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saddleups · 28 days ago

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𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐒. ↳ 𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈 ( womanly charm )

★ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 . . . 3.8k

★ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 . . . ongoing , part two. ARTHUR MORGAN X F!READER !! 18+ SMUT MDNI !!

★ 𝐂𝐖 . . . wet dream sequence . dirty talk . flirtatious y/n and a very jealous arthur morgan.

★ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 . . . dutch informs arthur and y/n of an upcoming mission , prompting a trip to the tailor where arthur struggles with his growing attraction to y/n. later arthur confesses what he'd witnessed the night prior.

★ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 . . . gwarsh darn didn't expect my first fic to get that much attention in such a short time !! thank you everyone who liked/reblogged , i hope you enjoy this part as well ... promise arthur and reader will eventually have their fun but we're still building up to it !!!

Beads of sweat roll down entwined bodies, fighting for dominance over each other. Arthur's grip on your wrist is like iron, pinning you to the mattress with a primal strength that leaves you breathless. With a subtle shift, you spread your legs without even realizing it, offering yourself up to him completely. A chuckle rumbles from his lips, "Atta girl" he growls, "you want it this bad?"

Your half-closed eyes lock onto his intense gaze as you nod, barely able to form words. "Yes, Mister Morgan," you whisper, feeling his power and control wash over you.

"Tell me what you want, exactly," he demands, freeing his hands to roam over every curve and dip of your body. His thick fingers glide over your aching core, teasing and taunting your desire.

"I want your hard cock inside me," you whimper, your cheeks burning with arousal. "I want it deep inside my wet pussy." Without hesitation, he enters you, filling you completely with each thrust. The intense pleasure washes over you like a tidal wave, consuming every inch of your being until…

Arthur jolts awake, the dream still vivid in his mind and his body tense with arousal. The night prior had been a blur of desire and frustration. Now in the morning air, it manifested in his dreams. Haunted by your illuminated silhouette, the scene replayed in his mind over and over. Pushing himself off the bed with a groan, the fantasy lingering in his body as he stood. Defeated, Arthur seeks something to jolt him back to reality.

He exists his tent with a stretch of his limbs. Heading towards the nearest barrel of clean water. The camp was just beginning to come back to life. The early morning sun casting long shadows across Clemens Point. Arthur dips his hand into the cold water, splashing his face in an attempt to clear his thoughts. He lingered there for a moment allowing the cool water to wake him fully.

Meanwhile, you'd already been awake for some time, standing by the extinguished campfire as you spoke with Hosea. The old man's calm demeanor had drawn you into a casual conversation, a welcome reprieve from the intensity of the previous night. But your relaxed mood quick shifted when Hosea casually asked, "Has Arthur returned your journal yet?"

Your eyes widen in size, heart nearly skips a beat. "Journal?" you repeated with alarm.

Hosea nodded. "You left it last night. The boy said he'd give it back to ya."

Like a punch to the gut, the realization dawned on you—Arthur had your journal. All the personal thoughts, the details you kept about your travels, about the people you encountered—he had it in his possession. The thought of him reading through it made your stomach twist with embarrassment. Without another word, your eyes scanned the camp until you spotted him, standing by the water barrel.

With a quick motion, you find yourself marching across the camp. Footsteps are quick and purposeful. Arthur looked up just as you approached, a lazy grin spreading across his face as pulled the journal from his coat pocket. He held it up in the air, just out of your reach.

“Lookin’ for this?” Arthur drawled, clearly enjoying the power shift. He swung the journal in the air, smirking. “If 'yer such a good thief, shouldn’t be too hard to steal it back.”

You scowled, the mortification and frustration flaring up inside you. “Give it to me,” you snapped, your tone sharp.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Come and get it, then,” he teased, holding the journal higher. “Or maybe you ain’t as quick as they say?”

Your teeth clenched, your mind racing as you weighed your options. You could feel eyes on the two of you from across the camp, watching this unexpected exchange. Arthur’s teasing was infuriating, but you weren’t about to let him win this little game he was playing.

“Well?” Arthur taunted, still holding the journal out of reach. “What’s it gonna be, princess?”

The journal dangled just out of reach. A mix of humiliation bubbled up inside you. With clenched fists, ready to make a move by force or some clever distraction, in order to get back what belonged to you. Just as your about to act, a sudden hand swiped the journal out of Arthur's grasp.

"Enough," Dutch's voice cut through the tension like a knife. He stood between you and Arthur, holding the journal with a stern expression. His usual charm muted by a fatherly disapointment. "Arthur, we're better than this, aren't we?"

Arthur's smirk faded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Was just havin' a bit of fun."

“Fun’s fine,” Dutch said, his tone lighter but still firm. “But let’s not push our new friend too far on her first day, huh?”

Dutch turned to you, offering the journal with a warm smile. “Here you go,” he said, his voice softer now. “I believe this belongs to you.”

You took the journal, your heart still racing, and quickly stashed it in your satchel, your eyes narrowing at Arthur who only shrugged in response. Relief mixed with the lingering embarrassment, but you didn’t dwell on it too long.

With the journal now returned, Dutch’s mood shifted. His usual air of confidence returned as he addressed both of you. “Now that we’ve had our fun, I’ve got something a little more important on our plate. Saint Denis. We’ve got a job, and I need both of you for it.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, intrigued but cautious. “What kind of job?”

Dutch folded his arms, a glint of excitement in his eyes. “There’s someone in Saint Denis who’s been making moves. Politician by the name of Alistair Dupont. Heard of him?”

You hadn’t, but Arthur grunted in vague recognition.

“Dupont’s been hosting some fancy gatherings, throwing money around like it’s nothing, buying influence left and right. He’s got half the city’s upper class under his thumb, or so they say. But here’s the thing,” Dutch leaned in slightly, his voice lowering as if revealing a secret. “We don’t know who he’s really working for. Could be a front for Cornwall, the Pinkertons, or worse—someone even bigger.”

You crossed your arms, already sensing where this was heading. “You want us to figure out who’s pulling his strings.”

Dutch nodded, a grin spreading across his face. “Exactly. We need to vet him, see if he’s trouble, and more importantly, if we can get something out of him.”

Arthur sighed, leaning against the barrel. “And how do you suppose we do that? Can’t just waltz into his house and ask for tea.”

Dutch chuckled. “No, Arthur. We’re going to a party. A fancy one. Dupont’s hosting a ball in a few days, and I’ve got a way to get you both in.”

You raised an eyebrow. A ball? This was not what you were expecting. “And we’re supposed to what, make small talk and dig up dirt?”

“Precisely,” Dutch said, nodding with enthusiasm. “It’s not just about what he says—people like Dupont have enemies. Rivals. Allies who can turn into enemies. I want you two to get a feel for the man, see what you can find out about his connections. If we play our cards right, we might be able to leverage his position to our advantage. And if not…” Dutch trailed off, his meaning clear.

Arthur grunted again, though his tone had softened. “And I suppose you think she’ll fit right in with all them fancy folks?”

Dutch’s smile widened, and he turned to you. “She’s quick on her feet. I’ve no doubt she’ll manage. Besides, who better to send to a place full of secrets than someone who knows how to keep ‘em?”

Dutch shifted his weight onto his other foot, "and if that don't work she can just use her… womanly charm."

Both you and Arthur bolt upright without comment. The silence is interrupted with Dutch's laughter, "go to Saint Denis. Get somethin' that'll make you fit in with the fancy folk. The ball is in three days."

You glanced at Arthur, then back at Dutch. The job sounded risky, and you weren’t exactly one for mingling with high society, but this was the West—everything was a gamble. And the promise of a payday, not to mention the opportunity to prove your worth, made you nod in agreement.

“All right,” you said. Arthur shot you a look, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t protest. You could tell he wasn’t thrilled about partnering with you again so soon, especially after the morning’s exchange, but he trusted Dutch’s judgment. And despite his teasing, you could sense that he’d have your back when it mattered.

With the job set and the plan in motion, Dutch left you both standing by the water barrel. You watched him walk off, already mentally preparing for the role you’d need to play. Arthur, meanwhile, shifted his weight and gave you a sideways glance, his teasing from earlier now replaced by something more thoughtful.

“Well,” Arthur said, crossing his arms, “I hope you clean up well. We’re gonna be rubbin’ elbows with a whole different kind of scum.”

You shot him a look, half annoyed, half amused. “I’ll manage. You just try not to get us kicked out before we even get through the door.”

Turning on your heel you make a path toward the exit of the camp,

"Got a horse?" Arthur asks trailing behind you.

"No shit, I have a horse."

"Jus' makin' sure."

The journey to Saint Denis arrived sooner than you expected. As you dismounted your horse, the bustling energy of the city washed over you. You wiped your palms on your trousers, your nerves subtly betraying the calm exterior you tried to maintain. The streets were alive with activity, vendors shouting, carriages rattling by, and people moving in every direction. You kept your face hidden beneath the low brim of your hat, eyes scanning the crowd. A part of you couldn't shake the lingering feeling that today might be the day when the law finally catches up with you. Unlike Arthur who greeted the town with such fearlessness, ready to tackle whatever dared crossed his path.

The two of you made your way through the busy streets toward the tailor shop, weaving through the chaos of the city. When you finally reached the store, it was a stark contrast to the wildness of the world outside. The place was tidy and refined, with elegant fabrics hanging from the walls and mannequins dressed in the latest fashions.

Arthur hung back as the tailor approached you, guiding you to stand on a small platform surrounded by mirrors. You were used to practical clothing, the kind that could withstand the wear and tear of the work you did. Standing still while the tailor fussed over you felt unnatural. He began taking measurements, expertly wrapping the tape around your waist, shoulders, and hips. You stood rigid, feeling out of place, but the tailor moved quickly, pinning fabric here and there, adjusting the fit to highlight your figure.

As the tailor wrapped his measuring tape around your waist, his fingers brushing the fabric as he cinched it tight, he paused, stepping back to get a better look at you. “Ah, yes,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “You’ve got quite the… gifts, miss. This dress will truly highlight them—should be no trouble turning heads at the ball.”

Arthur, who had been leaning casually against the wall, suddenly stiffened. He cleared his throat loudly, a bit too loudly, causing the tailor to glance over with a raised eyebrow. Arthur quickly masked his discomfort, looking away and scratching the back of his neck.

"Ain't no need to get all poetic about it," he muttered under his breath.

Catching a sight of you underneath the rim of his hat, Arthur earned a fleeting glance of your clevage, the lace of your chemise peaking through the low collar of your blouse. His eyes tracked the movement of the tailor’s hands, pulling and adjusting the material until it hugged your curves in ways that your usual rough-and-ready attire never did. For a moment, his mind drifted back to the night before—when he'd caught that glimpse of you through the tent—and now, seeing you like this, the memory flickered in his thoughts, unbidden. He quickly glanced away, focusing instead on the fine stitching of his own jacket as if to shake off the wandering thoughts.

You shot a quick glance at Arthur, catching the way his gaze darted to the floor, a faint blush creeping up his neck. The tailor, seemingly oblivious, continued adjusting the fabric, tucking and pinning around your hips. “Indeed, you’ll be quite the vision,” he said with pride. "The fit is perfect for someone with your… figure. Whoever has you my dear, must be a very lucky man."

Arthur let out another awkward cough, turning slightly so his back was more to the room. “Yeah, well, let’s just get on with it, huh?” he grumbled, still pointedly avoiding looking directly at you.

You stifled a laugh, amused by Arthur's uncharacteristic bashfulness. When you stepped down from the platform, you gave the fabric one last tug, still adjusting to the new feeling of it clinging to your form. Arthur glanced at you, his usual snark nowhere to be found, replaced by an almost sheepish silence.

"Thank you kindly for your time sir" you smiled curtly at the tailor. In response the tailor nods, informing you that the dress should be ready tomorrow afternoon.

Returning to your usual attire, you reunited with Arthur outside the dress shop. The sun was setting, casting a golden hue over the cobblestone streets. The air was crisp, and you could hear the distant murmur of townsfolk going about their evening routines. Arthur shoved his hands into his pockets, kicking a stray pebble along the street.

"We should head back," you suggested.

"Nah, I need a drink first," Arthur replied, his tone more decisive than before.

You sighed, though the thought of a drink at the nearby tavern did sound tempting. The warmth of alcohol might help ease the unease that had settled in your chest, and perhaps it would give you a chance to tease Arthur about his earlier awkwardness.

"Alright," you relented, falling into step beside him as you made your way towards the tavern.

The interior of the tavern was warm and dimly lit, the flickering light of oil lamps casting shadows on the walls. The smell of ale and roasted meat filled the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation. Arthur led you to a quiet corner, where you both settled into worn, wooden chairs. The bartender, a burly man with a thick beard, approached with a knowing grin.

"What can I get ya?" he asked, wiping a glass with a rag.

"Two ales," Arthur replied, leaning back in his chair.

As you waited for your drinks, you couldn't help but notice how Arthur seemed to relax once inside the tavern. The tension that had lingered since the dress shop began to dissipate, replaced by his usual easygoing demeanor. You decided to seize the opportunity to tease him.

"So," you began, leaning forward slightly, "having trouble keeping your eyes off me today?"

Arthur's brows furrowed, and he shot you a look that was half-offended, half-amused. "I ain't got no trouble keepin' my eyes off ya," he retorted, though his cheeks turned a faint shade of pink.

You chuckled, taking a sip of your ale when it arrived. "Sure you don't," you teased, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "But maybe next time, you could try not being so obvious about it."

"Eh, don't flatter yourself." He mutters into his drink.

A scoff escapes from you, dripping with disdain. While Arthur drowns his sorrows on your right, another man takes refuge on the wooden chair to your left. You turn slightly to examine him, assessing every detail of his appearance. He fits the mold of your typical prey - a wealthy older man seeking attention from pretty women.

