

“What now,” Varadha trails off, as he sees. There’s a breath, and Varadha slips his thumb right into Deva’s mouth. They stay frozen together like that, until Varadha straightens. “Oh.” Deva hears the smirk in his voice as Varadha says, “I know what I want.”

-

tags: @deadloverscity @sada-siva-sanyaasi @sambaridli @sometimesbrave @just-a-lazy-person @vijayasena @mad-who-ra @umbrulla @jitterbugbetty @chocolate-1-0-1 @pitrsattabhaadmeinjao @sinistergooseberries @tulodiscord @varadevaficrecs @hum-suffer @nini9224 @varadevlawyer @susi-r8here

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from CNN:

William Fulford moved from Virginia Beach, Virginia, to a new waterfront development in Florida in 2023. Nestled between Sarasota Bay and the southwestern part of Tampa Bay, the new home by Bradenton Beach was everything Fulford, a retired custom homebuilder, ever wished for.

The developers of the new Hunters Point community, Pearl Homes, billed the property as the first “net-zero” single-family home development in the US, meaning residents produce more energy from solar panels than they need, with the excess energy either being stored or sold back to the grid – in a state where most electricity is generated by burning natural gas, a planet-warming fossil fuel.

They also boast some of the most sustainable, energy-efficient and hurricane-proof homes in the country: The streets surrounding the homes are intentionally designed to flood so houses don’t. Power and internet lines are buried to avoid wind damage. The sturdy concrete walls, hurricane-proof windows and doors are fortified with a layer of foam insulation, providing extra safety against the most violent storms.

Climate resiliency and storm protection were built into the fabric of the homes. And while the newly developed homes have endured a few storms since people moved in around February 2023, Hurricanes Helene and Milton put those features to the true test over the last two weeks.

Most of the residents living in Hunters Point heeded the mandatory evacuations ahead of Hurricane Milton’s landfall but Fulford, 76, stayed behind with wife, Sueann, just as they did during Hurricane Helene last month.

They stocked up on water and groceries. Fulford moved the car to higher ground. He tied up all patio and back deck furniture together. They brought everything from the garage, which made up the entire ground floor, up to the living spaces on the second floor. And, in the event of a worst-case scenario, Sueann insisted on getting life preservers.

“I’m just quite convinced that the strength and everything in this house. They built a great house, a strong house,” Fulford said. “And I just feel comfortable. I feel like we’re high enough up, even if we get a storm surge.”

When Gobuty started the design process for Hunters Point, it was imperative the homes be able to withstand Category 5 hurricanes. It’s the first residential development to get a Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design (LEED) net-zero certification in the world, according to the US Green Building Council.

Each of the three-story homes are designed like this: The ground floor is a garage designed with flood vents to drain rising water. The living spaces start on the second floor, which is intentionally built 16 feet above sea level. From the roof to its foundation, steel straps secure the entire structure. Solar panels are attached to the roofs’ raised vertical seams to prevent them from flying off.

The property also sits in a major flood zone, which meant the homes needed to be elevated to meet Florida’s building codes. Still, the developers went beyond the required 3 feet of fill dirt and used 7 feet instead to be safe.

[green-planets]

can u share about your stex ocs? :D i would love to learn about them!!

HIIIIIIIIII THANKS FOR THE ASK!!! I have too many stex ocs (15 and counting ^^" they're very fun to make). I dont have proper references made up for all of them yet, but you can find some posts about them under the tag #stex ocs on my blog! I've put little blurbs about each of them under the cut :]

Dolly the Stock Car- She specializes in carrying sheep. She sings to keep the sheep she carries calm while they're travelling. She's helpful to a fault and stubborn as hell-- once she digs her heels in there's little that can make her change her mind. Dolly has a pet sheep named Bo who travels with her everywhere in a special compartment built just for her

Angus the Stock Car- He mainly carries cows and horses. Acts aloof but is actually just shy. He and Dolly are best friends. He had a really bad break-up with Penn and they're not on speaking terms anymore. He likes sappy cowboy romance novels and his one dream is to to ride a horse, alas he is too big :(

Surge the Electric Engine- One-sided rivalry with Electra and acts like their bratty younger sibling (even though Electra has no idea who they are). Krupp is not afraid to manhandle Surge to get them away from Electra. Killerwatt is not so confident after Surge bit him. Glamour Gremlin™. Ethyl seems to be the only one who can keep them in check

Ethyl the Diesel Engine- Black/death metal core. She used to wish she was a passenger train instead of a freight train because she wanted to pull pretty coaches around all day (At least until she met Rebar, though she still wanted a cute coach gf). She is dating Rebar and Amaretto. If looks could kill... She seems like a big, scary bitch on the outside (she only has one facial expression) but she's really sweet to those she knows well. She's kind of clumsy and is notorious for derailing. She's frenemies with Surge

Penn the Library Car- Used to be a passenger coach but he was converted to a library car. He refuses to speak to Angus after their awful break up. Very grumpy >:Y Hates the races. Usually hangs out with Gilda, Belle Jr., and Tassita because they're relatively calm and quiet

Gilda the Parlour Car -Super bougie. She is very accommodating and loves pampering her friends. Her friend group may be small, but they are well-loved. She and BV dated for a while, but he really just wanted her money. It stung a lot and she hasn't forgiven him. She is a bit of a germaphobe and never takes her gloves off outside of her shed. Her shed is also absolutely pristine. Maraschino is her best friend but she also hangs out with Penn and Dinah

Rebar the Bulkhead Flat Car -Flat Top's honorary older sister. Ethyl's They always travel together. She was involved in a devastating accident and was almost scrapped, but Ethyl fought to have her repaired. She doesn't let her missing arm slow her down when working. She hates (most of) the cabeese she's met. They freak her out. She actually likes the crappy, syrupy cocktails Amaretto serves

Amaretto the Bar Car- Italian-American with a thick Jersey accent. She serves really bad, overpriced cocktails (too much syrup/mixer and ice). She's a total lightweight when it comes to alcohol but she loves to party. She always tries to fight customers who don't leave her tips (It's a wonder she's still in service at all). She gets really lonely when Ethyl and Rebar leave on long hauls and low-key wishes she was a boxcar. She has a twin sister named Maraschino

Maraschino the Ice Cream Parlour Car- Italian-American, her Jersey accent isn't quite as prominent as Amaretto's. She used to be a bar car too, but she was converted into an ice cream parlor car. Overall, she's slightly more reserved than Amaretto. She has a crush on Angus, she thinks he's very rugged and charming. Amaretto doesn't see it. She's Gilda's bff and confidante and would 100% attack BV on sight if Gilda asked

Spinner the Steam Engine- She's a Midland Railway 115 class engine. They're kind of a bimbo, really pretty but not very bright. She retired in 1928, but used to pull an express train. They also came out of retirement to compete in the Rainhill Trials sometime between 1976 and 1980

X-12 the Atomic Engine- An experimental atomic engine prototype. It shouldn't exist. Her AI wasn't properly shut down after funding for the project was cut. She rebooted and was left in isolation for years before she was discovered. It was deemed too cruel to shut her down and dismantle her, so they were allowed to continue existing but under heavy supervision. A danger to itself and society. VERY UNSTABLE. Not properly socialized. Any yard workers that will be working in close proximity to it needs to wear heavy duty protective gear because it leaks radiation. Not allowed near passengers UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. She is hiding anime villain hair under the helmet. They eat uranium and have a faint green glow. Don’t worry about it :))) It eventually renames itself ALARA since its creators never gave it a proper name

Rocky 7 (aka Creed)- He's literally just another Rocky but he's orange :)

Mica the Reefer Car- An old seadog reefer car that transports fish. She also goes by Captain. Always a little damp and rusty from the salty sea air. She looks like a shabby pirate captain (complete with eye patch and a prosthetic leg from where hers rusted off). She tells big fish stories to younger and more gullible freight trucks. She has an enormous cargo ship mermaid wife named Delphina. Her shed is located near the docks so she can be near her wife :>

Delphina the Cargo Ship- Mica’s wife. They've been married for several decades. She's a reefer ship. They met while Mica was transporting refrigerated goods from the docks. She's got a lovely contralto singing voice. She knows her size is intimidating. She likes to point out how small and feeble rolling stock are compared to her. If you need a reference for Delphina and Mica's approximate size difference just look up Ponyo's parents

Bobbin the Bobber Caboose- He's just a little guy and he's doing his best. He hates being underestimated because of his size but he usually ends up biting off more than he can chew. Whenever he fails to stop or slow a train, others assume he did it on purpose

[sovlstr]

Mmmmm thinking about mafiafell…. Writing chapter 7….. thinking about names….Don fell… mob fell and mafiafell r pretty basic so that’s why….

