#maybe moose jaw too

[wormgirl123]

[adorethedistance]

I Don’t Just Like You - Trevor Zegras x Hughes!Reader

Hockey Masterlist

Warnings: swearing, tension/fighting, jealousy, Dixie lmao

Words: 2161

Summary: Tension builds with Trevor over his new partnership until the two of you confess your feelings.

A/n: Y'all I am so not doing well rn. I am processing a break up and questioning my social circle and im so lonely that I needed to write some angst to cope with it all. Hope yall like this one and maybe it'll get a smut part two depending on whether or not I can handle writing that rn lol. Enjoy!

Moose: call me ASAP

Me: sorry Luke. can’t rn

Moose: Awesome 😎

My hands quake with anxiety as I fiddle with the tarnished silver ring adorning my pointer finger. The moisture of my skin eases the movement of turning the ring around my finger. I hiss when the gemstone catches on the skin of my middle finger and immediately drop my hands. 

Currently, I’m staring down at the risky text I just sent Trevor. About an hour ago he had messaged me:

Trev: hey sorry can’t swing tn after all 

Trev: rain check?

My jaw tightens with contempt and I huff out a sigh as my bottom lip trembles. I feel pathetic for just how impacted I am by his every word. I angrily hit the digital keys of my phone’s keyboard as I type my reply.

Me: really? 

Me: again??

Trev: don’t be like that

I’m not the most confrontational person. On any given day some might say I’m the furthest thing from confrontational. To put it rather plainly, I just don’t like it. I hate the way I get anxiety butterflies in my stomach. I hate absorbing the emotions of the other person, especially when rejection is involved. I hate what projections I’m opening myself up to receiving from the other person. There are too many pitfalls and not enough landing pads. Which is why it’s so out of character for me to press him on this.

Me: like what Trev?

This is the third time in a row Trevor has cancelled plans on me. I don’t know if he’s aware of that. I don’t even know what he’s been up to lately. He’s refused to tell me what he’s been doing instead, which didn’t raise my suspicions by any means until mom sent me an article. She knows about how my crush on Trevor has had roots in our childhoods. 

Trev: you know what I’m talking about

After I stopped playing hockey with my brothers, I was still always around to notice Trevor’s presence in our home. When I moved to California for college, I wanted to chase my music dreams but I didn’t realize it would come at the expense of my support system. Being long distance with my family put me in a hard spot, but having a familiar face to rely on made the adjustment easier. As we spent more time together independent of my brothers, Trevor and I became close friends. The problem was my crush has been growing ever since we became friends, hence why mom sent me an article called, “Did Dixie D’Amelio admit to dating Trevor Zegras?”.

Me: at least say it with your chest

Sent. Delivered. I wait. Trevor’s response bubble appears for a second. It disappears, then reappears, then disappears again. I’m about ready to toss my phone across the room when his message delivers.

Trev: call me

I groan out in frustration and this time actually end up chucking my phone onto my bed. I run my hands through my hair, along the warm expanse of my scalp. A self-soothing gesture by all means. I pace to one side of my room before using the momentum of my steps to start back towards my phone. Just as I have it in my hand, Trevor’s contact picture covers the screen and illuminates in my grasp. I scoff out a sort of half groan and then answer.

“What, Trevor?”

“Hey, Y/n I’m great. Thanks for asking! How are you?” He responds sardonically to my cold greeting. I bite my tongue, torn between tearing into him and the stronger desire to laugh through my rage. He takes my exhale as a cue to continue. “What’s going on, Hughesy?”

In a single moment, my anger dissolves. The tenderness of that nickname, which was once reserved solely for my brothers, now belongs to me. In this moment, I find myself thinking about how grateful I am that Trevor was there for me as I transitioned into college. But the looming threat of a smile quickly vanishes as I remember how that care is nullified by Trevor’s abundantly active dating life.

“Y/nnnn?” Trevor hums into the phone.

“What?” I respond dryly.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is you cancelling on me for the third time in a row.”

“Is it really the third time in a row?” He asks under his breath, indicating he may not have intended to say it out loud at all. I roll my eyes, still actively fighting the urge to just lay into him.

“Yes, Trevor, it is!” I can practically hear him wince through the phone at the fact that I’m calling him Trevor instead of the default nickname permanently programmed into my phone. 

“Who’s that?” I hear softly over the phone. My heart flutters like a coal mine parakeet in a cage and I bite my lip, willing myself not to cry if it turns out Dixie is on the other side. Trevor whispers back,

“It’s Y/n.”

“Hey, Y/n!” Mason’s on the other end. 

“Not a good time,” Trevor tells him. Mason curses and then apologizes before retreating from Trevor’s general area. “Sorry, you were saying?” Trevor tells me at regular volume.

“You were cancelling on me again.”

“Oh. Right. I…” he switches the phone to the other ear, “I…don’t know what you want me to say.” Hello?! Could he be any more oblivious?!