Unbuttoning the first few buttons of your blouse, you purposefully catch Arthur's attention. "What the hell are you doing, girl?" he snaps, his drunken haze interrupted by your subtle seduction.

"Showing you what I'm good at, Mr. Morgan," you purr, using his last name as both a taunt and a reminder of your position in this dangerous game.

The honorific sends a jolt through him, bringing back memories of his dream from earlier this morning. His cheeks flush with embarrassment and anger, but he can't tear his eyes away. Is this what Dutch meant by "womanly charm"?

Turning your back on Arthur with deliberate intention, you surrender all of your attention to the rich gentleman beside you. "My my, if it isn't the most handsome man in the entire west," you flirt effortlessly, earning the man's full attention without any effort at all. He leans closer to you, drawn in by your seductive aura. And all Arthur can do is watch in disgust as a hint of jealousy begins to stir in the pit of his stomach.

The man introduces himself as Alistair Dupont, and to Dutch's luck, he is completely enthralled by you. The drinks continue to flow and you use every weapon in your arsenal to keep Alistair's attention solely on you. Picking up your ale and purposely allowing a small stream to trail down your lips and chin before finally disappearing between your cleavage with a suggestive moan. Both men salivate at the sight, but Alistar has no idea of the intimate knowledge Arthur possesses. He doesn't know about the finger that traced up your pronounced cleavage, or the one that explored the wetness between your legs the night before. The same fingers that Arthur fantasized about gripping his hard cock. Arthur squeezes his thigh with such force, it's a miracle he didn't tear through the fabric. He nearly lunges forward, ready to grab your wrist and tear you away from your seat.

"Excuse us now," he growls.

"Hey!" you protest, but Arthur's grip on your wrist is like a vice, making it difficult to break free. Before he can drag you away from the bar, Alistair grabs onto your other wrist in a desperate attempt to keep your attention. In one swift motion, he slips a folded paper into your palm before releasing his grip. "I said come on, woman," Arthur grunts, tugging you forcefully off the stool while you give Alistair a coy goodbye wave.

You walk alongside Arthur, your heart still pounding from the reckless game you’d just played, you unfold the crumpled piece of paper in your hand. Inside, you find an invitation to the ball and… a hotel key. Before you can react, Arthur snatches the key from your grasp.

His sudden, erratic behavior gives you whiplash. You're not sure if he's drunk or just being difficult, but either way, it's hard to tell if arguing with him is worth the trouble.

“I ain’t playin’ games with you, boy,” you say, your voice low and steady, masking your frustration. “Give it back. Now.”

Arthur's eyes glint with something—defiance, maybe even jealousy. “Or what?” he says, his tone laced with challenge.

It sounds like a dare.

You stare up at him, your patience fraying. “Or… nothing, Arthur,” you finally sigh, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over you. “Dupont is our target. He’s the person I need to get close to if we’re going to make Dutch happy and get what we need.”

Arthur's expression darkens, and he takes a swig from the bottle of liquor in his other hand. “So, what’s the plan, huh? You wooin’ him? Flirtin’ your way to answers?” His voice is sharper now, his words dripping with a bitterness you hadn’t expected. “Dutch didn’t say this was your job alone.”

You bristle at his accusation, realizing where this is coming from. “It’s not my job alone,” you snap back, crossing your arms defensively. “But you know how people like Dupont work. He’ll talk more freely to someone he thinks he can charm. I’m just using what I’ve got to get him to open up. It’s a part of the job.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks like he might argue more, but instead, he grunts and stumbles forward, the hotel key still in his grip. “Yeah, well, I ain’t just sittin’ around while you play nice with some rich bastard,” he mutters, starting to walk off, his steps uneven.

Before Arthur can stumble too far, he pauses, his back still half-turned to you. He seems to hesitate for a moment, as if wrestling with something in his mind. Then, with a grunt, he spins back toward you, his expression hard but his eyes revealing something else—something deeper.

“There’s somethin’ else,” he says, voice low and rough. His gaze flicks to the ground, then back up to you. “Last night… I saw somethin’ I wasn’t supposed to.”

You frown, your stomach twisting as a knot of confusion and dread forms in your chest. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, Arthur?”

He exhales heavily, the weight of the words he's about to say clearly gnawing at him. “When I went to return your journal. I saw you… in your tent. You weren’t exactly… dressed.” He shifts uncomfortably, and despite his rough demeanor, there's a vulnerability in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. “You were… you know… busy. And I—hell, I didn’t mean to—"

The realization hits you like a punch to the gut, leaving you speechless, your mouth slightly open but no words coming out. Heat floods your face, and for a split second, you wish you could vanish into thin air. Arthur’s gaze holds steady on you, almost daring you to respond, but all you can feel is the sudden rush of mortification and shock.

“I wasn’t spying, I swear it,” he adds quickly, his voice gruff but tinged with something almost like guilt. “I turned away. But I ain’t been able to stop thinkin’ about it.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The confession hangs heavy between you, the weight of it suffocating the air.

“Arthur…” you manage to say, but the words falter, your voice barely a whisper. You're at a complete loss for how to respond, a thousand emotions swirling through you—embarrassment, anger, confusion, and something else you’re not ready to name.

But before you can say anything more, Arthur lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the moment. “Forget I said anything,” he mutters, turning abruptly on his heel, the hotel key still in his hand.

“Where are you goin’?” you call after him, your voice rising in irritation.

Arthur stumbles over his feet, but manages to catch himself, waving the key in the air. “Gonna go piss in that rich man’s hotel,” he slurs, his words barely coherent.

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#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 x reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x y/n #filed: honor among thieves.#saddleups

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jolenes-doppelganger · 2 months ago

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Curiosity (Series Debut)

Juliette Nichols x Fem! Reader

Summary: The monotonous doldrum of IT tasks brings the daughter of Mayor Holland into the path of the determined Sheriff Nichols. Against the better preparations of the overprotective Bernard Holland, Juliette inadvertently tangles (Reader) right into her mess of lies, cover-ups and the biggest killer of the Silo- Curiosity.

Warnings: None.

A/N: This Juliette series was originally called "Nuts, Bolts and Awkward Silences", but I'm a self-conscious creator riddled with fantastic ideas. Hence, a new and improved beginning to my Juliette series!

Word Count: 4.7k

Comments and reblogs are appreciatied!

“We do not know why we are here. We do not know who built the Silo. We do not know why everything outside the Silo is as it is. We do not know... when it will be safe to go outside. We only know that day is not this day.” - Cleaning Address, Mayor Jahns (deceased). File Serial No. 153.76.98, Records Department.

To say the Silo smelled like a lump of old pipes was incomplete. The upper levels, the Mids and Up Top, smelled of people. Of life, of fresh bread, laundered linen and occasionally corn, if you caught a breeze from one of the farms. It was only when you got Down Deep that the smell worsened.

Rusting pipes leaked with brackish water, and depending where you walked, there would be piles of metal shavings or maybe a few loose screws from the engineers doing their own maintenance. It was a climate one had to adapt to, a sort of behavior that was as interwoven as the exposed pipes and wire clusters that peeked out behind crumbling concrete. Few could put up with the Down Deep’s inhospitable nature; it was a thing to be endured until the Down Deep became as natural to you as the smell of stale air, oil and body odor.

The Sheriff’s office felt too pristine to Juliette. Living in close quarters with engineers too busy, (or too disinclined) to bathe regularly had given her a certain standard. Walking into that office she smelled paper. Old, but dry, sterile paper. Her clothes were threadbare and filled with slightly off-colored patches where she’d darned holes shut. The residents of the Mids looked put together, crisp in their attires. At least to her eyes. Even the porters had a certain uniformity to them, quite unlike her ragamuffin band of mechanics she’d called her family.

Juliette knew she didn’t belong here. She stuck out like a stray hair; ever present and subconsciously noticeable. It made sense that her closest companion was the hardened, conflict-savvy Deputy Marnes. They made quite a pair, strutting up and down the levels. She with her freshly starched uniform that felt all too coarse, and he with his bandaged nose and gruff demeanor. They would have made a fine pair. Neither truly wanted the power they held, they wanted the truth. But that was the unwritten rule of the Silo. Look for truth, and truth finds you. Ten steps later, so did death.

Deputy Marnes death had put Juliette into a frenzy, and with that, the drive to find George Wilkin’s file grew until it felt like life or death. She missed the smell of old pipes and the occasional unwashed man. She missed the smell of her unwashed man.

⋅˚.⋆☾⁺₊ ‧

Mayor Bernard Holland had little interior ties to the Silo. Work colleagues, employees and the occasional childhood playmate. If Bernard could fit all of his relationships into one single box, it would be labeled ‘working acquaintance’. But earlier in his life, before he had ascended the ladder higher into the goings on of the interior Maintenance department, he had decided to take a shot at having a family; a wife, and a cozy, little apartment central to the Mids. Every morning Bernard would get up and take his small briefcase to work in the IT department, and his wife, Amelie, walked with her lesson plans to go teach kindergarten.

Somewhere in the mess of young, ambitious travailing, Amelie had brought up the lottery. Bernard, being an older man in his early forties, put little faith in the possibility of having children. In his ever analytical, sagacious mind, Bernard computed the odds of having a child at his age, given only a one year window for Amelie to conceive one, at near zero. But life wasn’t little boxes that could be sorted, assessed and compartmentalized into near-zero possibilities.

Ten months after reproductive clearance had been granted, Amelie skipped a period. And then another. A younger, fuller haired Doctor Nichols confirmed the life-destabilizing news. Bernard and Amelie Holland were expecting a baby girl. Twenty some odd years later, that baby girl sat in the IT department day after day, typing out the same files in the same pattern Bernard had completed when he was her age. You had his brain for the computer, the ability to examine flawed programming and dissect it within a day or two. Sometimes three, if a previous worker had gone hopelessly astray.

Bernard Holland had made a mistake, having a child. Sure, you were astute, eager to please and unnaturally adept at the skills he himself had spent years toiling away to gain, but you were his. And with possession came the possibility of loss. Every day that Bernard wasn’t in that IT department was another day he felt that creeping paranoia, that low buzzing of anxiety in the back of his skull. You were a good child, an obedient, Pact-abiding adult. However, you’d inherited more than just his measured customs; you’d inherited Amelie’s curiosity. Amelie, who’d hidden her inner wonder for the first ten years of their pairing. Amelie who’d been found with a red class relic, only for it to disappear back into the Silo. Amelie, loyal wife, doting mother, and veteran teacher who’d been sent down into the mines at the hand of one rebellious human condition.

Curiosity was a killer. And that curiosity that you carried could destroy more than just your life, it could destroy what little bit of faith Bernard had in the limited autonomy of the Silo. Therefore, when Mayor Holland assured Juliette that he did not wish to be mayor long term, he hadn’t lied. Having that kind of responsibility on his shoulders meant that he no longer had the luxury of keeping his daughter safe from herself. Having that luxury meant that the little curiosity Bernard had whittled away day by day began to blossom anew. Like a child left without adequate stimulation, you began to question unrelentingly.

⋅˚.⋆☾⁺₊ ‧

The IT department was a stale, colorless room filled with the bustle of various employees working side by side on equally monitored computers. The day started when you punched your time card in, and it ended when you punched out. The act of punching a time card in and out was old. Your Dad mentioned doing it when he first started, and how his elders at that time had always done it that way too. Each yellow card was good for a month. If you lost it, you lost your wages. No one lost their timecard, no one was stupid enough to misplace such a valuable object. Except Lukas.

“Sorry, I literally haven’t seen it.” you shrugged, going in to punch your time card.

Once the machine had stamped the yellow slip, you put it in your empty card, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. You’d come in at the perfect time to get a cup of coffee before you slipped down in the records department for an agonizingly boring shift, and Lukas was wasting what precious time you had to do so.

“Nowhere? Is it on your desk perhaps? I looked behind the copiers and I can’t find it-”

Lukas was frazzled, face drawn out into a deep frown as he anxiously slicked his dark hair back.

“Listen, I know you’re worried, just grab a spare time card and punch in today. That way when it does turn up you’ll have proof of when you were in and out while it was gone.” you tiredly instructed, pouring yourself a steaming mug of bean juice.

For eight-forty-five in the morning you were on a roll, as far as advice went.

“Okay, yeah. That’s actually a good idea.”

Lukas walked back to the time card machine, writing his name and employee number down before punching the time card for the date and time. You didn’t stay to watch more than that, waving to your favorite coworker before you made the descent deeper into the office.

Well lit computer desks were replaced by rows and rows of files, the bookcases old and battered from wear. One of them had cracked, mixing up all the files. Maintenance had been quick about fixing it, but now it meant all the files that fell had to be re-organized on the new metal shelf. The lightbulb above your head buzzed in an irritatingly persistent tone, making the work just that much more tedious. All of the files were shoved off to the side in the walkway between shelves. It was a tripping hazard, and an overt demonstration of how dichotomous Maintenance’s help could be.

Taking sips of your coffee here and there, you started sorting the files in piles, ensuring each file inside the record matched the labeling outside of it. Every so often you’d glance overhead at the large clock illuminated by a flickering bulb. You swore the motor was slow, after all you’d been at this for what felt like three hours, and it was hardly past ten. Taking a deep breath in, you reached for your coffee, holding it up to take a sip. Empty. Hardly a whiff of coffee remained, just the overpowering smell of mothballs, old paper and dust. If you had any allergies like Meryl, one of your coworkers, you’d be sneezing left and right.

Time passed, and you were just about done with the third shelf of files. Clean manilla envelopes sat side by side, each correctly labeled and displayed. It was good work, and accessible in the future. The work was monotonous, but it all faded into a distant hum as you worked in silence. The clock winked down at you, twelve-thirty blinking down like a beacon of hope. Break time.