Hm, I love getting inspired and analyzing characters. DF! Sans is just Red, DF! Papyrus is just Papyrus, DF! Gaster is only Wings to his grandchildren…. Oh yes, we’re using that theory here, I enjoy the dynamic seeing as to how the timeline played out. Really young Papyrus is a bit manipulated by Gaster, when Sans pushed his brother away Wings took it as an advantage…. when Papyrus was cripped and seemingly perma-disabled only then did Sans began to care. So Gaster mentored Sans in welding to makeshift him a proper jaw and took Paps another year before he could speak properly...

His speech pattern still remains disjointed so many times he’s removed from the front lines and Sans reserves all the temper of the 3.

And to think Maria is what catches the attention of the most angry skeleton! She and him both die, hm. Say 1950. I do so enjoy torturing them mwah ahaha.

1890-1950 MAFIAFELL TIMELINE

1890: First minster emergence from barrier, remain complacent in scattered regions across Canada

1896: Monster General takes first human soul on surface, first evidence of monsterkinds presence found in Canada. Stories and “myths” of creatures circulate. Thanks a lot Jeff.

1898: Increased tensions lead to monster communities forming isolated settlements near major trade centers (like [REDACTED]). Government begins recognizing monster populations.

1901: Monsters establish borders as recognition grows. American industrialists exploit monster labor for dangerous factory work, deepening resentment.

1908: Monsters migrate closer to cities and soon forms disrupt. Humans are viewed as economic competition.

1912: Monster raids on human lands increase hostility. In retaliation, the United States military experiments with living monster magic to counteract monster defenses.

1914: Tensions reach a boiling point, IB by real life European imperialism U.S. wages war against the monster kingdom under ideal of protecting American interests.

1916: The Siege of Underground occurs. Monster military collapses, King Asgore killed, and monster communities forcibly relocated to reserves for human study.

1917: Monsters granted “limited citizenship,” through heavily restricted rights. Former monster territories are absorbed into U.S. industrial zones and monsters begin to assimilate to human culture.

1920: President Kempt Warren promises normalcy but fails to resolve monster inequality. Magical weaponry development surges as corporations recognize its profit potential and smuggling of monsterkind begins in urban areas.

1922: Prohibition begins. Black markets thrive, selling magics, consumer goods, fleshtrade, and new monster alcohol. Organized crime explodes, involving human and monster gangs.

1924: Anti-monster sentiment fuels the rise of extremist political groups, demanding segregation and tighter restrictions. Monsters form their own unions and underground communities for protection.

1925: Early television prototypes powered by magical energy appear, revolutionizing entertainment and news. This blending of magic and technology creates a unique cultural identity.

1926: President William Cull focuses on economic growth, ignoring societal unrest. The divide between humans and monsters widens as monsters face violence, exclusion, and job discrimination.

1929: Stock Market Crash leads to the Great Depression. Monsters are scapegoated as job thieves and blamed for economic collapse.

1930: Magical weaponry and machinery technologies reach new heights, giving rise to armored cars, magic-powered aircraft, and industrial automation. Wealthy elites control most of this innovation.

1931: Prohibition ends. Human-run mafia families dominate trade in cities in exploiting magic services. Monsters partake with protection and roles of defense for human mafias.

1933: Fiere D. Roster becomes president, introducing “New Deal” to restore the economy. Monsters are largely excluded from government relief programs save for MLA(Monster Liberation Act- allows designated magic users government funding in independent merchant market.

1934(CURRENT): Monsters remain second-class citizens, confined to slums and ghettos. Cities like [REDACTED] form melting pots for poverty, crime, and societal divide. Progress in technology like magic radio, early television, and mechanized transport contrasts moral and social regression. Extremist human groups clash with monster rights activists.

1935: Monsters gain limited inclusion in labor unions, increasing political tension. Roster struggles to manage both economic recovery and societal divisions.

1936: Advances in magical medicine revolutionize healthcare but remain inaccessible to most monsters.

1938: Political radicals push for harsher policies against monsters, fueling riots in major cities. The military continues testing magic-infused weaponry, preparing for potential global conflict.

1939: With tensions escalating an arms race begins between the U.S. and other nations seeking to harness magical technologies. Canada and European powers grow wary of America.

1940: Monster-rights movements gain traction, demanding full citizenship and equal treatment. Whispers of a new global war loom as technological advancements make conflict inevitable.

1945: Supreme Court case “Arlow Trials” highlight case study of monster laborer accused of murdering human factor overseer. Explores dynamic of labor exploitation and systemic discrimination and opens perspectives for monster rights onpar with African-Americans.

1947: In the preparation for war, the HME(Human Monster Equals) act is formed giving monster same rights as humans. In the same situation as African+Americans John Crow laws are passed.

1950: WW2 erupts with America already a world power fueled by magic weaponry and advanced machinery. Monsters are drafted into the military further complicating societal role.

1950-1970: Post-war America emerges as a global superpower with magic-infused technology dominating industries. As result Canada is formed into America and no longer exists. Cultural divide shows signs of healing.

1970/Beyond: Magic becomes commercialized integrated into everyday life like television, transportation, and weapons. Monsters gradually gain equality but carry generations of discrimination and resentment.

[breederking]

TW teacher and student relationship, student is 18+ but still young

(Part 5)

As his pregnancy progressed, Sawyer found comfort in the predictable routine of their days. The swell of his belly grew more pronounced with each passing week, stretching the fabric of his clothes taut. He was thankful for the privacy the professor's house afforded, allowing him to grow without the prying eyes of his classmates or the judgmental whispers of the college community. The fear of childbirth grew with each kick from within, a reminder that their son would soon be making his grand entrance into the world.

The doctor's appointment was a milestone they approached with excitement and a touch of trepidation. Sawyer lay on the exam table, his belly smeared with cold gel, as the ultrasound technician moved the wand over his skin. The screen flickered to life, displaying the image of their son in stark black and white. He was a whirlwind of motion, his tiny fists and legs punching and kicking, a clear indication of his robust health. The technician offered a knowing smile, nodding in approval. "Looks like you've got a strong one in there," she said, her voice cheerful.

Dr. Daniels sat by Sawyer's side, his hand resting protectively on the side of the swollen mound of his belly. His eyes were glued to the screen, watching in awe as their child danced within him. The doctor's words echoed in his mind, a reminder of the promise they had made to each other. "He's a big boy. He's looking to be a bit larger than most," the technician continued, her voice taking on a slightly concerned tone. "I'd recommend scheduling a C-section for the next week or so."

Sawyer felt his stomach drop at the news, his eyes widening in panic. "But I-I was planning on a natural birth," he stuttered, his hands moving protectively to cover his belly. "Is something wrong?"

Dr. Daniels' grip tightened, his thumb gently stroking the side of Sawyer's hand. "It's okay, love," he said, his voice calm and soothing. "We'll do whatever's best for the baby." He turned to the technician, his expression firm. "We'll schedule the C-section. Thank you for your concern."