“I want you to tell me what is going on!” I whine into the phone, “What is it you’re so busy with doing that you can’t see me for a week, huh? I get that you’re a professional athlete and you have a busy schedule. But I know your schedule and I know you still have a decent amount of free time. So what have you been doing?” Trevor breathes, in, then out and says,

“I’ve been seeing someone lately…” I feel my heart shatter into the tiniest fractals of what it once was and I cover my mouth to choke back the growing lump in my throat.

“I can’t do this right now,” I say with the utmost hurt lacing my voice, pulling the phone away from my ear to abruptly hang up on Trevor. I toss my phone on my bed once more, ignoring how the screen lights up with Trevor’s contact picture. It’s a new breed of psychological torture to sit here and ignore the calls, so I leave my phone in my bedroom as I go to splash cold water on my face. 

When I reenter my bedroom, I ignore the buzzing device to put on a comfortable pair of pajamas. He’s called once, twice, a fourth, and a fifth before finally giving up. Despite my phone being silent, I don’t trust it enough to take it with me and leave it to charge on my bed. I settle on the couch to open my new pint of Ben and Jerry’s, putting on my favorite show in the hopes of laughing through the pain. 

Somewhere between first and second episode, I had dozed off after returning the ice cream to the freezer. I’m not sure what it is about crying that knocks me on my ass like that, all I know is that it works. 

I’m abruptly pulled from my sleep when I hear the harsh banging on my front door. I jump up from the couch, the spike in adrenaline carrying me out of my sleepy haze. When I get to the front door, some of the tiredness catches up with me again and I groggily open the front door. Behind it stands Trevor, with sad puppy eyes and a sheepish expression. I can’t help the scowl that comes to rest on my face when I see him, but he doesn’t falter. Instead, he pushes past me to come into the apartment and sits on the couch expectantly. Since there’s no way to physically remove him from my space, I bargain, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch, as far from Trevor as I can manage. He doesn’t let the cold gesture phase him, and scooches obliviously into the center of the couch.

“What’s going on Hughsey?” I scoff at the nickname and Trevor cringes in frustration. “What is this?”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“Why are you icing me out all of a sudden?”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask, spiteful, with malice. 

“Clearly not since I’m here spending time with you.”

“Was that so hard for you to do? I mean, with your busy schedule and all?”

“What are you-” Trevor pauses for a split second. “Wait, are you… jealous? Y/n?”

I want to protest. I want to scream and rant and bite back, how he could be so conceited to think I’d be jealous of a relationship that I previously thought was rumored? But I can’t. 

Because he’s right.

I bite my tongue. There’s nothing else I can do. Not unless I want to make an even bigger fool of myself than I already have.

“Oh my god, that’s totally it. You’re jealous.” Trevor says, complete with a laugh and a sigh. The shame of actually being jealous of a girl I’ve never met, the disappointment of finding out Trevor is dating someone, and the exhaustion from already having cried earlier comes collapsing down on me at once. Hot tears well on the lining of my lashes and I stare at the ground, afraid to draw attention to myself. Upon seeing me cry, Trevor’s smile immediately vanishes and he scoots closer once more.

“Hey, shhh, it’s okay.” He envelops me in a hug that I’m too overwhelmed to reciprocate. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.” 

I merely shake my head, unaware of what I could even say in this moment.

“I was… I was just laughing ‘cause I should’ve known.”

“Should’ve known what?”

“That you’d be jealous.” I wriggle out of the hug and look at Trevor sincerely.

“How would you have known?”

“You know, for as long as I can remember, your brothers have talked about you having a crush on me.” I cower in humiliation, my face glowing hotter than the surface of the sun.

“I wish they wouldn’t have.”

“No?” Trevor asks, genuinely.

“It’s embarrassing,” I confess, fully recoiling from the physical contact he had initiated before. 

“It’s cute.” Trevor earnestly admits as he takes my hand in his. I scoff instinctively but don’t pull my hand away again.

“I don’t need your pity, Trev.” I say so softly he nearly misses the sentiment. Once he processes my worlds, I feel him physically relax next to me at the sound of his familiar nickname.

“Well, what do you need? I’m here now.”

“I honestly don’t know.” I finally dare to meet his eyes. He’s looking at me so sweetly, earnestly. As if I hadn’t just chewed him out two minutes earlier. Then, I look away before I can say what I’m about to say next. “I don’t just like you.” Trevor’s face lifts ever so slightly. The extent of which, one might miss had they not known him a lifetime the way I have.

 “You know… the only reason I started seeing her was to get over you.”

“What?” I ask, sharply whipping my head to stare at Trevor, as if awaiting the reveal that this was just some elaborate prank from the start.

“Yeah. I started dating Dixie because I thought dating someone different would distract me. You know, it’s not a good look to have a crush on your best friend’s little sister.”

My heartrate picks up with his confession. This feels too good to be true. As if real life is waiting for us right outside the front door. The real life that doesn’t see me and Trevor together ever in our lifetimes. Terrified of the change that would occur from letting him walk away, I reach up and hold his face in my hands, kissing him passionately. Trevor wraps his hand around my wrist and kisses me back with twice as much fervor. 

We break apart, out of breath and full of smiles. Trevor looks at me for guidance and we fizzle into a nervous laughter. I reach up and brush my thumb tenderly across his cheekbone. He grabs my hand and turns his head, placing a sweet kiss on my palm. I then reach up and break the moment by ruffling my hand through his hair to mess it up.