The relief you felt walking out of the records room and into the well ventilated IT office was immediate. Lukas was still at his desk, typing away rapidly. His productivity was up. Not quite as high as yours, but higher. Meryl smiled at you as she walked by.

“Ready for lunch?”

“Are you kidding?” you chuckled. “Founders, that job is the worst.”

Meryl gave a sympathetic pout, grabbing her purse and walking towards the exit with you.

“I appreciate you taking up the torch on that one, my allergies won’t let me in that room for even fifteen minutes without hacking.” she lamented.

The two of you traded gossip and office news as you walked down to the cafeteria, catching up on whatever little bits of life the two of you hadn’t shared since your last shift. It was an uneventful lunch break, just like you wanted. The walk up to IT was filled with satisfied sighs.

“Almost there.” Meryl remarked.

“Almost.” you echoed.

Your solace was a fresh cup of coffee and a brief chat with Lukas, (who had found his time card), but that was all you dared delay. Walking back into the records department, you found that your quiet, uneventful day was abruptly shattered. Towards the back of the records department you could make out a stooped figure, carelessly rifling through the shelf you had just organized.

“Hey, what are you doing?” you gasped, quickly walking over to the individual ruining three hours of meticulous work.

“Looking for a file.” the woman huffed, pulling out another file and dropping it on the floor.

There were patient people in the Silo. People who could withstand far worse inconveniences than this. But a dubious individual rifling through restricted and sometimes confidential material without regard for proper protocols or clearance boiled your blood.

“Where’s your clearance?” you demanded, setting your mug off to the side.

“Clearance?”

The woman rose to her full height, hands on her hips. You’d originally clocked her as a deputy gone rogue, but you knew your deputies. No, this had to be the new Sheriff. Nichols, Juliette Nichols. What a pain in the ass she was, that’s what Sandy had said. And somehow she was exactly what you had pictured, and then again, not quite at all. She was shorter than you would’ve guessed, only five-foot-five or so. Her hair was short, this made sense, and it was dyed by chemicals. Experimentation mechanics got away with, you supposed. Not what you would’ve pictured, especially in a tiny bun that emphasized the deep hollows of her cheekbones and brow, but it worked. But her eyes. Those made sense. Piercing, distrusting and a bit resentful. It fit everything you would’ve assumed from her character given how much Sandy complained when she came down to grab a file.

You were gawking, you realized. Clearing your throat once, you answered her question.

“Every individual looking for a record from the record’s department needs to fill out a request slip and send it in so that IT can track down the record and deliver it to the requester.” you spoke out in a long, run-on rush. “It’s a way of ensuring files don’t go missing.”

“Okay, well I did that, and they said they couldn’t find the file. I printed out a map of the records department, and it’s supposed to be on this shelf in this bookcase, see?” the Sheriff aggressively gestured to a guide of the bookcases.

You heard the clock audibly tick as you took a deep breath in. Getting upset with the Sheriff of the Silo wasn’t a proper first impression. It was a horrible first impression, actually. True, she couldn’t get you into any legal trouble without probable cause, but you could piss her off. Pissing off a Sheriff, albeit a temporary one, not such a good idea.

“Which file are you looking for?” you managed, voice artificially measured.

“George Wilkins, a report on his death.”

Another deep breath. The Sheriff was frustrated, and you were too. It was clear she’d been digging through this shelf for a while, probably during most of your lunch break. Her uniform was crumpled, sleeves pulled up her arms and a few hairs loose around her face. There had never been a mechanic who’d been nominated before, at least not before going through IT or the Sheriff’s department as a deputy. That’s where your fascination came from, truly.

Again with the gawking! You shook your head, trying to dispel your brain fog. It had been a long day of sorting files in a dim, stuffy room.

“Listen, this shelf collapsed a few days ago, and Maintenance just replaced it. I’ve spent the last three hours of my shift meticulously organizing it, so my guess is that whoever was on shift didn’t bother finding the file until the shelf was reorganized.”

Sheriff Nichols reached up, smoothing a hand over her skull. She took a deep breath in, nostrils flaring in belligerent frustration. But if she couldn’t find it in the thirty minutes she’d been digging, someone who was meticulously organizing the shelf probably would.

“Right, so if you find it you’ll let me know?”

“Yup.” you answered, folding your hands together to restrain the impulse to shove her out of the way.

“Thanks.”

Sheriff Nichols moved, too fluidly, with too much assurance in her surroundings. It must have been imbued by years spent in closed spaces, but she miscalculated. Your coffee mug went flying off of the shelf it had been balanced on, drenching you and the various files on the floor in lukewarm coffee.

“Fuck, sorry.” Sheriff Nichols swore.

She reached around, grabbing a rag left from dusting, vainly and forcefully trying to dab at the liquid all over your blouse.

“Stop, stop, it’s fine.” you gritted your teeth, dropping to your knees and doing your best to salvage the files that had been damaged.

Your face felt hot, and you looked down on instinct. You were flushed. Both from the further inconvenience of several files being damaged by this insufferably meddlesome Sheriff, but her hands… They’d been so clumsy and rough as they’d patted down your front with a dusty, dirty cloth. The tension was unbearable, and one of you had to break it.

Heavy footsteps echoed as the Sheriff made a quick escape, leaving you to deal with the mess she had caused.

“Bitch.” you cussed, doing your best to salvage the situation.

Even worse, her shuffling of files had stirred up the dust again, and this time it was bad enough that you sneezed. For the next five hours of your shift, you sat damp, sneezing and pissed, doing your best to finish sorting through the files she’d fucked up. The clock hit six and what little difference you’d made wasn’t enough to be satisfactory. You’d be working overtime tonight.

⋅˚.⋆☾⁺₊ ‧

Walking into the cafeteria at just past nine was depressing, there was nobody there. Even Lukas was absent, presumably opting to head home and help care for his Mom instead of his weird hobby spent staring at the screen. He watched the little white dots. You didn’t pay attention to it most of the time, you thought it was foolish, but exhaustion made you wonder. That was before your stomach complained.

The kitchen staff managed to scrape together a meal, an uncharacteristically generous thing to do. Probably because you looked a mess in your ruined blouse and dust covered hair. Dinner was a cinnamon roll leftover from breakfast and half of a turkey wrap, but it was something. You ate quietly, observing the display with that same wonder. They were odd looking, those white dots. Footsteps echoed out from the hallway as people came and went. You never looked up, too caught in your quiet vigil of the display screen. It took a subtle wrap on the table to get you to look up.

“Hey.” Sheriff Nichols sighed, resting her hip against the table.

She looked tired. More hair was out of her ponytail than in it and her uniform was unbuttoned. It might’ve been a conscious decision, but it made her look more haggard than she would’ve appeared otherwise.

“Hi.” you replied, biting into the cold cinnamon roll.

The icing stuck to your teeth in a grotesque film.

“Sorry about the coffee again.” she gestured to your stained blouse. “Umm… Did you find the file?”

“File?” you frowned, unsure.

“Yeah, the George Wilkins one.”

Your palm came up to your forehead in a quick, masochistic slap. You’d totally forgotten to look for that file, all that had been on your mind was finishing the job and getting out. And dinner. Food had been on your mind for a while.

“... I can go look for it tomorrow.” you sighed.

Sheriff Nichols crossed her arms, toeing at the ground for a moment.

“You’re too tired to go back?” she asked, tone neither hopeful, nor presumptuous.

It was almost ten, and you were both exhausted, but something told you that the Sheriff would keep showing up to bother you until she had her answer. Considering how adept she was at inconveniencing you, the sooner you got rid of her, the better.

“If I do this for you will you promise to never set foot into the record’s department again?” you asked, eyeing her with a stern glare.

“Sure, yeah. I’ll fill out the request thingie… Yeah.” Sheriff Nichols nodded, clearing her throat awkwardly.

Words weren’t her strong suit, especially when her stomach was churning with hunger. Taking a deep breath in, you stood, leaving the half-eaten cinnamon roll on your plate.

“... Gonna eat that?” she asked, hopeful.

“No, it’s yours, I guess.”

Sheriff Nichols snagged it, following you up to the IT department. She held the door open once you unlocked the building, which was helpful, you supposed. Upon entering the office, you noticed how the Sheriff seemed to inspect everything, scoping it out with curious interest. She’d inhaled the cinnamon roll. You didn’t remember seeing her swallow.

“Records are this way.” you gestured, not in the mood to enable her gawking.

Sheriff Nichols followed you into the dusty library of records, standing off to the side as you carefully looked for the file she wanted. You skimmed the shelf twice over, rubbing your eyes in confusion.

“Yeah, it’s not here, let me check the record’s catalog.”

Turning on your heel, you walked over the dingy concrete floor of the room, turning on an ancient looking monitor. Humming along to yourself, you quietly searched the system for the record Sheriff Nichols was after. It popped up as returned to the library by the former Sheriff. He’d logged it himself. And you assumed he had done it correctly, but somewhere in between the return of the file and the cracking of the bookcase, it was more than probable that it had been misplaced.

“I don’t have an answer for you, I’m sorry. The shelf cracked, and it’s possible maintenance damaged the file. I’ll fill out a missing records report, and if it turns up I’ll notify you.”

It was the only response you could muster. The blank look Sheriff Nichols gave you felt undeserved, especially considering she’d snagged your cinnamon roll.

“Sheriff, I’m sorry it’s not where it should be, but we know it’s missing and we can look for it now.”

She walked over and behind the desk, brushing against you as she examined the screen for herself. She’d seen you examine the files, she herself had been examining a few. You weren’t lying, and the screen didn’t lie either.

“Well. Thanks.” she mumbled, scooting out from behind the desk.

As you watched her go, you found the exhaustion and irritation of the day was slowly becoming overshadowed by a larger, far less negative cognition. Why did the Sheriff want that file? What was it about this George Wilkins that had her so worked up? And why did you care?

Three levels up into your apartment and you were still asking yourself that question. One twist of your key and you were inside. A weight left your shoulders as you slipped inside, and you shut your eyes in relief. The door was solid beneath your back, and the smell of soup drifted out. Hunched over a stack of papers sat the white haired, uniformed form of Mayor Holland, as calm and measured as he’d always been.

“Ah. You’re home.” Bernard, your father sighed, looking up from the recliner.

Blue eyes landed on you, and he huffed out a laugh as he took in your frazzled form. Coffee-stained, dusty and the image of worked to the bone, he couldn’t help comparing his younger self to you. How many late nights had he worked, surviving on watery coffee and cafeteria cuisine? There was a story behind this, and he was anxious to hear it.

“Did you spill coffee on yourself, what happened?” he smirked, taking off his glasses to see you better.

His teeth were straight and white, devoid of any crookedness or discoloration. It was the product of bi-yearly dentist visits since he was a child. His hair was combed neatly, and he carried the countenance of a man too stuck in his ways to ever bother relaxing. It was exactly what you needed to see after such a stupidly tiring day.

“Sheriff Nichols came in during lunch and rifled through the records I’d been reorganizing. The shelf collapsed in aisle H, you know?” you began, walking into the living room. “I agreed to help her find the record she was after, off the books like an idiot, and the thanks I got was coffee on myself and several pristinely maintained files.” you irritatedly reported, walking into the kitchen.

“You made soup?” you eyed the pot, stomach growling hopefully.

If you’d been watching Bernard in that moment, you would’ve seen how his eyes clouded over in concern. His jaw twitched, eyes working in small patterns over the wallpaper as he worded his next statement with as much care as possible. You were too busy ladling yourself a bowl of the most delicious looking soup to notice his change in demeanor.

“You said she was rifling through files? She didn’t have clearance, did she?” Bernard asked, keeping his tone casual.

The last thing he wanted was to drag you into this. Or more accurately, ignite your curiosity.

“Yup. Not a single request. I didn’t end up finding the file she wanted, so I’m not going to get into hot water…” you paused.

As soon as you processed what you said, it became clear just how close you had been to fucking up, admitting it to your former supervisor of all people.

“I shouldn’t have let her get away with that without reporting it. I can go back and fill out a violations slip right now, I wasn’t thinking, the files were all wet-”

Two firm hands landed on your shoulders, squeezing twice. This wasn’t something you needed to run yourself ragged over, and Bernard knew that.

“This wasn’t your fault. You were trying to be helpful because she’s the Sheriff, and causing problems with the Sheriff is arguably worse than forgetting a standard protocol of IT.” he said calmly.

He let you process his words, guiding you to sit down at the table while he ladled himself a bowl of soup as well. One look at his side profile, and you noticed how relaxed his face was..

“She was in the records department without clearance only once?”

Again he gave you time to process, his tone even and controlled.

“Twice. I grabbed food from the cafeteria right after my shift and she came up to ask if I’d found it. I hadn’t looked for the file at that point, so I went back and looked.” you reported,

Your tone matched his in evenness. Hysterics and anxiety wouldn’t buy you any points, but a simple relation of the circumstances would.

“Did she touch any files when she was in there with you?” Bernard asked, walking over and sitting quietly across from you.

“No, that time I was the only one looking at the files.”

Bernard didn’t visibly show his relief, but he felt it. The tension in his chest dissipated, and he found himself able to quietly eat.

“You did the right thing. Tomorrow morning go into the office and write the report. Detail exactly which rows you found her rummaging through and include the second, supervised visit.” Bernard quietly instructed.

The room went quiet, the pair of you eating your meal without further comment. Only when the bottom of both of your bowls was empty did he finally bring up his most significant instruction.

“A final note.” Bernard stated, tone almost emotionless. “As a rule, try to avoid Juliette Nichols as much as possible.”

The way he said it, the firm command interwoven between the sentence disturbed you. You’d heard him use this tone few times during your life, and each had been a direct command to enforce your safety. But the threat Sheriff Nichols could pose to you simply didn’t compute. Your eyes flickered, and Bernard caught that spark of damnable curiosity.