The rest of the appointment passed in a blur, with instructions and post-birth appointment dates flying by too quickly for Sawyer to fully absorb. The gravity of the situation didn't fully set in until they were back in the car, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound between them. "I'm scared," Sawyer admitted, his voice shaking. "I don't want surgery. And a week is so soon."

Dr. Daniels reached over to squeeze his hand, his eyes never leaving the road. "You're strong, baby," he assured him. "You've got this. And I'll be there with you every step of the way." His confidence was like a balm, soothing Sawyer's nerves. "We're going to have a beautiful son, and we're going to be amazing dads."

The next week passed in a whirlwind of preparation. They stocked up on baby supplies, the house stocked enough for a whole daycare. Dr. Daniels took care of the medical paperwork, his efficiency a stark contrast to Sawyer's fumbling attempts to navigate the healthcare system. The night before the scheduled C-section, they sat together on the couch, surrounded by baby blankets and tiny outfits, their eyes reflecting a mix of excitement and fear.

"You're going to be a great father," Sawyer said, his hand tracing the contours of Dr. Daniels' face. The professor leaned into the touch, his eyes filled with warmth.

"And you're going to be an amazing father," Dr. Daniels replied, his thumb brushing over Sawyer's plump lower lip. "Our little boy is lucky to have you."

Their eyes locked, and Sawyer felt a surge of love and need that was almost painful in its intensity. He leaned into the professor, his mouth seeking the warmth and comfort he had come to crave. Their kiss grew more urgent as Dr. Daniels' hand moved to caress Sawyer's swollen belly, his touch gentle yet firm.

Sawyer moaned softly, his hands moving to rest on his belly as well. The connection was overwhelming, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between them over the last 9 months. Dr. Daniels' hand slid up to Sawyer's chest, his thumb tracing the outline of a nipple that had grown sensitive with the pregnancy. The touch sent a jolt of pleasure through Sawyer's body, making him arch into the professor's hand.

The kissing grew more intense, their mouths moving in a silent symphony of passion. Dr. Daniels' hands slid under Sawyer's shirt, pushing it up over his head in a swift movement that left him exposed and vulnerable. Sawyer's eyes fluttered shut as the cool air kissed his overheated skin, his body trembling with anticipation. The professor's eyes raked over him, taking in the new contours of his body with a hunger that made Sawyer's skin prickle.

With a soft growl, Dr. Daniels's hands moved to his own shirt, deftly undoing the buttons and shrugging it off. His muscular chest was a glorious sight, a landscape of tanned skin and defined muscles that made Sawyer's mouth water. He reached out, his hands shaking, to trace the contours of the professor's pectorals, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath his fingertips. The warmth of the man's skin against his own sent a shiver of pleasure through him, his pregnant belly tightening with every touch.

Their bodies pressed together, the firmness of the professor's erection a stark contrast to the softness of Sawyer's belly. It was a dance they had performed countless times, a ritual that had become a silent declaration of love and ownership. Sawyer's hands moved to the professor's belt, fumbling with the buckle in his haste to feel the hardness that awaited him. Dr. Daniels chuckled, his breath hot against Sawyer's neck as he helped him, his own hands deft and sure.

Their clothes fell away, revealing the beauty of two men in love, one growing life within him. The sight of Sawyer's pregnant form seemed to only amplify Dr. Daniels' desire, his eyes darkening with passion as he took in every inch of his lover. He kissed Sawyer's neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, making the younger man moan and arch into his touch. The professor's hand moved lower, cupping the swollen mound of his belly, his fingers tracing the line of his newfound curves with a reverence that made Sawyer's heart swell.

Dr. Daniels laid down, his cock standing at attention, a clear sign of his need for his young lover. Sawyer straddled him, his knees sinking into the soft material as he positioned himself over the professor's erection. The head of Dr. Daniels' cock nudged against his swollen pussy, the contact sending a bolt of pleasure through him. He leaned forward, his hands on the professor's broad shoulders, and lowered himself slowly, savoring every inch as the man filled him completely.

With a deep sigh, Sawyer began to rock his hips, the sensation of being filled both comforting and thrilling. Dr. Daniels' hands rested on his thighs, his thumbs tracing the sensitive skin, urging him to move faster. The professor's eyes never left Sawyer's face, his gaze a mix of hunger and adoration. Sawyer felt a swell of love and desire, his body responding to the silent communication between them. He leaned back, his hands finding the professor's firm thighs, his nails digging in as he picked up the pace.

The sound of their skin slapping together filled the room, a rhythmic symphony that grew louder with each passing second. The pressure built within Sawyer, the pleasure coiling tightly in his belly, his breaths coming in ragged pants. His body was a maelstrom of sensations, his mind a blur of love and need. He brought his hands up to his chest, his fingers finding the sensitive peaks of his nipples. He squeezed, the feeling sending a jolt of pleasure straight to his core, his body responding with a gush of milk that painted his belly, and the professor's chest.

Dr. Daniels groaned, his eyes never leaving Sawyer's face as he watched the young man's chest spurt with each bounce. The sight was more erotic than he could have ever imagined, a testament to the depth of their connection. His hands moved to support Sawyer's hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he began to thrust upward, meeting the younger man's movements with a fervor that matched his own.

The room grew hot with the scent of their desire, their bodies slick with sweat and the remnants of Sawyer's milk. The young man's moans grew louder, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps as he rode the professor's cock. The weight of their unborn son between them only added to the intensity, a silent reminder of the life they had created together. The leaks of milk from Sawyer's swollen breasts grew more frequent, the warm liquid pooling on Dr. Daniels' chest, a symbol of their shared passion and the life they were bringing into the world.

Sawyer's belly was indeed heavy, a testament to the growing child within him. It rested on Dr. Daniels' abs, not even lifting as he bounced on the professor's cock. The weight of their son, pressing down on his abdomen, only added to the fullness he felt, the stretch and burn of his body accommodating the life that grew within him. It was a sensation that was both erotic and overwhelming, a reminder that he was carrying their legacy.

Their rhythm slowed, the urgency of earlier moments replaced by a tender, lingering passion. Dr. Daniels' hands slid to Sawyer's waist, his grip firm yet gentle as he guided the younger man's movements, his eyes never leaving the swell of his belly. "Let's make this last," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "I want to enjoy every second of this. You're perfect like this."

Sawyer whined, his hips still instinctively seeking more, his body desperate to reach that peak of pleasure. But the weight of his belly was a constant presence, a reminder of the life they had created together. He leaned forward, his hands finding purchase on the professor's broad shoulders. The change in angle sent a new wave of sensation through him, the pressure on his cervix intense and exquisite.

Dr. Daniels' eyes never left Sawyer's face, his gaze a mix of love and desire. He watched as the young man's eyes rolled back, his mouth forming a silent scream of pleasure. The sound was a siren's call, and the professor's hips responded, his thrusts growing deeper, more urgent. The couch thumped against the wall in a steady rhythm, the only sound in the room aside from their panting breaths.

Sawyer's orgasm built like a crescendo, the pressure in his belly growing until it was almost too much to bear. He clutched at the professor's shoulders, his nails digging into the taut skin as he threw his head back, his body bowing with the force of his climax. Milk dribbled from his nipples, a warm, sticky mess that rolled off his swollen belly, landing on the professor's chest and stomach. Dr. Daniels groaned, his eyes darkening with need as he watched the display of raw, unbridled passion.

Their movements grew more frantic, the air in the room thick with the scent of their arousal. Sawyer's cries grew more desperate, his body tightening around the professor's cock as he rode out the waves of pleasure. Dr. Daniels could feel his own orgasm approaching, the tightness of Sawyer's channel a delicious pressure that sent him over the edge. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep within Sawyer, his seed spilling into the younger man's fertile depths.

Sawyer's eyes snapped open, his vision swimming with colors as his climax hit like a meteor shower. His pussy clenched around the professor's cock, milking him for every drop of his essence. And then, with a force that surprised even him, a shocking flood of fluid erupted from his body, soaking the couch and the professor's cock. Dr. Daniels' eyes widened in surprise, but he never faltered, his grip on Sawyer's hips tightening as he continued to pump into him, filling him with warmth.

The sudden wetness between them brought Sawyer back to reality with a jolt. He looked down at his belly, the grimace on his face growing as he realized what was happening. "Oh no," he whimpered, his hand flying to cover his mouth. "Oh no, oh no, oh no..."

Dr. Daniels slowed his thrusts, his brow furrowed with concern. "What's wrong, baby?" he asked, his voice laced with worry as he felt the warm, sticky liquid on his cock and the couch beneath them. His hands held Sawyer's belly protectively.

Sawyer's eyes met his, filled with fear and disbelief. "That was my water, Mark," he managed to get out between panting breaths. "You broke my water." The reality of the situation washed over him, the contraction that hit him a moment later servicing as a stark reminder that the moment they had both been waiting for was upon them.

Dr. Daniels' expression shifted from passion to panic in the span of a heartbeat. He pulled out gently, his cock glistening with their combined fluids. "Fuck," he muttered, jumping to his feet and reaching for his phone. "We need to get to the hospital. Now. Right?"

Sawyer shook his head, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts as he tried to sit up. Another contraction hit him, this one stronger than the first, and he gripped the arm of the couch with a whimper. "It's okay," he managed to say, his voice tight. "It's okay, we have time. The contractions just started. The c-section is tomorrow. I should be okay until then at this rate."

Dr. Daniels doubted this, but trusted the pregnant boy's judgement. He knew that when it came to pregnancy and childbirth, unpredictability was the name of the game, but he also knew Sawyer knew his own body. He quickly grabbed a few towels from the bathroom, his mind racing with thoughts of what they needed to do next. His eyes took in the mess on the couch, a mix of cum and amniotic fluid, and he felt a surge of protectiveness for his lover. "Let's get you cleaned up, pretty boy," he said, his voice firm but gentle.

He helped Sawyer to his feet, supporting him with a strong arm as the young man's legs wobbled. The contraction had passed, leaving him panting and weak, but otherwise okay. Dr. Daniels took a moment to pat the towel between Sawyer's legs, wiping away the sticky evidence of their love. Then he laid the towels down on the couch, a lazy attempt to soak up the amniotic fluid. "Let's get you to bed," he said to Sawyer, guiding him by his arm. Sawyer held onto his belly with both hands, allowing his lover to direct him.

In the bedroom, Dr. Daniels helped Sawyer into some clean pajamas, the soft fabric a gentle caress against his sensitive skin. He could see the worry etched into Sawyer's features, the fear that he wouldn't make it to the hospital in time. But he knew better than to voice his own concerns. Instead, he offered a comforting smile and helped him into bed, tucking the covers around him. "Get some rest," he said, his voice soothing. "You've got a big day tomorrow."

Sawyer nodded, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He lay on his side, his hand still resting protectively on his belly. The contractions had indeed intensified, each one stronger and more insistent than the last. Dr. Daniels noticed the tension in his body and knew that sleep would be a distant memory tonight. Instead, he stripped down to his boxers and slid in behind him, spooning him protectively. His hand rested on Sawyer's belly, feeling the tension build with each contraction.

"I'm here," he murmured, his voice a gentle rumble against Sawyer's back. "Just breathe through it, baby. You're doing great." He knew the words were hollow comfort, but he hoped they brought some measure of peace to the young man's troubled mind. Sawyer's body was a tapestry of sensation, a delicate balance of pain and anticipation that seemed to tighten with each passing second.

As the night stretched on, the contractions grew closer together, a relentless tide that showed no signs of receding. Dr. Daniels held Sawyer through each one, his strong arms wrapping around him like a safety net. He whispered encouragements and rubbed circles into his lower back, his eyes never leaving the clock on the nightstand. The digital numbers ticked by with maddening slowness, each minute feeling like an eternity.

The hours of the night melded into one long, unbroken stretch of pain and anticipation. Sawyer's breath grew ragged, his moans punctuating the quiet of the room with a desperate rhythm. Despite his exhaustion, he couldn't find the escape of sleep. Every time he thought he might drift off, another contraction would seize him, stealing his breath and his peace.

But amidst the chaos, Dr. Daniels remained a constant presence, his strong arms a comforting embrace that seemed to whisper, "You're not alone." His eyes, though heavy with fatigue, never left Sawyer's face, his gaze a silent promise of support. He felt the young man's tension build with each contraction, his own body taut with the effort of holding him, grounding him through the waves of pain.

As the night progressed, Dr. Daniels' own weariness began to show. His eyes grew heavy, his lids fluttering as he fought to stay awake. He knew he needed to be there for Sawyer, to guide him through the final stretch of this incredible journey they had shared. But the warmth of the room and the steady beat of Sawyer's breathing lulled him into a light doze.

Sawyer felt a pang of resentment as he heard the soft snores from behind him. It wasn't fair that Dr. Daniels could find even a moment of peace while he was in this agony. But he knew it was irrational. The man had been by his side every step of the way, supporting him through the highs and lows of pregnancy, loving him unconditionally despite the unconventional nature of their relationship. He took a deep breath, willing his own body to relax, to allow Dr. Daniels the rest he so obviously needed.

But his body had other plans. The contractions grew closer together, until they were coming in waves, one on top of the other, like a relentless tide that wouldn't abate. Sawyer bit his lip, trying not to wake the sleeping giant behind him. His hand clutched the bedsheets, his knuckles white with the effort of holding back his cries. The pain was intense, a burning, crushing pressure that seemed to come from within his very bones.

And then he felt it—a lurch in his pelvis, a shifting of weight. The baby was moving down, the head pressing against his cervix, beginning the slow descent into the birth canal. Sawyer's breath hitched, and he couldn't hold back a whimper. Dr. Daniels stirred, his eyes snapping open. "What is it?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

Sawyer's voice was strained. "It's happening," he managed to say. "I think he's coming, Mark." Panic flared in the professor's eyes, and he bolted upright, the bed groaning in protest.

"Now?" Dr. Daniels asked, his voice a mix of alarm and urgency. "But the c-section is—"

"I know," Sawyer panted, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain. "But it's happening. He's coming. I need you to get my pants off."

Dr. Daniels scrambled into action, his movements jerky with adrenaline. He quickly slid the pajama pants down Sawyer's legs, revealing the bulge of their son's head, pushing behind Sawyer's swollen lips. The sight was both terrifying and awe-inspiring.

"Breathe," he instructed, his own breaths coming in shallow pants. "Just breathe, baby. I can see him. He's ready to come out."

Sawyer nodded, his teeth gritted against the pain. The contractions were coming faster now, stealing the air from his lungs. He could feel the baby's head pushing down, beginning to part his pussy lips. Dr. Daniels leaned in, his eyes filled with a mix of awe and concern. He gently pushed aside the slick folds of skin, his hands warm and reassuring against Sawyer's trembling thighs.

The young man's eyes snapped open as the pressure grew unbearable. "I have to push," he gasped, his hands reaching down to grip the bedsheets. "I can't... I can't hold it anymore.

Dr. Daniels nodded, his own excitement and fear palpable in the room. He moved to the side of the bed, his hand reaching out to hold Sawyer's. "Okay, baby," he said, his voice steady despite his racing heart. "When the next one hits, push as hard as you can."

Sawyer nodded, bracing himself for the next wave. He felt the contraction building, the pressure in his belly growing unbearable. He took a deep breath, and as the pain reached its peak, he bore down, his body straining with the effort. With a grunt, he pushed, the head of their child crowning, a slick mess of hair and fluid emerging into the world. Dr. Daniels watched, his eyes wide with wonder, his hand poised to catch the baby.