“Do I ask why?”

“No. No you do not.”

Bernard met your eyes, blue irises hard and demanding. It was a simple matter of knowing something you didn’t, something you couldn’t know. Your only course of action from here was to obey, and so you would. The chair screeched as you stood, quietly reaching for his empty bowl. The dishes were a welcome distraction from the sudden severity he had imposed upon you, thus you retreated to it. Bernard returned to his files, busying himself with the concerns of Silo management. Neither of you spoke, not until you went to leave the room.

“Goodnight, Dad.”

“Goodnight.”

The soft click of the bathroom door shut you out from the force that was Bernard Holland. The conversation had rattled you, for reasons you couldn’t quite name. As much as you tried to place it, whittle down the particular mannerisms he’d used during the conversation that had spooked you so, you couldn’t. Perhaps it had been the suddenness of it, the way he’d gone from relaxed to impenetrably stern over a bowl of soup. The more you tried to dwell on it, the less you could figure it out. The semantics were abandoned, along with your coffee stained blouse.

Hot water blasted down from the shower head, soaking the tense muscles of your neck and shoulders until they went completely lax. Then, and only then, did you dare ask that treacherous question that itched provocatively over your tongue. A whisper, killed by the sound of water hitting the shower floor.

“Why can’t I talk to Juliette?”

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uglypastels · 1 year ago

Text

Not Wholly Evil |V| Pirate!Eddie au

a/n thank you to @eddies-house for helping me figure out this darn chapter. you saved me from a menty b.

please remember to support by reblogging and commenting!! you don't know how much it helps writers

Series Masterlist

word count: 8.2k

"semi dark fic" - READ the warnings:. (gun/sword)violence. blood. mention of severe wounds. minor character death. allusions to suicide. kidnapping. imprisonment. alcohol. open and deep sea. pirates are pigs: mentions of non-con, but it does not actually occur. malnourishment and weight loss. paranoia. mention of poisoning. abuse. manhandling. lying.

Chapter 5: Flintlock

“A taste for adventure is by no means a masculine monopoly” ― Lloyd Alexander

It was certainly strange, seeing the cabin through the daylight. The wooden panelling of the walls and floor looked softer, and the decorations on the walls were no longer covered in menacing shadows. The bed, however, was softer than your dream made it seem. It was better than the ground, but knowing who usually occupied it made your back stiff with dread.

The room was empty as you got up, stretching your body out of the foreign feeling of a bed. Another thing to thank the captain for— perverting the concept of a bed. There was no space for anyone to hide in the cabin, but you still looked around, waiting for him to appear out of thin air. It seemed like just the thing he could do and had been doing all your time on board. Only once you checked every corner could you properly set your mind at rest.

Besides the sunshine, nothing had changed from the night before. It was as if you had stepped through time, from night to morning. Your old clothes hung on the edge of the bed. The bookcase was missing the one book you had pulled out, leaving the rest at an awkward angle. Your dinner plate and ale jug, alongside the captain’s empty rum bottle, were left behind on the desk, but as you walked towards the table, you noticed the cup to be filled again, and on the plate stood two thick slices of bread and some brightly coloured fruit you had not seen before—more food that must have been retrieved during the brief exploration of the nameless island. You sat down on the throne and tried to push aside the feeling that came whenever you touched something, anything, to do with the captain. It was like he haunted all his possessions, never leaving you alone.

The bread was the safest option; it was your first bite, breaking your fast. After the delicious meal you had been given last evening, the salty dryness of the dough did not compare by the slightest, but the cool fresh water that had also been left for you made up for it.

And the fruit…

You were still unsure of what it was, but the juice of it felt healing to your senses. You ate it slowly, trying to savour every bite.

Once done, you noticed that all the documents the captain had thrown off last night still lay spread out on the ground. This, in particular, unsettled you. Just seeing the mess of it all splayed out there. So, without much thought, you went to pick up the papers, stacking them in neat piles and placing them on the corner of the large desk. Soon enough, you were done, and only one piece of paper was left. It had fallen right under the desk. You went to pull it out when you noticed it.

The drawer you had tried to open the night before. The one Munson had unlocked with the key around his neck and had taken a bottle of rum from. It was ajar. So close to being locked that Munson must have thought he had closed it when he slammed it. But no, with a quick pull at the handle, it opened up for you.

Inside was a collection of bottles in different shapes and sizes. Most were still full. You picked one up out of sheer curiosity. Why lock up this stock? Unless it was valuable, or dangerous? Maybe he tried to keep it away from everyone else on board. But as you held the bottle, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just a simple, red glass bottle, the cork wedged sturdily into the neck. The liquid sloshed against the container like any other drink as you tipped it around. Still trying to understand the content of the locked drawer, you put it down in its place.

Or were about to. Because that is when you noticed the paper sticking out from underneath the other bottles. That gnawing feeling in your stomach returned as you contemplated what to do. The captain had made it very clear he did not appreciate you looking through his things, and you were sure that if he were to catch you again, it would not end as simply as you having to star-gaze for an evening. The warnings were loud and clear.

Then again, when did you start caring about those? Or anything he said.

Moving the biggest bottles around carefully to create space, you pulled the paper out of the drawer. At first, you thought you had ripped it, but upon closer inspection, you realised it had been torn in halves long before you had gotten your hands on it. The paper was browned at the edges, a corner half-burned as if someone had decided against its destruction at the last minute. The words meant little at first, but as you read on and became more familiar with the hand they were written in, pieces fell into place. And they fell hard.

Like the loud clash you heard from outside the cabin, startling you. Scared you were about to get caught, you put the paper down into the drawer and shut it with your leg, holding your breath for the door to open. You waited for several seconds, but nothing moved.

You did not know what caused the commotion or if you were about to be greeted by someone outside the door, but you knew you could not stay in the cabin alone for much longer. The more time passed, the more similar the situation felt to the night before. The gnawing urge to look through all the drawers and nooks was just as big as the risk of being caught, and it was dangerous. Fortunately, the door opened flawlessly when you pulled at it.

It had remained a cloudless sky, but now the dark navy sprinkled with stars was exchanged for a vibrant and youthful blue. The sun hung above your heads, piercing the air onto your skin in a warm glow.

The crew was below you, spread out around the deck, and now one had looked up or probably even noticed your presence. So, making yourself comfortable on the stairs, you sat by, peeking through the balustrade bars, and watched what was happening. After all, it was a morning full of observations.

The men were spread out over the ship in groups, all busy with their own activities. The easiest to make out were those in a circle, watching as two of them attacked eachother with swords. The smiles on their faces told you enough; it was merely another session of training or some form of playfighting. The last time they had been doing it, you did not care to stand by and watch, not at all interested in their antics. This time, however, you took the opportunity to observe how they went about it. Since it was nothing but leisure, the moves were wide, easy to block, but once in a while, they would nick eachother just to stay sharp. Then, the attacked would groan in pain, grabbing at the part of their body that was hit in agony.

Each time it happened, the small crowd observing would show their satisfaction or disappointment, depending on which side of the duel they supported, with shouts and encouragement.

‘C’mon Harrington! Get him!’

‘Shut it, will you,’ “Harrington”, as he was called by his audience, turned to look in their way, annoyed, but in that short second, his opponent took a shot with his sword’s pommel, hitting him in his temple. Harrington was knocked back a few steps and had to shake the hit off but remained on his feet.

You were unsure what the game's rules were and how one would win in the circumstances, but one thing was clear—Harrington stood little chance as his opponent managed to get another cut in. A bruise, most likely from a previous encounter much like this one, had already formed under his eye, but even with the dark purple shade on his skin, you could not deny he looked quite handsome… for a criminal. You had seen him around, pulling at ropes, carrying around their precious cargo, and keeping other crewmates from breaking out into fistfights—he must have brought your meals down to the cell once too.

His brown hair was sleeked back but tended to move around as he did, so he constantly had to push it out of his face. The collar of his shirt was wide open, revealing a sweat-stained chest.

‘I really don’t get it,’ a raspy voice spoke from above you, making you strain your neck to look back up at the quarter-deck. Somehow, in your spectatorship of what was happening below, you had completely missed the fact that someone had been steering the ship and had, in fact, stood beside you next to the captain’s door all along.

You had not expected to hear your thoughts reciprocated and voiced anywhere near this ship, so they left you stunned. And perhaps this was the reason why you had not got up and run off at the sound of them or the presence of someone at your side but instead stammered out a clumsy response. ‘Sorry?’

‘They run around with their shiny sticks, hit each other just to cry about it like children,’ your new conversation partner said, ‘I just do not understand the appeal of it.’

‘No, me neither, really.’ In your opinion, there were much better, less barbaric ways to release energy and tension than this brutish behaviour. The fight below was still firmly underway, but you had gained a new interest in the person by your side. You couldn’t help but notice how they wore clothes in a very similar manner to you—a large shirt tightened by a leather vest, long trousers kept in and shorter with rope. It was as if they made do with things that had never been intended for them. Their hair could be short or long, depending on who you spoke to, but you could not tell.

‘I’ll tell you this, I’ve sailed across all possible seas in the world and men are still one of the biggest mysteries I have not been able to solve.’

You blinked slowly as the words reached your barely awake mind. A revelation that had struck you more than anything on board.

You weren’t the only woman here. The other just sat down next to you on the steps.

‘You can stop staring,’ she said, slightly frazzled, and you quickly looked away, mumbling an apology. Despite that, you kept stealing glances her way. Her hair, light as sand, was chopped messily as if done by hand with a blunt knife. Her skin was sunkissed with freckles and perhaps a bit of dirt. ‘I’m Buck. I know who you are, of course.’

‘How—’ How had you not seen her before? How were you not aware of a woman on board all this time? And perhaps it was wishful thinking to assume that she might be someone you could be comfortable with just from that one common trait, but you could not deny that something in you felt more at peace than seconds before.

‘Surrounded by this type, I understand you’d want to keep your head down,’ she smiled awkwardly, ‘but you can’t forget how to look up.’ She tilted her head back as she said it, so you followed suit. The sun blinded you, but as you focused on what was above you, you saw the masts towering tall in their black silhouettes and there, atop the tallest one, was the lookout point.

‘You sit in the crow’s nest,’ you smiled understandingly.

‘Robin’s nest, I took it upon myself to rename it, don’t know why, I just resonate more with them— call it superstition, I don’t know— and I’ve earned the right considering none of them want to make the climb.’ she pushed her chin towards the rest of the crew. ‘But it’s a good view, you should join me up there some day. If you ever need to get away, you know.’

‘I— I’m not the greatest with heights.’ The speed at which Buck spoke left your brain gripping onto words to keep up, and so your reply came out a bit frazzled.

‘Me neither,’ Buck shrugged. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t seen me get stuck in the nets before. It happens twice a day, at least.’

‘And they still let you climb up there?’ Surely, she could not be the smartest choice for the task. Robin snickered at your shocked expression.

‘Like I said, none of them will do it.’

‘Why do it at all, then? Why risk your life every day for… them?’ These hooligans, criminals, fraudsters, monsters, villains…

‘Because I am one ofthem.’ She knew what you had meant with your comment as she spoke softer, giving you a gentle tap on the shoulder with her hand in reminder.

You glanced at the men in front of you and then turned back to Robin. ‘No, you’re really not.’

‘What because I’m a woman?’ Robin raised a brow.

‘Well, for starters.’ From a very early age, you knew that men and women were two entirely different beings. Just the way mankind treats eachother on that principle is evidence enough.

‘Intelligence wise, you would be correct,’ Robin stated, leaning back on the steps, resting her weight on her elbows. Despite her petite frame, you noticed she wasn’t afraid to take up space. Despite a comfortable distance between you, her knee still met with yours as she sat in a wide position. ‘But we are all just people.’

You had wanted to reply but thought better of it. She saw herself as a part of them, and so an insult to the others would be an insult to her, and for some reason, you did not want to say anything that might hurt her. Strangely, for a second, you considered the idea of actually liking her. Out of everyone aboard the Hellfire, the barrelwoman seemed like the most likely person you could find yourself befriending.

But before any more of the conversation could be led, giving you a chance to let those thoughts bloom or rot, another voice boomed over everyone else’s to prompt Buck of her duties.

‘Robin! The ship won’t steer itself!’ It was none other than Munson, but you could not find him among his people.

‘Aye, captain.’ Bunk, or Robin as she also went by apparently, rolled her eyes, getting up with a heaved breath. ‘See you around then.’

You didn’t say anything, too confused by your own thoughts. You couldn’t keep your eyes away as she returned to the helm; couldn’t stop thinking about what had brought her here? What had made her choose this life to live with all these men and act in such ways? You had wondered about everyone aboard the Hellfire, but Robin… a lady sea robber. You had never heard of such a thing. It was spinning your world around but also genuinely fascinating to think about. As you sat on that step, more things came to your mind: you wanted to ask Robin about life at sea, her crewmates, and her captain. But this opportunity had sailed; it would have to be another time.

You also could not believe you had just had a… civil exchange of words with one of them and that you had not even minded it all that much. As you looked around, it all did not feel as bad as it used to. You could see the idea of pleasantness in the actions happening before you; the laughter and the antics.

These antics continued. The fight you had been watching had not yet ended, but by the looks of Harrington, it could not possibly last much longer. His, to you unnamed, opponent had just pushed his blade flush against Harrington’s throat, locking him into an uncomfortable tight spot. With a tap on the arm, heavier than Robin had done to you, he tapped out of the game. Half the men cheered while the rest groaned and cursed out their wager.