The head slowly pushed out, revealing the baby's eyes and forehead, but stopping before his nose could emerge. Sawyer's panting grew more frantic as he felt the resistance, his body begging for a break. But Dr. Daniels was there, his voice calm and encouraging. "Almost there, Sawyer. Just a little more." His eyes were focused on the emerging life, a blend of excitement and concentration.

With a final, Herculean effort, Sawyer pushed again, his belly tensing visibly with his effort. The rest of the baby's head slipped forward, a splash of liquid shooting out around the baby's neck as the entire head now rested between his thighs. Dr. Daniels caught the head in his strong hands, supporting it gently as it emerged. The sight was nothing short of miraculous, a blend of pain and beauty that neither of them had ever seen before.

"Good boy," Dr. Daniels murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You're doing so well." His eyes never left the baby's face, watching as the tiny body began to slide from Sawyer's stretched pussy. "Keep going," he urged, his own body trembling with excitement and anticipation. "You're almost there."

The next contraction hit like a freight train, and Sawyer pushed with everything he had. The baby's shoulders, broad and stubborn like his father's, resisted for a moment before finally giving way. A gush of fluid followed, and Dr. Daniels felt the head lodge in place as the shoulders began to emerge. "He's got your broad shoulders," Sawyer managed to choke out, his voice strained and hoarse. The professor's eyes widened with a mix of pride and amusement, his own shoulders broadening with the effort of supporting the baby's head.

With the next push, the rest of the baby followed, sliding into Dr. Daniels' waiting arms with a wet slap. Time seemed to stop as they both took in the sight of their newborn son, the reality of what they had created together finally setting in. The professor's eyes filled with tears as he cradled the tiny, squalling creature, the weight of him a living, breathing testament to their love. Sawyer's own eyes were blurry with pain and emotion, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from the miracle that was their child.

The baby was indeed large, his cheeks red and puffy from the journey through the birth canal, his cries echoing off the walls. But in Dr. Daniels' muscular embrace, he looked so small, so fragile. His tiny limbs flailed, his fists clenched in the air as he took his first, ragged breaths. The sight was overwhelming, a wave of love washing over both men.

Gently, Dr. Daniels passed their son to Sawyer, cradling him against his chest. The baby looked so much bigger against Sawyer's smaller frame, his foot draping off of his body. The weight was surprising, the reality of their shared creation hitting Sawyer like a ton of bricks. He stared down at the squalling little being, his eyes wide with wonder and fear. This was their son, their beautiful, perfect son, born from his own body.

The baby's cries grew louder, and Sawyer felt a twinge of panic. What if he was hurting him? What if he didn't know what to do? But Dr. Daniels was there, guiding his hand to the baby's back, showing him how to support him. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice calming despite the chaos. "You're doing great. Just hold him close."

Sawyer nodded, his eyes never leaving the baby's face. He felt the weight of the child against his chest, the rapid thump of his heart. The baby's eyes searched for something, and Sawyer knew what it was—comfort, nourishment. He guided the baby to his chest, his nipple already beading with milk, and watched as the baby's tiny mouth latched on with surprising strength. The pain was intense, but it was nothing compared to the joy that flooded him as he heard the sweet sound of his child suckling.

Dr. Daniels watched the intimate moment, his eyes glazed over with tears. He felt a swell of pride for Sawyer, who had just undergone something so incredible. "You're a natural," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Our son is beautiful."

As the baby nursed, Sawyer's body began to contract again, a new sensation that had him looking up at his lover with a mix of fear and confusion. "It's the placenta," Dr. Daniels explained gently, his eyes never leaving the baby. "It's time for it to come out now." He helped Sawyer sit up, supporting his back with a firm hand. "When you're ready, push again."

With a nod, Sawyer took a deep breath and pushed, the pressure building once more. The placenta slipped out with surprising ease, landing in the towel Dr. Daniels had ready to catch it. The sight was a bit unnerving, but the relief that followed was immense. Dr. Daniels handled it with a calmness that Sawyer found reassuring, wrapping the placenta in the towel and setting it aside. "You're doing amazing," he whispered, his hand stroking Sawyer's hair. "Almost done."

The baby's cries grew softer as he fed, his tiny fist wrapped around Sawyer's finger. The connection was instant, a bond that transcended any words they could ever exchange. Dr. Daniels watched in awe, his own chest tight with emotion. He knew that this moment would change everything—their relationship, their lives, their future.

As the baby's feeding slowed, Dr. Daniels took over, carefully swaddling him in a soft blanket. Sawyer felt a pang of jealousy, but he knew his body needed a break. The warmth of his son's skin against his own was something he never wanted to forget. As the professor tended to their newborn, Sawyer took a moment to survey the aftermath. The bed was a mess of blood, sweat, and fluid, but all he could see was beauty—the beauty of creation, of love made manifest in the form of a tiny human being.

With a gentle nod, Dr. Daniels helped Sawyer to his feet, supporting his wobbly legs as they made their way to the nursery. Each step was a monumental effort, the pain of childbirth still resonating through his body. But the joy of holding their baby, feeling the warm weight of his tiny form against his chest, fueled Sawyer's determination. In the nursery, the room was bathed in soft light, the crib ready and waiting for its occupant.

But Sawyer wasn't ready to let go. He sank into the rocking chair, his eyes never leaving their son's face. Dr. Daniels knelt beside him, his strong hands resting on Sawyer's shoulders. "You did such a great job, kid," he murmured, his eyes reflecting the same love and awe that filled Sawyer's heart. "Look at this perfect boy."

For what felt like hours, they sat there, the only sound the baby's contented suckling and the occasional whine as he found his rhythm. Sawyer's eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, but he didn't dare close them. He was afraid that if he did, he might wake up and find this all a dream. But the baby's warmth and the solidness of Dr. Daniels' presence beside him were too real to deny.

As the baby's hunger was sated and his cries grew softer, the question of his name hung in the air, unspoken but heavy with importance. Dr. Daniels looked up from where he had been staring, transfixed, at their son. "What do you want to name him?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

Sawyer took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the decision. They had talked about it, of course, tossed around names like beach balls at a summer picnic, but now that the moment was here, it felt so much more significant. "I think he's a Milo," he murmured, his voice still hoarse from the hours of labor.

Dr. Daniels' eyes searched his, and Sawyer could see the hope and fear in them. "Milo," he repeated, tasting the name on his lips. "Milo Daniels." The words felt right, a perfect blend of both their worlds. The professor leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Sawyer's forehead. "Welcome to the world, Milo," he whispered. "I love you so much."

Milo's eyes fluttered open, looking at them with a newfound curiosity. His tiny hand reached out, brushing against Dr. Daniels' cheek, and the man couldn't help but smile, his heart swelling with love. "Look at him," he murmured. "He's already recognizing his daddies."

Sawyer felt his own eyes fill with tears as he watched the tender moment between the two of them. He had never felt so seen, so loved, and now they had a son to share that love with. "Thank you," he whispered to Dr. Daniels, his voice cracking with emotion. "For everything.

The professor's eyes met his, a silent promise passing between them. "You don't have to thank me," he said, his voice gruff. "You're such a good boy, Sawyer." He took a deep breath, his gaze returning to the baby. "Now, let's get you cleaned up, little man," he murmured, gently taking Milo from Sawyer's arms.

With somehow practiced hands, Dr. Daniels began to clean the baby, his eyes never leaving the tiny face scrunched in protest. Sawyer watched, feeling a strange mix of awe and inadequacy. He had never been around newborns, let alone been responsible for one. But as he saw the gentle way Mark handled their son, the love in his eyes, he knew they would figure it out together.

[uboat53]

"Musk’s stake in Tesla comprises the lion’s share of his wealth. He can laugh off a few protesters, but if consumers launch a sustained boycott, both Musk and his car company could find themselves in dire straits. Tesla was already in a precarious position before Musk’s flirtation with the far right turned into an all-out embrace. Nosediving sales would be an incapacitating blow.

…consumer rejection could be uniquely devastating to Tesla right now. The company’s vulnerability stems from its eye-popping market valuation, which was $1.15 trillion as of Friday. To put that figure in perspective, it is five times as high as Toyota’s, 25 times as high as General Motors’, and 31 times as high as Ford’s. (Each of these companies builds vastly more vehicles.) Equally stunning is Tesla’s astronomical price-to-earnings ratio of 181, which assumes mind-boggling profit growth. For years, Tesla’s lofty stock price has provided a notable advantage over competitors, since each share offered as compensation to employees is so valuable.

Tesla’s soaring valuation has been driven primarily by two forces: first, historically scorching sales growth across its three core markets of North America, Europe, and China; and second, investor belief that Musk is a genius who can conjure lucrative innovations out of thin air. (Although Musk has described Tesla as a diversified “chain of startups,” automobile sales accounted for about 85 percent of its revenue in 2023. So it’s kind of just a car company.) Tesla’s media events are a circus, with Musk playing ringleader as he unveils futuristic products like humanoid robots, self-driven taxis, and even an Art Deco bus (which did look pretty cool, admittedly).

But even before Musk’s pivot to the hard right, Tesla was under mounting pressure. The company’s global vehicle sales fell in 2024, the first such decline in its history, and its profit margins have been shrinking. The Cybertruck, Tesla’s first new product in years, has flopped, and the company’s existing lineup is growing stale, with only minor updates in the works.

…

With Tesla’s fundamentals looking shaky, the company’s elevated stock price becomes increasingly dependent on the belief that Musk the magician can deliver wildly creative new products. That image is fading. Last year, Tesla rented Warner Bros. Studios, in Burbank, California, to unveil the “Cybercab,” a vehicle that, according to Musk, will begin offering robotaxi service in Austin this summer. The market response to the Cybercab has been tepid; many observers noted that the company’s CEO has consistently failed to meet previous deadlines to deliver self-driving technology, and that Waymo, which already offers robotaxi service in several cities, seems far ahead.

…

Things might already be headed in that direction. In Europe, Tesla’s January sales collapsed by at least 40 percent in countries including France, Spain, Norway, and Germany. Musk’s sullied reputation appears to be a factor: A pollster found a double-digit surge in Swedes expressing a negative view of Tesla following Trump’s inauguration, at which Musk was widely condemned for giving a Hitler salute. As the drop in European revenue raised eyebrows last week, Tesla stock shed 6 percent of its value, and it dropped a further 8 percent over the past two days.

American sales figures are still trickling in, but Tesla has cause to worry in its home market too. In California, a left-leaning state with the largest EV market in the nation, Tesla sales fell 8 percent in the fourth quarter of 2024.

A North American sales collapse would be a disaster for Tesla shareholders, starting with Musk himself, who owns around 13 percent of the company. “Musk’s stake in Tesla is partly pledged for loans that he depends on for cash,” Niedermeyer said. If the value of his Tesla stock falls, lenders could force Musk to sell additional shares. Many Tesla investors (and his fan base) may see that as a vote of no confidence in the company’s future, prompting them to sell shares—triggering a full-on Wall Street rout, with Tesla’s stock crashing in value."

Source

[bobapril]

And I'm back from the storm!

Helene did a number on my town. I lost power for a full day, and internet for another two, but other than that we're fine. Others here in Tifton are still without power - even one of our four big grocery stores is still dark, and the others are having trouble keeping stock and dealing with power surge damage. And yet, we're the town a lot of folks are fleeing to. Valdosta, 50 miles south, is almost completely without power, still. Estimates are talking about next Friday to get a lot of it restored. Trees down all over town, blocking roads, dropping power lines, crushing houses and cars. Three dead just in that small city. This is the second year in a row Valdosta has been hit hard, even though they're over 80 miles inland. I wonder if anyone is recognizing the new pattern yet?

[l4ndojpg]

whumptober 2024 day 3: wrongful arrest

fandom: lockwood & co | characters: anthony lockwood, lucy carlyle, george cubbins, inspector barnes | ship: lucy carlyle/anthony lockwood | trigger warnings: referenced parent death | content: set after the creeping shadow, lockwood has been framed for the murder of his parents | word count: 875

“Ah, good morning Inspector!” Lockwood says cheerily as he opens the door to Inspector Montague Barnes, who looks more somber than usual. “Come in, come in, George will flick the kettle on, won’t you George? Luce, some biscuits?” 

Both George and I turn away to heed Lockwood’s order, but turn back when we hear the sharp edge to the Inspector’s voice. 

“I’m afraid this isn’t a house call, Mr Lockwood,” he says, the ever present frown on his forehead creasing deeper than usual. “I’m here on business, and I’d rather get the unpleasantness of it all over and done with quickly.” 

I see Lockwood’s dazzling smile drop for only a second, but he rearranges his face quickly again. “Of course,” he says. “What is it that we can help you with?” 

Barnes rubs a tired hand over his face. George and I glance at each other nervously from behind Lockwood. 

Ever since we came back from Aldbury Castle, where we’d destroyed one of the Rotwell Institutes and the Inspector had inconspicuously warned us that we’d gotten ourselves into a bigger mess than we could handle, we’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. When Penelope Fittes had arrived to more or less threaten us, we thought that had been it. 

Apparently that may not have been the case.

“Some evidence has come to light, recently, about your parents' deaths.” 

I stiffen, and feel George beside me do the same. This time Lockwood’s smile fades and doesn’t return. 

“I’m sorry?” he says quietly. “What sort of evidence? My parents were killed in a car accident before I was five.” 

Barnes pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. “Mr Lockwood,” he says, and I’ve never heard him so defeated before. This wasn’t a “Lockwood and Co have put themselves where they don’t belong” sigh, or a “I’m getting too old for this” sigh. This was a “I really don’t want to do this” sigh. “This will be easier if you cooperate with me.” 

“What exactly am I cooperating with, Inspector?” Lockwood asks carefully, still leaning against the doorway. When Barnes removes a set of handcuffs from his belt and holds them up, Lockwood does stand upright, but to his credit, doesn’t back away. 

“Anthony Lockwood,” Barnes says gruffly, unwillingly, and my insides go cold, “you are under arrest for the murder of your parents, Celia and Donald Lockwood.” 

“He what?” George yelps beside me, and I make a choked noise from the back of my throat. It’s all I can manage. I can’t take my eyes off of Lockwood, who’s skin is pale normally, but who has gone ghostly white. 

“What rubbish are you talking Barnes, you can’t-,” George begins furiously, but I put my hand on his shoulder to stop him surging forward. Lockwood and I make eye contact. Then, slowly, he puts his wrists out for Barnes to cuff. My ever unflappable friend’s hands are shaking. My heart is stuck in my throat and I want to do something, anything - scream at Barnes, dive forward and grab the cuffs off him - but I don’t. I stay stock still, frozen to the spot like I’ve been ghost-locked.

“Lockwood-,” I say, and my voice is trembling. 

“It’s alright, Luce,” he says, attempting to give me a wan smile and Barnes cuffs him. “I’ll be alright.” None of his words convince me or even begin to comfort me. 

“Inspector,” George says, voice weak. “You know that he couldn’t have - that he wouldn’t have-,” 

“I’m not at liberty to discuss Lockwood’s arrest with you, Cubbins,” the Inspector says tiredly. 

“But you have to do something,” I burst out, no longer able to keep my rage in, “you know! You know that she’s behind this-,” 

“I would advise you to keep quiet about your suspicions, Ms Carlyle,” he says in the same voice he used when he spoke to us in Aldbury Castle. “You never know who might be listening in.” With that, he puts a hand on Lockwood’s shoulder and begins to lead him away. I run forward and come to a halt in front of them. I can see George still standing in the doorway, in shock. 

“Lockwood,” I say desperately, ignoring Barnes and looking into my friend’s dull, defeated eyes, usually so full of light and passion. “Don’t - why are you giving in? You never give in,” I choke, my face hot. 