As the winner of the match was picking out his next match, the audience was slowly losing interest, and one of them must have found you sitting on the sidelines. Curious glances were shot your way as they all slowly caught sight of you, not saying much. Just as they had gotten used to the new addition to the ship, you appeared in clothes that were unmistakably the captain’s. Feeling all their eyes on you, as if your seat on the stairs was a pedestal, you moved away and tried to make your way down to your designated space on board below decks.

However, your path was obstructed by one person specifically as he dried his face off with a piece of cloth.

‘Excuse me,’ you dared to say, hoping they would move out of the way. Something about having had an entire conversation with Robin made you feel a bit more comfortable speaking to the rest of them. After all, they—you—were all just people.

‘I wouldn’t run away if I was you.’ Harrington said. ‘Or you’ll never stop.’

‘You think they’ll let me stop?’ If you stayed, letting them near you, look at you like that, wouldn’t that be surrendering to their power.

‘I let you,’ he said, throwing the cloth over his shoulder.

‘I’d say you made me, rather than let.’ You crossed your arms. He had, after all, stood in your way and objected to letting you pass.

‘You could always,’ he turned a quarter of a circle, pointing to his side, ‘move. Unless I am that terrifying.’

‘It may come as a surprise but I have very little reason to be afraid of you at this moment.’ It was a half-truth, as his skills in the fight have shown you little to worry for, but there was little you knew about him or what he was capable of.

Harrington nodded. ‘I take it you watched me from up there.’

‘I watched the fight, yes.’ You could not admit that you had not paid as much attention to whom he was fighting as you did to Harrington himself. ‘It was… entertaining.’

‘I’m glad my suffering amuses you. Yes, that makes this all worth it.’ He pointed up to his bruised eye.

‘You cannot blame me for your misfortune.’

‘Well, you are to blame for my inattentiveness.’

His words left you too dumbstricken to respond, and unfortunately, the commotion around you diverted the entire conversation. Another duel had begun, and men were already cheering for their victors as swords clinked together.

Harrington, being nothing but a simple man, ran over to his designated spot in the crows to cheer on his successor. However, it was all a bit too loud, and instead, you noticed what else was happening on the deck. From where you had sat before, there had not been a clear view of it, but now you were only a few feet away from another small group of the crew.

They sat around a small table. It wasn’t clear what they were doing, but someone would shout out every few minutes and slap their hand on the surface while the rest groaned in frustration.

That is where you found the captain. Huddled between two other men, sitting on a low-built crate, occupying more space than there was with his legs, arm on one thigh as he leaned forward, laughing at whatever was happening at the table. It was a scene like no other. The casualness and pleasantry of it all felt foreign.

You had been used to the men on the Red Tail and their routines, but the ship always came first and, with it, their work and duty. There was never any time for… games. And you would never have caught the captain participating in any of it. Not even at home. This wasn’t something men did. Children, maybe, but no soldier or respected merchant. Only drunks and frauds. But as you looked at it, you had no idea why it was deemed so peculiar to find pleasure in these silly activities.

You were still trying to figure out, from a safe distance, what it was that they were playing when you caught Munson’s gaze. Or more so, you met it, as his eyes had already been on you. Much like everyone else’s had been previously, and yet there was an intensity there that no one else could remake.

‘There you are!’ He shouted out once you saw him, making everyone around him stop and look your way. A dozen pairs of eyes were directed at you now as you stood frozen in place. ‘Took you long enough to join as, darling.’ Some men from across the ship, around the duel circle, stopped to look at what the captain was doing too.

‘If I had known I was invited, I wouldn’t have come.’ You quipped back and felt a gust of pride at the sound of a few chuckles from the men standing nearest you, who were quickly stopped by the stern look of their captain.

‘Now, now, don’t be like that.’ He got up from his seat, raising his voice and gaining the attention of all now. It was like a siren’s call, making everyone stop in their tracks to listen. ‘My thanks are in order for, gentlemen, our princess has led us back on course. Worked all night, in fact, to find the correct coordinates and directions—which is more then I have seen of some of you in the past days.’ With this, he raised a cup in your honour, and while no one else had anything to raise, they all cheered. You stood there, speechless and confused, unsure of what was happening. Why was the captain suddenly so openly appreciative? So… nice?

You ignored the feeling to reciprocate the thankfulness and instead opted for the unfiltered thoughts going through you. ‘You do know “princess” is not my title, right?’

‘And I was never ranked captain… yet here we are, princess. So let us enjoy this fantasy we live in!’ He encouraged another cheer from his crowd. Then, once the rest settled down, he spoke directly to you from across the ship. ‘Come, why don’t you join us, darling. We were about to start another round.’

‘I don’t think there are any seats left.’ The space around the table seemed rather crowded, with each seat taken and many more men standing around. You had no business or interest in getting involved in that, but the captain, as always, persisted.

‘Wheeler was just leaving.’ He pointed to the man sitting across from him.

‘No?’ The man said slowly.

‘Well, you were loosing anyway,’ Munson shooed him away, creating an empty spot for you.

‘I don’t know the rules.’ You persevered in your own opinion.

‘You’ll learn soon enough, come.’

You were about to object, but what else could you expect than the captain calling over another of his crew, this one at least a head taller than you and probably triple your size overall. The giant walked straight, making everyone else move, until he reached you. Then, with a grin, he showed you the path in a straight line towards the table.

Unimpressed, you just said, ‘Thank you.’ and made your way over.

‘Glad you decided to join us.’ Munson said as you looked at the table. On it were six cups; only one turned the right side up. ‘Please, do take a seat.’ You felt a large hand on your shoulders, pushing you down on the crate.

‘Rules are simple,’ the captain began explaining; he picked up the cup before him, ‘5 dice. You roll them for yourself and place a bet, indicating the number of dice you think should be on the table. Speak the truth or bluff, it doesn’t matter, but if you’re caught on a lie… well,’ he shrugged, with it saying enough. The rules sounded simple enough, but one piece of vital information was missing.

‘What are the stakes?’ This was a betting game, so there must be something they were all betting on. You took the cup in front of you and pulled it closer. The dice rattled underneath.

‘We are but humble sailors,’ Munson said, already shaking his set of dice under his cup with a swift wrist move, ‘it’s mostly ship duties and chores. Sometimes meal rations if you’re brave. Anything that speaks to you, darling?’ Oh, there was plenty, but you had to play it smart.

‘If I win,’ you began shaking your dice as well, hovering over your words for a moment to think, ‘I get your cabin… until the end of the journey’ ‘I’ll happily share my bed with you, princess,’ Munson snickered.

‘I wasn’t finished.’ You smiled back. ‘I get your cabin. You get mine.’ Honestly, you did not have a preference for either sleeping option. The bed in Munson’s quarters was stiff, so you might as well have slept on the floor. It was more about what it meant to kick the captain out of his own cabin. You enjoyed the idea and the prospect of encouraging the captain to bring you home faster so he could return to his quarters.

Something flinched in the captain’s muscles as he tried to remain unbothered by your words. The dice kept rolling underneath the cups. The crowd backed off, quickly understanding that this was a game only two of you could play.

‘You sure about that?’ he tried to play it off smoothly. You simply nodded.

‘Name your price, captain.’

‘How about… If I win…’ a small smile grew on his lips, ´we just play another round?’

‘What?’ That couldn’t be it? ‘And if you win again? What happens then?’ Would you be playing this game until the end of time?

‘Got such low chances for yourself?’ He leaned forward a bit while you pushed away from the table.

‘I would just like to know the game before I play.’

‘I think you’ll learn best if we just play, so, shall we?’ He shook his cup with one last flick of the wrist before putting it to a halt, his ringed fingers clutching to the top of it, eyes locked on you as you did the same. Lightly, you tilted the cup to show the dice. They were wooden, carved out with a knife, most likely by someone on this ship. The sides were uneven, so who knows how even the odds were for the game, but to you, they seemed alright. The eyes were dug out of the panels like small holes.

One large eyes, two pairs of threes, a four and five.

Putting the cup back down, you looked up at the captain, his face untelling of any emotion.

‘Ladies go first,’ he announced with a hand gesture. It was up to you to start the betting. With the numbers twirling around in your mind, you thought of what would be the best move to make. To predict his dice was impossible and would only drive you crazy, but perhaps you could predict his next move by what you presented.

‘Four fours.’ You did your best to speak with a flat tone, to not show any emotions. Keep your breathing steady and keep your hands still. To not show any signs of nerves. The captain nodded and took another glance at his dice. There were maybe two before his rebuttal.

‘Five fours.’ There was nothing you could read off of him. The tension across the table only intensified, growing thicker with every moment of silence that passed by.

‘Three fives,’ you replied. The captain raised a suspicious brow.

‘Three sixes.’

‘Four sixes.´ You spoke slowly but confidently. Or with what you hoped could be seen as confidence. It was a lost battle, really. With you having none, there was no chance the captain held four sixes under his cup. He must know it, too, in your case. You knew it just is how the corner of his mouth raised in amusement.

‘Four sixes?' he asked, and you simply nodded again, but he wanted more from you. ‘Speak up, princess.’

‘Yes.’ You spoke sternly, remaining as still as possible. The captain shook his head once, grimacing.

‘See, darling, I don’t believe in beginner’s luck.’

‘Well, captain, I couldn’t tell it’s your first time playing. But don’t worry, you’re doing really well.’ You gave him a sweet sort of smile. So sweet that it could make you sick to your stomach. A few men around you pushed down their laugh, ignoring their captain’s deadly glares. He refocused his attention your way.

‘Show up, princess, because I doubt luck is this much in your favour.’ He tilted his chin, nudging you from across the table to reveal your dice, which you did with a sigh because when is it ever. Since you had stepped foot on this ship, luck seemed to have been missing from your life in its entirety. And yet, with this being a known fact, you were confused to see Munson’s reaction at the reveal of what you had rolled. It was not quite pride nor disappointment. His shoulders slacked down, and something pulled at the muscles in his face. He needed a second to compose his reaction to his winning.

‘Congratulations,’ you muttered without looking any longer at him. Ready to play the next promised round, you grabbed the cup to roll your dice again but were surprised to see Munson get off his seat. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Time for round two, darling.’ He smirked, walking past his crewmates to the centre of the deck. He had moved so far back that you had to turn in your seat. The confusion blocked your speaking ability, but fortunately, the captain was ready to explain. ‘I never said what game that would be, now did I?’ He stood there, surrounded by his men. His stance was wide, and his forearm hung lazily over the helm of his sword, which hung by his side. He let his fingers dance daintily across the silver while waiting for your response, the rings adorning them glistening in the sun.

‘What–’ you took a deep breath as you felt it getting stuck in your throat, ‘what game will this be?’

‘I have been rather looking forward to a little duel, in all fairness. I think we all have.’ He pointed around to everyone in the audience around you. You looked at them. Their smiles were big, and their posture relaxed but eager. They were expecting a show, and, in all fairness, you wanted one too. It’s the least of what you deserved after days of this hell.

Your shirt, still rather ample on your frame, slid down your shoulder as you got up, but you pulled it up with a swift move. Munson, and the rest, watched as you walked up.

‘Any new rules for this round?’ You asked loudly enough for everyone to hear, but the captain had other plans. He closed the gap between the two of you to answer, whispering the words right against your ear.

‘First one to be on both knees loses. How about that, princess?’ He pulled away again to ask you the question, but only a step. You blinked, took one more deep breath and nodded.

‘Oh, this will be fun,’ he smiled, and of course, he had. You could only imagine how much joy it would bring him to humiliate you in front of all these men. Especially since you had already, in front of everyone, admitted that you had not been taught to fight. How easy will it be to win, then?

He called out: ‘Someone give the lady a sword!’ It was aimed at no one, precisely who had handed you your weapon. You barely had the time to look around to see who had given you their sword, as it was thrust upon you with quite a lot of force, pushing you a step back. You tried to get a good grip on it, but no matter how you held it, the sword felt awkward in your hand.

‘You expect me to fight with this?’ You looked at your sword, suppressing any visual reaction to its form. The blade looked tethered and most visibly abused in the previous battle.

‘Not alluring enough for the lady?’ the captain said, pulling his sword out of its scabbard.

‘No, it is not that,’ you kept inspecting your sword apprehensively, ‘though I am sure you have more handsome weapons in your property. I just hoped for a more balanced blade.’ While already at a large disadvantage, with a sword like this, you had absolutely no chance at winning. You tried to hold it up on your hand, balancing the blade against the grip, with the former immediately falling to the ground no matter how you attempted to hold it. You gave the captain an apologetic smile as the sword clanged across the floorboards. He, in response, avoided your gaze by looking at his men for a substitute.

‘Harrington!’ he called out. Harrington stepped out from the ring of spectators, a bit stunned by the sudden call. Munson cocked his head your way, so the crewmember approached you and handed you the sword you had watched him fight with earlier. Closer up, you were taken aback by the harsh scar across his throat, like a deep indent from what must have been a rope tightened around it once upon a time. Another bruise, you noticed, was also already forming around his temple. There was his earlier opponent who had hit him.

‘Thank you,’ you said softly as he handed you his weapon. Just from your initial grip, you could tell it was much better. Harrington nodded and moved away quickly from your and his captain’s fireline.

While you knew enough about the objects to know what quality was good enough to use, the sword still felt foreign and awkward in your hand. You did not know how to stand while holding it, and seeing Munson opposite you, with his full confidence aglow, made you feel even smaller. But despite it all, one thing was for sure. Enough time had gone by, and enough had come between you for you to know that he could no longer treat you the same as he had the day you were broad on board. He could not do whatever he pleased with you. You wouldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t. So, while he looked you up and down with his casual smirk, you made a point to, somewhat confidently, keep your head up.

‘What do you say, princess,’ Munson swung his sword back and forth, ‘I’ll go easy on you.’ With a weak attempt to release some tension from your shoulders, you rolled your head from side to side before copying the captain and letting the sword smoothly move around with the slightest wrist movements. It cut the air with audible slashes, leaving the captain and everyone else mute.

‘It’s appreciated, captain,’ you didn’t forget to respond to his generosity.

The captain simply nodded. No formal duelling rules were aboard the Hellfire since no one had time for the silly rituals. He simply stepped into position, and so you followed behind. He was, naturally, also the first to attack.

You were just in time to block it. The blades clinked at the point of impact, and there was a moment of confusion on Munson’s face. Hesitation. It was brief and all-telling in his eyes and brow, and lucky for you, it didn’t go unnoticed. It was a blink of an action as he tried to process what you had just done. The instinct at which you performed. Did he see your smile?

But the moment was soon as he proceeded with his next swing. And the next. Next. one after the other, locking you in with his movement. From each new angle, never passing on the theatrics of it all with turns and bends at which you should not have been able to keep up—but you did. You counteracted every attack, perhaps not flawlessly, straining to keep up with the speed and agility at which the captain moved, but it was more than anyone had expected you to be capable of.

And finally, the opportunity presented itself. A brisk moment of stillness gave you a chance to swing your sword. Of course, he blocked it, steady on his feet, but Munson took a small step back as you kept coming forth. The metal practically echoed over the ship. Cheers from the audience subsided as everyone got lost in the duel. There seemed to be no end; you only moved faster, harsher, harder.

As you kept moving, the crows had to move along with you, making space for the extended movements of the blades. If it had not been for the well-times duck, there would have been a head short on deck. The captain kept moving back from you until there was a thud. He had nowhere else to go as you backed him up against a barrel. There was that brief flash of panic on his face again as he came across a situation he had never expected to land in, but it washed away just as quickly. There was no time for him to react to the situation, for your sword was coming closer and closer to him again, and this time he had nowhere to go. With a final move, you pressed the blade against his throat. You were both breathing heavily. Sweat poured down on both of you underneath the scorching sun. The tip of your sword remained under his Adam’s apple, which moved up and down as Munson heaved in the air. And yet, even with his neck tightly stretched as he was forced to look up because of the sword digging into his skin, he had a bemused smile upon his face.

‘You said no one taught you how to fight?’ It was more of a question than a statement, as if he was confirming his memory.

‘Which is true,’ you pulled away, happy to see you had left your mark as a small cut. ‘No civil man would teach their daughter how to draw a sword, or let a lady compromise her polite statue with violence, or put her in any compromising and potentially dangerous situation, for that matter.

‘But they will also not let an opportunity to boast go by.’ You watched him swipe his hand at the blood pooling from the cut you had made, and you could not ignore the pride you felt with it. ‘So, I observed as they made me watch them train.’

‘That much is obvious,’ he wiped his now bloody fingers on his trousers, but the blood came pouring, slowly, down his neck. A thin red line marking your moment of victory. You couldn’t help but smile. And yet, he spoke with the most confidence, leaning against the barrel that had locked him in. ‘but we’re not done yet, princess.’ And then he attacked with a strike so flush and quick you had almost missed it. It cut the air by your side in half, and you could feel the repercussions hit you in your cheek.

Of course, the game was not over just yet. The winner was meant to be the last one standing, literally. You might have locked him in, but he would not give up until he was down on his knees.

Munson attacked once more, taking advantage of the incoordination that came with his first blow. His target had become low, with a focus on your legs. He swiped at your feet with such an intensity that you knew if he hit you, it would leave its own mark and one much worse than the cut you had made. The only thing you could do to avoid his force was to backtrack, jumping from one leg to another. You moved around the ship like a dancing monkey in the circle of everyone’s attention. Your attempts to attack had become poorer as the captain’s smile grew wider.

He took one long swipe down at your ankles, to which you could only respond by jumping as high as possible. The new clothes you had taken the night before certainly aided you in the acrobatics necessary when dealing with a duelling partner such as Munson, but you still wore your own shoes. The heels buckled as you landed on the ground, throwing you off balance. You felt yourself falling, but the final drop never came.

Your side hit someone’s sturdy frame. When you looked up, your eyes met a pair of brown ones. Brown, surrounded by a sea of dark purple bruises. Harrington held you up with one arm.

‘Your footing is all wrong,’ he spoke softly, but not enough to keep it a secret between the two of you as he pulled you up to your feet.

‘Funny, as I was just copying you,’ you laughed.

The captain called out to you impatiently. ‘C’mon, princess, the fun isn’t over yet.’ But perhaps it was, as he went in for a poorly calculated strike, and you screamed out, silencing everyone to their core, bending in two as a searing pain met your side. Still holding you, Harrington kept you up as much as he could. A task that came harder to be when you went limp. He stumbled back, almost falling over himself.

When you looked down, you saw your shirt, brand new in a sense, now had a large gash. The bottom half of it hanging on by loose threads. What once was pale ivory was now coloured crimson. You looked up at your attacker, who stood only a few feet away, his weapon hanging loosely in his grip. Higher, you saw his eyes, big in fear. An indescribable expression was painted across his face, but you hoped that he could read yours.

Trying to ignore the pain that was now overwhelming your whole body, you pushed yourself away from Harrington and passed the captain. His hand reached out to you, but you froze before he could anchor himself. Before getting yourself into more trouble, as a million thoughts raced through your mind, you dropped the sword to the ground. It fell onto the floorboards with a deafening clatter, and like that, you walked on quickly to the trapdoor, ignoring the captain’s calling of your name and the feeling it brought upon you to hear it for the first time in so long. There were more important, more painful things on your mind now.

Everyone moved out of your way, but their eyes stayed on you until you passed them. Robin had just reached the bottom of the stairs down from the helm, but she stood there just as everyone else, unsure what to do. She glanced at what was happening behind you, as you could hear people talking and moving but could not bother to turn around. You just wanted to get away from it all. The last thing you heard before heading below deck was someone angrily calling out the captain’s name, but it all felt like a blur around you.

Only once you were in your cell did you dare look at the damage he had caused. With a deep breath, you pulled the shirt’s material up to reveal a long narrow cut on your ribs. The only thing that made you feel alright was the fact that it did not look deep. As far as sword wounds go, it was a graze, but the blood continued streaming. And so did your tears. But you let that pain, and fear, boil down to anger and strength to rip the last few inches of the loose hanging pieces of shirt and wrap them around your middle as tightly as possible to stop the bleeding.

This is what happens when you let your guard down when you do not run away and instead stay and let yourself be hurt by these monsters. You did not what to think that Robin and Harrington had been a play, some kind of ruse of the captain’s invention to give you that fake sense of security, to slip you into dropping your apprehensions and lead you to… where you were now, bleeding out on the heap of hay, back in your cage.

With your heart beating into your ears, you didn’t realise that someone had followed you down to the lower deck, or hear the footsteps coming down to see you, nor the chuckle of the chains and buckles that came with the steps.

‘For what it’s worth,’ he said once he had already stepped into your holding cell, ‘I am truly sorry.’

You had no idea what it was lying beside you, but you grabbed it and, without saying a word but with as much power as you could muster, you threw it in the general direction of his face. With a small lean, he managed to dodge it and the item fell through the railings of the cell to shatter on the ground. You stared at him darkly, hoping the message was clear. He had never seemed to be able to do it, but maybe this one time, he could let you be alone…

Of course, it could not be that simple. He would not start listening to you now. Instead, the captain bent down to his knees, meeting your line of sight. In his hand, he held one of the bottles from his drawer.

‘Please, may I?’ he showed you the spirit bottle, and you got the idea of what he meant with it. It still took you a moment to formulate your response as you took it all in. ‘No, you may not.’ With a snap of your words, you removed the bottle from his grip and pulled the cork out with your teeth. You kept it in your mouth as you poured the alcohol over your fresh wound. The groan that left you as the alcohol burned away at the wound was only slightly muffled.

‘It was never my intention to hurt you.’ He said in that same, defeated tone.

‘And yet,’ you had spit out the cork, this time hitting him in the chest, ‘that seems to be what happens any time you come near me.’

‘There is no excuse for me, I know whatever I will say will mean nothing to you.’ He watched you scoff at his response. ‘See?’

‘What are you doing here?’ You sighed, already tired of his presence. To think that maybe not an hour had gone by since you had woken up, moderately at peace, in his cabin and now you were lying before him, hands covered in blood and spirit, and your mind dizzying with pain and rage.

‘How– how bad is it?’ There was a shake in his words, and you could not understand whatever for. Each move you made sent shocks down into your ribs, but as you did not feel like saying much more to him, you tilted your arm up to show the severity of the cut. The alcohol had washed off most of the excess blood and left behind the thing and precise cut over your side. Munson looked at it and another muscle in his face flinched at the sight of what he has caused. ‘It does not seem to be perilous.’

‘Yes, considering I am not dead I had figured as much.’ As you still had the bottle in your hand, you lifted it up to your lips and took a large sip. The burn at your throat was comparable to the feeling of the liquid touching your wound, but it was much more appreciated. After one more sip, you looked back at Munson. ‘Anything else, captain?’

‘No, I— I do not know what came over me, and I will not forgive myself for what I have done.’ He was stumbling over his words, but those he managed to produce left you in a whirl. How genuine it all was, you could not tell, but the deep regret he seemed to have reflected in his being. But you had learned your lesson to fall for such weaknesses.

‘Yes, it must be horrible seeing your investment get compromised.’ You took another swig of the drink. The captain opened his mouth to respond, but decided against it. He stood up already turned to leave when a final thought came to you.

‘From what I remember of the rules of the game,’ your words paralysed him mid-step as you called out, ‘I never fell to my knees.’ He, however, had.

The captain turned enough for you to see his profile and how the corner of his mouth turned up in amusement. ‘Fine, you win.’ Then he continued walking up to the ladder.

You smiled to yourself as he left.

You won.

Chapter 6

thank you so much for reading!! if you want more of where this came from, check out my masterlist.

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taglist (part 1)

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faceeeeee · 1 year ago

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At the time of writing this the number of notes has gone up but I'm too lazy to change it but HOLY MOTHER OF CHRIST I was not expecting the entire Kinger fan club to appear on my notification tab and even gosh darn GOOSEWORX HERSELF- It baffles me at how you all liked that rendered drawing cuz I honestly didn't think much of it. THANK YOU TO ALL THE PEOPLE THAT LIKED AND REBLOGGED THAT POST!!!! Some of the hashtags made me giggle like a maniac ༼⁠;⁠´⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠۝ ⁠༎ຶ⁠༽

Here are some other sketches of dear old kinger + the gijinka version (I'm also working on a little sumthing that's gonna take a while to finish- so there's a bit more fanart of this guy that I've got stored-)

#again- THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH #kinger #the amazing digital circus kinger #the amazing digital circus

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miguelswifey04 · 1 year ago

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May I request HCs where Spider![Reader] [Female] teaches her boyfriend, Spider Noir 21st Century slang terms like “rizz”, “sus”, “lowkey”, “delulu”, etc.?

I saw the comic you reblogged about Noir using outdated/offensive terminology since he came from the 1930s.

LMAO yeah that’ll probably fry his brain 🧠😵

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

you taught him some slang words that pertained to gen-z such as “rizz”…one time you told your boyfriend, noir, that he had rizz and he was like “rizz? what—“

“yeah rizz! it’s short for charisma!” you laugh and he would suddenly start laughing LMFAOOOO cause he would be like “wha the hell?? okay cool!”

you educated him in all the new lingo and slang words that have been abbreviated over the course of time—and he finds it hilarious maybe even stupid that every now and then there’s a new word…does he keep up? yah…but does he gets the meanings messed up? YEAH…

so one time noir said “you are so rizz.!” AND YOU BURSTED OUT laughing because he thought it mean “you are so charismatic,” but obviously it doesn’t make sense…”you mean i have rizz? not ‘you are so rizz’” you laughed poking fun of him

he’d roll his eyes in a playful manner and bring his hands up in mock-defense, “oh whatever—i keep getting these darn words mixed up!”

every time he uses new terms such as “lowkey” “delulu” “slay” “sus” he always gets them mixed up but knows what each word’s meaning is—he just sucks at making it sound natural and it comes out forced

he sounds like those millennials who try to act cool or use ‘slang’ but you end up cringing and laughing at his poor attempts 😭

the spidey gang also help him out or corrects him but they all make fun of him whenever he slips up BUT of course they still educate him and keep him updated on new words

he really appreciates him educating on new terminology and words & for taking the time to help his ‘old-self’ even though he’s quite literally a young adult who acts like an old man 😵

#spiderman atsv #spider man: across the spider verse #spider noir #spider man noir #spiderverse noir #noir x you #spider noir fluff #spider man noir x reader #spiderman noir #spider noir x reader #itsv noir #🌱 lin writes

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kaizenkhaos · 11 months ago

Text

Over the Airwaves: A Harringrove Xmas Fic

Okay so you know how it goes. You see a post reblogged from a fellow Harringrover (if that's the term...hmmm...I'm not sure but hey ho XD) and all of a sudden the mind gremlins go yes....do it. Write a nearly 4K fic inspired by it. Or kinda. It's more adjacent to it. In this case, I saw a post reblogged by @avalonlights about Michael Buble and that sent me down a rabbit hole of Robin and Steve hosting a radio show and a certain someone or someones ringing in with requests. Though it does give me ideas for another fic for later or maybe next year now XD So Merry Christmas everyone! ^^ Wherever you are and whatever you're doing, have fun, stay safe and for those of you who struggle during this time of year, my thoughts are with you. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Four Days before Christmas Day...