Lockwood doesn’t smile. “I don’t know what to do, Luce. I don’t think it’s up to me.” 

“Ms Carlyle,” the Inspector says, but I don’t look at him. I can only look at Lockwood, who’s pain that he keeps bottled up inside is being used against him. “You need to move.” 

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, my voice cracking. His face blurs in front of me. 

“Oh Lucy,” he says gently, still unsmiling, but his eyes searching mine. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.” 

With that, Barnes begins to lead him away once more, and I remain rooted to the spot, watching the most important person in my life be taken from me. It feels wrong for the sun to be shining, for the birds to be chirping. Lockwood has left Portland Row - the world should have stopped turning in its wake. 

[oceans-goddess]

Negan x reader pt. 1

Author's note: Guys, I'm sorry, this is so shit. All I've written lately are papers for class, so I just wrote this to get the creative juices flowing. I know its not much, but PART 2 IS COMING AND IT WILL BE FLUFFIER DON'T WORRY!!! Trust the process🙏🙏🙏🙏. I'm planning on having this be a multi-part story because I've been fucking obsessed w this man lately like fucckkkkkk just LOOK AT HIM ARGH anyways let me know if you wanna be in the taglist😘😘

Summary: Female!reader is on her own until she comes across Negan and his men on a supply run.

Warnings: mentions of death, panic attack

______________________________________________________________

Making it this far was pure luck. When the walkers came, I’d been lucky enough to have a father who’d been in the military and could teach me how to shoot. When we had to leave home and live life out on the road, constantly searching for cans of old food, I’d been lucky enough to always come across something to eat. When it got cold, we got lucky enough to find houses with fireplaces and enough firewood to last us the night.

I guess my luck ran out a month ago when a walker fell out of a closet and latched onto my dad’s throat while we were scoping out another house to stay in.

Since then, I’ve been on my own, running out of bullets, out of gas, out of hope. But I had to keep going. He’d been so sure that we would find others. Survivors. People who could help us. I had to find them– to know that his hope wasn’t for nothing. He’d kept a map with him, and we had been driving in a circular pattern, the center being our house in southern Virginia, looking for evidence of a settlement.

So here I was, staying in the master bedroom of a quaint house with a well-stocked pantry, planning out my next steps– with every closet checked, of course. I was plotting out the highway exit I would take tomorrow when I suddenly heard an engine.

A car engine.

People.

I hurried over to the window and peaked through the blinds. Surprisingly, the people in the trucks and vans stopped just a few houses down from the one I was in. Why didn’t they continue on?

Several men climbed out of a large truck– and all of them were equipped with massive guns. I knew that they were likely for walkers, but the sneers on their faces were unnerving. I watched to see what they would do.

Then, a man with a black leather jacket and a barbed bat hopped out of the cab of another truck and began ordering the men in different directions with a wild smile plastered across his face. Anxiety grew in the pit of my stomach.

After a few minutes, his men came back out of the houses nearest to the trucks with arms full of soup cans and furniture. When they were done, he ordered them to continue on in other houses, pointing directly at the one I was in.

My father might’ve been right– there were other people out there– but I never really considered that they might not want to help me. That they might not want me to join them. Not to mention I hadn’t seen a single woman come out of any car...

I needed to get out before they got here.

I dropped to the floor, grabbed my things as quickly as I could, and shoved them into my pack, but before I could stand, there was a bang from downstairs. I heard men speaking, laughing.

My heart racing, I pulled the closet door open as quietly as I could and slipped inside, listening for a moment before I realized where I stood.

I was standing inside a closet, waiting for someone to finish searching the house.

Images of my father bleeding out on the floor surged into my mind. I gagged as I remembered the foul smell that billowed out of that closet when it opened just moments before I lost him. I remembered his screams, and my hands shaking as I shoved a knife through its skull. And then through his when he died.

Tears streamed down my face, and I covered my mouth, choking back sobs. They couldn’t find me. They couldn’t. I could tell these men wouldn’t allow anything to take them by surprise like my father had. They would shoot first, ask questions later.

I heard footsteps as a few men clomped up the stairs. More tears fell. All I could think of were their guns, and my father’s blood; their knives, and him lying there on the floor.

* * *

“It’s a girl, sir.”

Negan raised a brow.

“A girl? In the house? Alive?”

“Yes, sir. She was hiding in a closet upstairs, crying.” The leader of the Saviors hummed in reply, and stood thinking for a moment.

“Should I… should I bring her out here?” his subordinate asked. He only waved a hand in response and walked toward the house.

Inside, men looked at him with wide eyes and confused expressions. One man-- Nicholas, he believed his name was-- walked up to him and explained that the girl wouldn’t move from the closet floor.

Upon reaching the master bedroom, more of his men bombarded him with dimwitted statements.

“Sir, she won’t move."

“She just keeps crying.”

“Alright, alright, guys. Honestly, it is just a girl. I’m sure you’ve seen one before, so fucking relax,” he said with exasperation in his voice. He stopped when he heard a sniffle from the closet, then walked over and peered inside.

Though Negan wasn’t known for his big heart, he was sure his broke a little when he saw the young woman that sat before him. 

* * *

“All of you, out. Now.”

That was all the man in the leather jacket had to say for the room to become empty again, save for the two of us. I was still on the floor, my chest heaving, my hands shaking.

The man squatted in front of me, bat in hand. It was chipped and cracked in several spots, especially at the head. In the blemishes, I swore I saw faint splotches of red. I thought I would vomit.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he said, in a voice that sounded as if he was speaking to a cornered animal. In a way, I suppose, he was.

“Are you alright? Why are you crying? You hurt?”

I inhaled, meaning to respond, but all I could manage was another weak cry.

The man cocked his head to the side a bit, then looked down at the bat in his hand, realizing what was the matter. He tossed it behind him onto the bed, then turned back to me and raised his hands and continued.

“Sorry about that. Sometimes I forget I’ve even got her in my hands... I’m Negan. What’s your name, doll?”

With the bat out of sight, it was a bit easier to concentrate on his hands, his face. Though he looked quite rugged, with a shaggy beard and thick eyebrows, his brown eyes were soft, inviting.

“Y/n,” I whispered after a moment. My voice was hoarse, and I let out a cough. He sat down fully on the ground and crossed his legs.

“I’m sorry, can you say that one more time? I didn’t quite catch it.”

“Sorry… It’s-- it's Y/n,” I repeated, wringing my hands together as I spoke. He smiled.

“Y/n. What a beautiful name. It suits you, it really does. Look, I’m sorry we scared you, sweetheart. Is this your house? We didn’t know anyone was here when we came in.”

I shook my head.

“No, this isn’t my house. I was just passing through.” The man, Negan, nodded.

“Are you by yourself, honey?”

I hesitated. He put his hands up again.

“I promise, we don’t wanna hurt you. We were just lookin’ for supplies to take back with us.” My eyes widened as I recalled what I had been thinking when Negan’s trucks first arrived on the street. This could be my chance to escape the world my father hadn’t been able to. This is what he would have wanted for me, I knew it.

“I… yes, I’m alone. I have been for a while now.” A short whistle sounded from Negan’s lips. 

“You’ve been surviving out here all on your own? That’s fucking badass, I hope you know that.”

I smiled shyly, looking down at my lap and sniffling.

“Hey, have you eaten in a while?” he asked. “We’ve got a few sandwiches, apples, some sodas, down in one of the trucks. I’m sure we could spare some for you if you’re hungry.”

“I don't wanna take your lunch–”

“Aw, don’t worry about it, doll. There’s plenty extra. But I appreciate you bein’ so considerate,” he explained, finishing with a smile. He must’ve known he was making progress with me. I wiped my eyes a bit.

“C’mon, let’s go grab you something to eat,” he said, standing up and holding his large hand out to me. Looking up at him from where I sat, I could imagine how meek I must’ve looked– how embarrassingly harmless. But looking up at him stirred something in me. His confident half-smile, his slicked back hair-- his entire persona was so charming, so comforting.

I grabbed his hand, and he pulled me up with ease before grabbing his bat and leading me downstairs.

* * *

“You feel like having another?” Negan asked as I finished my second peanut butter and jelly. We sat in the dusty cab of the truck he’d come in, and he tapped his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel while watching me eat. I shook my head.

“No, I’m okay, thanks,” I responded. The bed of the truck shifted up and down as men piled boxes of supplies into it. If they needed this much stuff, I thought, there had to be a ton of people where they came from that were planning to use it. With that in mind, I cleared my throat to ask the question I’d been gathering the guts to ask since I’d sat down.

“Negan,” I began, and he hummed. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything you want, honey,” he said, a smile spreading across his face. I blushed and looked away, then carried on.

“You said you were taking the supplies back with you…”

“Mmhmm,” he grunted, gently urging me to continue.

“Back to where, exactly?” I whispered. He twisted to face me more in his seat.

“We’ve got sort of a compound set up,” he explained. “It’s not too far from here. It’s got fences, walls. Lots of people, and plenty more food to go around.”

All this time, my father had been right, and then some. People weren’t just surviving out here in this world– they were thriving.

“Do you… have any extra space?”

Negan laughed heartily.

“For you, doll? Abso-friggin-lutely.”

I nodded.

“So I can… I can come back with you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I’d love to have you come back with us, y/n. Can’t leave a pretty thing like you with them ugly sons of bitches, now can I? You’d be much more protected there than you are here, I can tell you that.”

* * *

About an hour later, Negan sent a grumbling Dwight to find a new seat in another truck and was driving back to the compound with y/n in the passenger seat.

She was a cute little thing, he’d decided, and he’d been watching her shamelessly since he’d brought her outside. Her teary, guarded eyes, her cute little pout, everything about her was fucking adorable.

Although, he was also amazed at how long she’d held up out here. People like her, people who hid and cried instead of standing and fighting, those people were pretty much gone by now. How had she made it this far?

He struck up a polite conversation, asking questions here and there. There had to be some explanation for how she’d survived for all this time. After a few minutes, though, it was clear that the questions were making her nervous. His curiosity about her was eating away at him as he drove– he was used to getting answers faster than this. But he supposed he could wait this time.

The sweet girl beside him sat silently for the rest of the drive, and though the questions piled up in his mind, Negan was smiling.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 2 - Storms

Okay, Week 2...How about some Telenovela Faramir and horses?

With eventual Farawyn? How about that?

Prompt: Storms

Pairing: Faramir & a horse

Words: 1 095

Warnings: Injury, PTSD, Faramir is not healing, stormy night

Faramir gritted his teeth, hoping that his old, battered truck wouldn’t get stuck in the mud so close to his destination.

If that happened, he’d walk, he decided as another sudden jolt made his battle wound ache fiercely—there was no way he could free the wheels while being this tired and sore.

As a white-hot wave of annoyance surged through him, he groaned softly.

His father had meant well, he knew, but—now that he was creeping along the slippery road—Faramir couldn’t imagine what good anyone had thought could come from exiling him.

After having been grievously injured in a noble war for his country and family, the young captain had struggled to adapt to civilian life. His physical therapist, dismayed by the lack of progress despite his flesh knitting and skin healing perfectly, had soon started to insinuate that he was suffering from a kind of mental impediment.

Thus, the ludicrous idea of sending him to mend in the countryside, far away from the mundane worries and stressors of his previous life, had been born.

At that point, Faramir had been so exhausted and heartsick that he’d simply agreed, but now he wondered whether he should have resisted more.

He didn’t like the idea of being left alone to rot in isolation, and—in his present state of near-delirious fatigue—he even wondered whether his father had not sought to rid himself of a tiresome burden.

No, he chided himself, he was being puerile and unfair. For all the problems he’d encountered in his relationship with Denethor, he could not believe that his father would be capable of so vile an act of paternal treason.

Moreover, Boromir—Faramir’s older and much-revered brother—had promised to come out as soon as he could to share in the promised peace and calm of the remote cabin that had been rented in their name.

Even though the rain didn’t let up, Faramir conjured up a grim smile as he drove on, his bright eyes fixed on the winding road ahead stubbornly.

When he, at long last, came to a slithering halt in front of a small but impeccably maintained lodge, he gave a deep, shuddering sigh of relief.

Now that he was safe and only a few torturous steps away from a dry, motionless living room, he regretted not having paid closer attention to the fields and farmsteads he’d passed on his way here.

There was, he considered, a distinct chance that he’d spend a considerable time holed up in this refuge, and it would have been wise to take note of his closest neighbours in case of an emergency.

He grimaced as he all but fell out of his vehicle—he disliked thinking about himself in the terms of “invalid” and “damaged”, but he couldn’t deny that every bone in his body was screaming in agony as he hobbled up the few steps leading to a teak patio.

His scarred fingers were stiff and cold as he fumbled for the keys in the thrice-mended pocket of his favourite leather jacket, but he managed to get the door open just as the deafening rumbling of thunder exploded behind him.

“It’s only starting?” he gasped incredulously and stared at the flash of greyish green behind the fogged-up window of his truck. He’d forgotten his luggage in the car, and he was in no hurry to retrieve it.

“Get something warm into your belly,” he heard Boromir’s mocking but affectionate voice in his head. “And the world will look much brighter. There’s no hurry.”

Again, Faramir felt the corners of his mouth droop. His brother was always quick to reassure others that there was no need for rash decisions that would potentially lead to regrettable outcomes, but—at the same time—he was known to be recklessly selfless and stupidly brave when it came to himself.

Looking around, Faramir found the rustic but utterly charming interior of his temporary abode spotlessly clean and well-stocked with firewood and food supplies.

With a soft sigh, he filled the kettle and bargained with himself for a moment—he’d drink a cup of steaming hot tea, and then he’d go get his bag to turn in for the night.

He had no doubt that a place like this one would have a backup generator, but the idea of sitting by the open fireplace while the storm was raging outside had its charms as well.

Wasn’t that the reason why he’d come here rather than stay in his father’s cool, draughty halls?

Thus, he sank to his knees with a loud groan of pain that, for once, didn’t make him flinch guiltily as there was nobody to come running and look at him with badly dissimulated pity and got a fire going.

When he’d emptied his mug and stared at the dancing flames for entirely too long, he discovered that the tempest only seemed to gain in fervour and violence in the meantime.

“Nothing for it, my boy,” he told himself and dashed to the car and back as fast as his protesting joints and stiff muscles allowed.

Despite his haste, he was soaked to the bone when he slammed the solid wooden door shut behind him—he was breathing hard, and it took a moment for him to realise that he was laughing.

They’d wanted him to spend time alone so he might heal on his own terms and in his own time, Faramir thought not without a hint of pettiness, so he would do exactly that.

He doubted that a cleaning lady had been retained on his behalf, so he only hesitated for a single second before discarding his wet clothes, sticking disgustingly to his pale skin.

Shame reared its ugly head but was squashed instantly by Faramir’s sober self-awareness; he knew every wound, every gnarly scar, every ugly bump on his body, and—as long as there was nobody else who had to witness them—he didn’t mind them overmuch.

He returned to his fire eagerly, basking in its healing warmth and letting his thoughts drift as the damp discomfort melted into sleepy solace little by little.

Just as he was about to drift off, though, a sudden noise startled him wide awake once more.

Forgetting about his unfortunate state, Faramir jumped to his feet, ever the soldier, and looked around with deadly concentration to localise an appropriate weapon.

This perfunctory scan let his eyes sweep across the window beside the front door. He gasped.

Outside his lodge stood a fully grown horse, staring at him reproachfully and neighing.

@fellowshipofthefics

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