"And that was 'So This is Christmas' by John Lennon. Coming up, we have the much beloved listeners' request section. But now, here's a few words from our sponsors." It was the run up to Christmas and Steve was working. Like every god darn Christmas he could remember since finishing at Hawkins High. Sure, the money wasn't bad and it stopped him from sitting alone in a big house, wishing that he could just chill in the pool and forget about the rest of the world, but….there was just somethin' about this time of year that set his teeth on edge. Maybe it was cos his parents had once again gone away from the holidays, leaving him with a Christmas tree laden with presents but no one to see him open them. Maybe it was the fridge full of food which they'd left for him which he'd stuff in the oven and try and not forget about. Or maybe it was the fact that each and every year, someone had actually asked him over to their place. And he lied about having somewhere already to go. Cos he didn't wanna be a burden, ruin a good time. If he was gonna be miserable, he'd be miserable alone. He was so tired of putting a brave face on things. But maybe what he really needed to do was bite the bullet and say yes. Being alone the past years had sucked.

Four days until the day of the most wonderful time of the year. According to many and that one song which they kept being asked to play most days. Christmas songs were the bread and butter of the airwaves for Radio Hawkins in December, most DJs chosing to play different varieties but some of the songs remained the same. The staple diet of a nation ready for the holidays and to eat and drink more in the name of good old Saint Nic. Steve and Robin had been given the afternoon slot, just before the prime time DJ, and so were kinda the warm up act before the main event. It meant that they could get away with playing some obscurities but overall, it was more the popular stuff, both classic and modern as well as the old curveball to keep them on their toes.

"Line one dingus, you're up to bat." It didn't matter that they were no longer the sailors hauling scoops at Scoops Ahoy, dingus had stuck. But it wasn't in the manner in which he'd been labelled at first. Now it was more affection than insult, just one of the many insider jokes and banter the pair now had.

Nodding, Steve looked over at the producers, giving the good old thumbs up and it was time for his sultry (and apparently sexy according to some listeners) tones to smooth over the airwaves.

"And we're back with more holidays hits right over the air waves at Radio Hawkins. And the section, as Robin said before the break, we all know and love. It's time to hand over to the listeners and the recommendations for your Christmas tunes." Looking at the board, he selected the button nearest to him and with a smile, started with, "Hello there dear listener, who do we have on line 1 today?"

"Hello. Can I request a song for all of the Hawkins Life guards out there? " "Sure thing, and what can we play you today?" Oh wasn't that a oh so familiar voice and a glance over at Robin told him that yep, she'd cottoned onto who it was too. They didn't even have to leave a name and they knew it. Steve wondered how red Robin was gonna get before the song would end, even before the voice continued and sealed the deal. "Could we have 'Santa baby' please Mr DJ." "That we can, thanks for your call." As the line went dead, Steve leaned over to the console to locate the song in question. Now he knew it was one which had been covered a hell of a lot; apparently one of the most covered Christmas songs ever. But no doubt the main DJ of the night would play some up-beat version and what was wrong with a bit of Eartha Kitt? "We're going with the original version?" Pulling her headset off, Robin was getting a raised eyebrow, as if this was something unexpected. She knew his leaning to the classics for these sorts of things but maybe she thought their audience would beg to differ. Although, that did make him think of…. "Yeah 'course. Why, should I have gone for the sexy Michael Buble version?" "No. Steve. Why do you…" Bingo. Deep, deep red is the result to his poking, as he made kissing noises at her and she looked like she'd have thrown a pillow at him if she had one at her disposal. Instead she just leaned over and nearly set him off his chair. An act that had the producers snorting and Steve grinning from ear to ear. Once he was straight and level back on his chair. Last year, Robin may have dragged him onto the stage for karaoke on their second work's night out together. It had been a small town bar, pretty cosy and most locals but they seemed to have known the radio station folk, so there was no hostile staring. Santa Baby had been the song Robin had chosen but not for the reasons he thought at first. Both a bit drunk, he'd just thought it was an updated upbeat version for them to stumble through. Then Robin had done a 180. No longer as shy as before but like a shot of confidence had come over here. Sassy, confident and damn…. If she'd not come out to him a couple of years previous and let her feeling about him known, that would have a time which he had gotten him paying attention. But as it was, he worked out real quickly what had caused the change, or rather who. Turned out a certain life guard had shown up, on their own work's do and yeah. Robin had already scoped her out and the song? It had been for her. It had turned out, as they'd found out later that night, the feelings had been mutual. Steve had slipped away to give them some privacy and the rest….well. They'd been dating for a year now, but every time that version of the song came on, Steve wouldn't let her live it down and Robin didn't let him get away with it.

"You're such a….." The song finished and a smirk is what Robin is faced with as she gives him that face and took over hosting duties. Whilst making it so very very clear that he was gonna pay for this later. Or one day. Who knew when, but she'd seek her revenge and he'd pay his due.

Three days until Christmas Day…

He was surprised they were both not hung over. A night out with Heather and her swim team, and member of his old swim team and many, many drinks later had left both him and Robin going home late and just about getting ready enough to be able to be coherent on the air. It had taken Steve an embarrassingly amount of time to work out their set lists and he swore at times he was getting the shakes for some reason but they were working through it. Him and Robin, the dynamic duo. They'd made the bad days work at Scoops and here, as tight as ever, they'd carry each other through it. Just as they had each other on the way home. "So, we have another caller on line two. What's your name and what can we play for you this afternoon?" They'd admittedly had some banging tunes already this slot. Some golden oldies; some Slade, some Wizard. Some modern ones and some not so Christmassy tunes too. Probably from someone who either didn't like Christmas all that much or just wanted to give others a breather for a moment. After playing a bit of T-Rex and Prince, the songs had morphed back into the season and Steve was now ready to hear what the last request of the session was gonna be. A pause on a line. This happened from time to time. When there was a bad line, a disconnect or when people just didn't know what to say, or how to start. It happened more often than he'd thought when he'd started here three years ago. Nerves on the airwaves, the thought of so many ears hearing your every word. Steve got it. He'd been the same when he'd started. Now it felt as natural as breathing. Steve patiently waited for the caller to say a word or hang up. "Santa's little helpers." Giggling floated over the line and yet another familiar sound reached Steve's ears. A sigh away from the microphone as he rolled his eyes at Robin to just get a grin back. Eyes carrrying as much mischief as the kids on the line. Well, it had only been a matter of time before one of the little shits got through. He was kinda surprised at who it was though. "Hello there Santa's little helpers. Hope you're keeping warm up there in the North Pole. What can we play for you?" "What's the North Pole?"

"Can we have 'Driving Home for Christmas'. Please."

Yep it was them and Steve just smiled, Robin shaking her head but still with that mischief in her eyes. Had she set them up to this? He had no idea if she actually had; he knew she wouldn't reveal her hand yet if she had. Or maybe it was the other who had spoken who'd decided to do it. Those two were thick as thieves after all. Either way, Steve leaned back to his microphone, the song now lined up to play.

"Sure thing. Here's 'Driving Home for Christmas' for Santa's Little Helpers. Thanks for calling."

Two days….. It had been a mistake. Two nights out in a row? He should have been able to handle it. Drink never used to be a problem. But today both him and Robin were definitely paying for it. She called it the hangover from hell but worth it. He was just wondering when the hell he'd turned his headset up. Every sound felt like it was echoing inside of his head. The only saving grace was that some of the staff on the other side of the glass had also been out, what with it being the works do, so they were all collectively on the bus together. Just trying to get through another shift before their beds came a-calling. "Line number three, thanks for calling. What's your name and what can we play for you this afternoon?" This time the voice was clearly using some sort of changer. Subtle but there seemed to be a distortion on the line which felt neither like the phone line or signal and clearly wasn't caused by a human voice. Catching Steve's glance, he hovered his finger over to the line button, just in case it turned out to be some prank caller who they'd have to boot off the air pretty quickly. Wouldn't be the first one, sadly probably wouldn't be the last. "Hi, name's "Christmas Princess" and I'd like "Last Christmas" by Wham please. Love your show, thanks for taking my call." "No problem at all Christmas Princess." He knew Robin was looking over now and he knew how; he didn't have to see it. If it wasn't written all over his face in clear sight, then it was that she knew him and his history well enough that she could feel what he was going through. This song….stung. A lot, and he knew it wasn't aimed at him or anything, but it was…such a shitty Christmas song in his opinion. Full of heartache and sorrow and memories of Christmas past. Memories of her and the special someone he wished he could have given his heart to. And the word Princess….god it remembered him so much of that asshole. Not even in town no more, could be a thousands miles. To Steve, he never was away. He was always there in his head, in his heart and he felt the whole thing stumble.That tell tale of a rip occuring again, and the feel of a soft hand under the table. Steve blinked out of his thoughts and daydreaming, looking over at Robin and the producers who were pointing at the blinking "Live" sign. Smiling at everyone, Steve hoped nothing he'd been thinking had shown on his face. One look at Robin, and he saw that it had. Damn. Him and Robin had spent so much time talking about their crushes that he was so relieved when one of them got lucky. She wanted it for him too, even if she shared his opinion on his crush (being an asshole). She wanted Steve to be happy and he wanted to be finally too.

"And that was Last Christmas. Sorry to all of you trying to avoid Whamhalla. Better luck next time folks. Now who'd we have on line six."

Christmas Eve It was Christmas eve, one last shift until Christmas Day, which turns out this year, he actually wasn't gonna be spending alone after all. He'd not realised until this morning that there were several voice messages for him at home. All of which had come from the Hendersons. Mrs Henderson had happened to bump into his mom in the supermarket or some place, and she'd let on that not only would they be out of town but Steve would be staying behind. Something about work and a boring business meeting his dad had which they didn't wanna drag him along to. So of course, the first phone call had from Mrs Henderson, asking him if he'd like to come over for xmas. The second had been just a check in and polite check in. A "It's okay if you'd rather be alone but if you could let me and Dusty know, that would be appreciated." The final one had been Dustin telling him that if he didn't come around to his on Christmas Day, then his mom was gonna bring them around. Apparently his mom must have had a change of heart; Steve not finding out the why until much later on. Outwardly he'd been annoyed, rung back. Got Henderson on the phone and huffed a "Fine Henderson. Let your mom know we already have a turkey," before putting the phone down. But as Robin started to work out which lines they were gonna to be taking calls from first and he worked through the playlist they'd already arranged for the session, Steve realised that really, now the day was actually nearly here, he was relieved. So god damn relieved that it wouldn't be another meaningless Christmas. He even felt a little bad about his tone on the phone. He should have sounded grateful, not like he was doing them a favour. Something to apologise for when he saw them in person. No more time to dwell on that though as he was on main host duties today and so it was his turn to man the lines. Nodding to Robin, she hit a button and put the caller through. Steve wondering what the next Christmas 'masterpiece' in which they would be asked/forced to play would be. "Over to line four. Hi there, what's your name and what can we play you this Merry Christmas Eve?" "Yeah, hi. This is that guy with the Camaro. I want to request a song for someone special. It's that Mariah Carey song. You know, the popular one." No……no no no. It couldn't be. It had to be….someone else right? But no. He'd know that voice anywhere in the world. The inflexion in his words, his choices, his tone. Of all the god damn people to phone in and all of the times too. And of all of the god damn shitting songs he could pick. Why this one and why this. God Damn. Station. Maybe to be fair he didn't know. He'd been gone since Starcourt. Whisked away as soon as he was well enough. Had gone to catch some sun and never come back. At times Steve wished he would have stayed like Max had done. Maybe he'd have at least had the chance to say he was sorry. Maybe he could have made things right between them. "You there amigo?" The words echoed around in his head, before a little nudge from Robin brought him back around. Concentrate….he had to just treat this as another caller. Them as anyone else who wanted a song. It didn't matter how he felt about it; he had a job to do. "Yes, sorry that guy with the Camaro. All I want for Christmas is you right?" "That's the one."

The sound of a smirk in his voice made Steve want to throw up.Throw down his headset and go cry in the staff room.He'd not felt like this in so long and it was really darn hard for him to keep it together right now.But he had to. ON with the show and then he could let it all hang out when he got home. Away from the peering eyes, away from anyone's expectations of him. Then he'd be fine for when Mrs Henderson picked him up. None the wiser. "Sure man, we'll put that right on for you. Hope that special someone likes it." "Thanks man, I know they'll be listening."

Another gut punch and it was like the Byers House all over again. All he needed was a plate smashing over his head. A squeeze of his hand and Steve takes a deep breath before slipping the headset off again. Robin quickly joining him and gently putting his and hers down on the console. "Steve….." "It's okay Robin. He's probably come back to see Max for Christmas" And this special person of his. A tight lump was gripping his throat. He hated this. All of it. Most of the staff here knew about him and Robin and it didn't bother them. It hadn't stopped them from rising up the ranks, given them their own show. Some people in Hawkins would still be reviled if they knew about the pairs' sexualities but here they were safe. And he was pretty sure some of them knew about the golden haired Cali boy that he held such a torch for. Hell, one of them had even found his mixtape in the car once. Asked him about it and then reassured him that he was okay. That it was fine. He had a friend who was gay and he was going to their wedding. That had been several months back, the first person at work Steve had even told. It still didn't make this any easier. He'd gotten worse at hiding his emotions. The dam was breaking and he was struggling to stop the water now. Luckily though, the caller was gone before the song played out and Steve managed to say a hurried thanks before Robin skillfully took over the air for the last song. Gestured for him to go and take a breather. The producers nodded and let him go, didn't mind the fact he'd had to head off early. He'd wanted to say thank you to all their listeners, to wish them a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year as they wouldn't be back on the air until after the first, but he just couldn't right now. And they all knew that. Smoking hadn't been on his mind for a while, but now he fished around the bag he brought out from his locker to find the packet, slightly crumpled in a side pocket. God he needed this. God he needed….apparently a lot of things. A hug, a smile, reassuring words. A good turkey dinner and a warm fire, and family and laughter and….. At first, he ignored the buzzing of his phone. Probably just a message or a spam call or somethin'. It rang off fast enough to be either so he just stood there. Leaned against the wall and took the longest drag that he had in a real long time. Before off went his phone again, pulling against his jeans. Maybe it was Mrs Henderson. Maybe there'd been a change of plan or she needed to make sure she had the right gravy. She did like to make a fuss and always made him feel so welcome. The thought of which is what made him pull his phone out eventually. It wasn't right to keep her waiting. He'd already missed her calls and not rang her back, something else he really needed to say sorry for. But it wasn't her name that had flashed up on his screen. It was Max. Okay, that….didn't make the most sense but maybe she just wanted to wish him a Merry Christmas or….shit no, something hadn't happened had it? He'd….he'd better pick up. "Max?" "No need to sound so worried pretty boy. She's fine. Snuck out with Lucas somewhere. Probably the arcade. Dead romantic like that." Holy….shit. He couldn't stop himself from sliding down the wall, only feeling over the back of his jacket once his ass had hurt the floor. Hargrove…what the shit. He really was back in Hawkins and apparently had Max's phone on him. "Also before you lecture me, yes she has my phone. Didn't think you'd pick up if it was a strange number or anything. So, you like the song choices?"

"Song choices?" Wait choices….. Steve's face must have done a whole range of different motions as emotions rode from pillar to post. He'd rang in before. Several times. But when and…. how many times? What had he requested, other than that damn song today. The voice changer….so he'd been the shit requesting freaking Last Christmas. Now another emotion straddled the rest of them. So, was this some kinda sick joke, a wind up, a play to get him on air? He couldn't think straight. He never could around Hargrove but wasn't this typical of him? Wasn't this the usual hair playing behaviour he should have expected? Wasn't this why he liked him? Shit…. This could not be happening.

"Ah come on man? Santa baby, Driving Home for Christmas….George Michael and freaking Mariah Carey. You know how much cred I've lost just requesting that song man." "Ah great. Yeah, it totally makes sense now. You putting others up to ring mine and Robin's show and make me feel like a complete ass" "Woah woah woah amigo. No no no." A snort and then that lower tone that always made him feel like he was about to split in half. "Did you even listen to what I said to you? Listen to the lyrics of any of those songs. And here was me thinking you were a fellow music lover Harrington." Listen to the lyrics? About wanting someone, coming home to them, the whole giving someone their heart and shit and…..but it was for a special someone. All I want for Christmas is…..oh. "Get the hint yet?" His eyes darted upwards as the shadows crept over him. A familiar smile now above him. Shining ocean eyes which he thought he'd never see again. And the sound of an engine in the background and playful chatter. Max and Lucas at the arcade his ass.

"Hi there pretty boy. Look whose come back for Christmas." ……….

#harringrove #billy x steve #harringrove xmas fic #kaizen's kreations #inspired by others' posts

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months ago

Text

Hidden Treasure 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your quiet life is interrupted by a tempestuous man. (reader is Blair from Follow You Anywhere)

Characters: Thor

Note: I'm currently in the denial and procrastination stages of schoolwork. I'm doing the readings but damn this shit is kinda complex and my brain can't function.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

There's that jeep again.

You've never been the most observant. You tend to stick in your lane, keep your head straight, and just rush by the world around you. If you don't bother anyone, you're safe. If you don't draw attention, you can't be a problem.

But that jeep is there again. Parked by the curb across from your building. There's a million logical explanations; a new neighbour or someone visiting family, yet it sticks out sorely in the neighbourhood. Too nice, too new.

You let the black curtain hang straight and back up to sit at the table. You bend the lamp closer to shine on your work, fussing with the gears of an old cuckoo clock. The darn thing ticks backwards. You squint and hunch over, carefully realigning the replacement gear.

The tiny screwdriver jams down as you jump and let out a tiny yelp. Thunder rolls around the building and a torrent of rain whips against the window pane. The storm is so sudden and unexpected that you wonder if maybe you lost track of the time.

You refocus and redo the work, checking that you didn't do too much damage. You can't focus for the way the windows rattle and the rain pelts harder and harder. Another peel of thunder shakes you and lightning flashes around the curtain. You haven't seen a storm like this in years. Or ever.

You get up and leave the clock unfinished. You peek around the curtain. The sky is so grey, the streetlights are on. You can hardly see more than the rain speckled abstraction of the streets below.

Another blindly strike of lightning illuminates the world and you back away, the hair on your arms standing on edge. Loud noises always make you nervous. You retreat to the couch and pull the knitted throw from over the back.

The shelves against the walls tremble as the storm seems to center on your building. You look around, terrified, and watch the figurines and books as they shift on the wood. Oh no.

You get up and let the blanket fall to your feet. You grab an armful of cushions and frantically set them around the shelves to catch anything that might tumble. This can't be real! The way the whole building quakes is like a movie.

Once you have pillows scattered all around, the air grows stagnant and silence shrouds the world. You look around, feeling rather foolish as you see your manic safeguards littered on the floor. All these things you worry so much about and why? There's always more to be found. Never enough.

You return to the window and once more look out. You cling to the curtain as you pull it back. The sun is out again and the street is slick and shining with the aftermath of the storm. Your eyes narrow along the curb; the grey jeep is gone. You don't know if it matters but you notice it. It's just a strange coincidence.

🕰️

The next day, you descend with a new box of good for sale. You leave most of your things in the car, covering them with a blanket against greedy eyes, but there’s no use in the up and down, back and forth. You rarely have the energy after a long day amidst the market crowds.

You nearly drop your armful as you come in sight of your car. You blink. It can’t be real. Your mouth falls open as you slow and near the ruins of the old auto. The metal of the hood is crumpled and singed, as if it was burnt by some unearthly force. You recall the storm.

What rotten luck that it should land on your car, of all things. It had seemed quite close and yet, you didn’t even think something like this could happen. You walk around the car and take in the breadth of the damage. What do you do?

The windshield is cracked, a spider web in the glass, ready to shadow at the merest touch, and the left tire if flat. Even if the engine isn’t cooked, you don’t think it’s safe to drive. You hug the box in your arms and stare.

Crying can’t help you. It never does. You don’t do that. Not since you were a child. You’ve dealt with worse anyhow. You still have a roof over your head. There’s that at least.

Still ,you can’t hold onto that one bright side without an income. You can’t afford a rental and you don’t know anyone who would lend you a car, let alone spare a ride. You look down at the box, ready to accept defeat.

You have to try... it’s not about being easy, it’s about getting it done. You don’t have a choice. You need what little you can make from selling your antiques. Come rain or shine, rather literally, you have to find a way.

Your body reacts without a clear plan. You put the box down next to the rear tire. You open the back door and fling back the blanket. You sift through your crates and find what you need; the sign. You take that and your hand-written stack of cards, and put them in next to the lockbox in the box on the ground. You grab a few extra trinkets and the bag of embroidered coin purses and a few other light items. As much as you can do alone.

You should be able to make back the bus fare, even if the journey might be a bit awkward.

🕰️

You get to the market and realise another pitfall. You have your things and your sign and just about nothing else. As you wander to the empty space meant to be yours, the one you pay a fee for, you have only a box and yourself. You don’t know that it will attract many people. It’s hardly professional.

As you stand on the empty patch of grass, watching other sellers set up, you contemplate the transition to an online marketplace. You tried once but never really moved any pieces. The shipping costs were enough to deter you and prospective buyers.

You sigh and think of the wasted three bucks. Why did you come all the way down here to stand around like some weirdo? You are a bit off but this is a bit much.

“Hey,” a voice startles you and you turn to face the plant seller. You recognise him as he’s come to buy a gift or two for his mother from time to time. He’s always talkative, always smiling. He’s a bit much. “Uh, we going minimalist?”

You peer around and shrug, “car troubles.”

“Hm, that’s too bad. Um, I was just making my rounds and saw you looking a bit lost. You remember me, right? Cole.”

“Yes,” you answer sheepishly.

“Well, we stick around. Us vendors. If you need some table space for the day, I can move the cacti over--”

You can’t help your surprise from showing in the creases of your forehead, “really?”

“Yeah, of course. Did I ever mention my mom loved that new lampshade? They discontinued the style ages ago and she was ecstatic. I mean come on, I sell flowers, you think she’s beaming with pride.”

“Erm, I don’t know,” you try not to show your discomfort. He does talk so much. Beggars can’t be choosers and you’ve settled for far worse than a chatty companion. “If you don’t mind, I would be so grateful.” You rub your neck, “I... I can’t offer much but if you want a few items. Maybe for you mom—oh, I could bring you this vase I found. I can show you a picture.”

“It’s no problem,” he steps forward and you shy away at his suddenness. He slows down and shows his palms, “woah, sorry, I was just going to grab your stuff.”

“Oh, you don’t have to--”

“Please, I make a habit of helping out pretty women. My pleasure,” he assures and scoops up the box of goods.

“Mm, thanks,” you roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, chewing on that comment. Charming but a bit unnerving. He tries just a little bit too much.

You follow him across the row of booths and stands and around the corner to his own. He has a much better location than your own but it makes sense. Flowers sell better than used doilies.

He puts the box down behind his table and starts to rearrange his goods. You wait until there’s a clear space and start setting out your own things. You pick out only the stuff you know will sell and prop up your sign. You leave the lock box underneath with the leftovers.

“You mind if I go use the bathroom?” You ask Cole as he folds up his jacket and lays it over his chair.

“Sure, I’ll keep an eye on things,” he says. “Need anything?”

“No, no, I’m good,” you assure him and flit off.

You head down to the brick building that houses the public restrooms. You use the solitary to collect yourself after the disaster-stricken morning. As you emerge, you wander along and pause just outside the booth selling iced drinks and hand-made tumblers. They’re all very cute but you can’t afford a cup, yet you can splurge for some of the tea.

You chew your cheek as you consider the menu. You’re not sure what to pick. Hm, he likes flowers.

You order two lavender lemonades and wait patiently as you count out the money. A little treat is much needed after the morning you’ve had. You claim your drinks and turn, nearly colliding with someone else. You back up and look up at the towering man. You recognise him.

“Ah, there she is,” the man booms, “I feared you were not attending today.”

“Oh, uh,” you furrow your brow. He’s that man who left you waiting then came back with his mother. He seems to be a regular though you’d never seen him before a few weeks back. “Hi?”

“Thor,” he supplies, “I don’t think I introduced myself yet. And you, little treasure?”

You hesitate before you muster an answer. Little treasure? How strange.

“So, have you relocated?” He wonders.

“Um, for today,” you say, his curiosity tweaking your nerves. “My car... well, I’ll figure it out.”

“Oh, how unfortunate,” he frowns, “well, where can I find you? My mother is due soon, I believe my brother will be with her. A family day, you see?”

“Mm, oh, I’m... down there,” you motion with the drinks, “at the flower booth.”

“Flowers? Wonderful, mother will like those,” he grins brightly, “well, don’t let me keep you. You must have many customers waiting and those do you look delicious. Enjoy.”

You look down at the drinks and nod. As you look back up, he’s already heading off. It isn’t very often you remember a face and his is becoming familiar. He must not have very much to do if he’s here every weekend. Who are you to speak?

You go back to the stall as Cole speaks to some customers and wraps up two tall irises for sale. You wait to the side, hoping they might have some interest but they shuffle by with polite smiles. You do your best to smile back then turn to Cole.

“Hey, um, I know it’s not much,” you take one of the cups and offer it, “I didn’t know if you’d like it but, lavender lemonade?”

“Oo, is this from the Tea Time place? I’ve been dying to try it,” he perks up, “thank you so much. That’s too nice.”

“Mm, well, you’ve done so much and you don’t have to.”

“We all have bad days, huh?”

“I guess,” you take your own drink and taste it. Different, but not bad. You’ll stick to your regular stuff at home though.

You put the cup under the booth as more people approach. You have a few asking about the purses and browsing the sleepers. You sell some of the baby clothes but the purses are left unpurchased. Better than nothing. You’re all breaking even. That’s a weight off.

Further down, you hear a deep roll like thunder. It’s that big burly blond. Thor? He’s there with the same blonde woman and a slimmer man nearly the same height but much thinner. His hair is dark where the other two are fair.

Thor meets your eye, frightening you, and you quickly look down at your wares and arranges them. You sense his shadow coming closer as his mother continues her conversation with Cole about the amaryllis. The other man looks disinterested as he glares at Cole.

“Mother,” the slender man sighs, “you could have a better bargain with the florist in town.”

“Oh, hush,” she jabs him and returns to her barter.

“Ah, yes,” Thor cuts into your intrusion, “I see you’ve got yourself set up. Oh, and you’ve made friends.”

He glances over at Cole and you follow his gaze. You back up and fold your hands over your stomach. He turns back to you and narrows his eyes.

“Friendly fellow, isn’t he?”

“Mm, sure, he... he’s helpful,” you move your hand to grip your other wrist. “I don’t have too much today.”

“Yes, I see. No jewelry? I was hoping to find some pendant for mother.”

“Uh, no, sorry, like I said--”

“Or a ring,” he insists. “She is a fan of jewelry. Back home... well, where we resided prior, she had so many pieces...” he smiles and exhales, his chest rising and fall, “ah, it isn’t any matter. I do like this.” He picks up the figurine of squirrel with an acorn, “it’s adorable.” He meets your eye and smiles broadly, “I like cute things.”

You nod, unsure how to respond. You give him the price and he reaches for his wallet without pause. He pays and you stop yourself from offering to wrap it up. You don’t have your newspaper or little paper bags.

“Thanks,” you cheep, “hope you have a good day.”

“It’s already been lovely,” he purrs and wobbles the squirrel with a grin, “I do hope yours gets better as well.”

#thor #dark thor #dark!thor #thor x reader #fic #hidden treasures #series #dark fic #dark!fic #mcu #marvel #avengers #au

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