“Hey!” He yells, grabbing waist to dig his hands into my sides. I screech with laughter as I try to escape. Trevor eventually yields and slips his hands from my sides to interlace with one another and pull me closer. I scoot in to sit against him, sitting half on top of him as our breathing falls in sync.

“I don’t just like you, too, Hughesy.” I smile.

“...You should probably call Dixie.”

“Oh shit.”

***

A/N: not my best work but not my worst either!

[eddiemunsonbignaturals]

just a pinch

summer ends way too fast; you and Eddie surprise each other.

includes smut, as in 18+ 6k words somehow lmao? most of it fluff  best friends to lovers, and it gets a little gross in an arguably unsexy but very intimate way. you're not supposed to put anyone's mouth on your new piercing until at least two weeks out don't be dumb listen to your piercer

content: boob fondling, dry humping, jean nutting, some mild threats of violence, mentions of piercings but not piercing play to my understanding

reader is described as fat, dark skinned, and referred to gender neutrally, mostly (tough guy, man, angel, sweetheart).

comments (yes, even short ones,) reblogs all v much appreciated, take care :*

So, the heatwave had been a fake-out. 

You had both expected more swim-days. Just a few more sweaty, sticky nights— sat too close and tangled together sharing a bowl of Moose Tracks by moonlight, in as little fabric as you could manage and with as much ice as one freezer bucket could hold.

But alas, the fall sneaks in one cloudy morning and makes you regret ever even thinking the word “winter.” 

You’re shivering as you shock awake and roll clumsily to the nightstand. Reaching blind for the blaring landline, your hand cringes away from too-cold plastic, and you groan long and low in mourning— it's definitely over.  While you were asleep, Summer had packed up her bag and ducked off in the dark before you could send her off properly. Goodbye, dog days.

Hello, caller. You know it’s Eddie before you pick up; he knows it's you before you speak.

“Can you believe this? Shit fuckin’ sucks,” he croaks, right off the bat and into the receiver.

“And blows—“ you sigh back, punching one satin-covered pillow and your headscarf off the bed. “We couldn’t even get, a like, temperate couple of days? It had to go straight to freeze-my-dick-off immediately?”

“ha! Please. The end is nigh, sweetheart. You know it better than I,” he almost sings. His sleepy lilt catches on the pet name, and that gravelly morning timbre gees up your morning wood like nothing else can. You kiss your teeth, honestly annoyed at how he affects you this early, and when Ed’s answering chuckle rumbles through your ears and down your jaw, it's like you can feel his breath through the phone. 

God, he sounds good. You hum into a long sigh as he talks. It warms you, everywhere, hearing his voice first thing, and if your non-phone hand drags down your chest and reaches lower to rearrange the pillow between your legs, he doesn’t need to know.

You hear Eddie fidget, as he does, and he switches the phone to his other ear. Then, there’s the rattle of the earrings against plastic– a few chunky hoops he got at your suggestion, and one with your first initial that he definitely plucked off of your desk, though he had lazily denied it. You feel a smile fight its way to your face, suddenly giddy about him, about his call. 

A snapshot of him talking himself awake is as clear in your head as the grey in the sky: a grumpy Munson, emerging from the mess of gifted homemade blankets and ancient, flat pillows. Just a pair of doe eyes, framed by a cluster of chocolate curls and a scowl. Picture-perfect.

You’ve been nursing this damn crush forever, and with the effort of punching it off the bed and out of sight with that headscarf, you’re long past exhaustion. But, in the safety of your chilly room, and with the comfort of his voice in your ear, maybe you’ve enough strength for now to entertain a butterfly, or ten.

You had worn his ring to bed— a little bat hugging your ring finger the way it had been hugging his before you’d snatched it off as payment for a dare gone unfulfilled–and you’re twirling it now, like some lovesick sap. You’re written all over each other, and you’ve been itching to do something about it. But, that’s not the issue right now.

Right now,

“I know, life is over, the globe is warming, there are only a few summers left, et cetera. We’ll still have fun.”

(the dare? you had challenged him to snatch some Hawkins PD pig or another’s goofy little ranger hat as he had passed the two of you on the street. Eddie had suggested maybe he couldn’t float past an arrest on boyish charm this deep into his twenties, and acquiesced without a word when you had held out your hand for his own. 

You’d pretended not to notice the blush creeping up his neck; he had let you hold his hand a bit longer than necessary. It had been an even trade, as always.)

Across the line, Eddie’s still snickering at you, voice fathoms deep– all crackly– when he speaks again. 

“Hold on to your dick, angel, I'm pretty sure there’s options. Like, uh, maybe clothes? Clothes usually work for me.”

“Don’t get cute! I'm fat, you clown, I sweat-- I don’t need clothes. And, I belong in the water, Munson. Its beyond fun, its—“

He cuts you off completely, ignores your scoff, and finishes for you.

“—fulfilling, healing, its what and where you were in every past life, the brain sludge is already building back up as we speak, and ‘I’ll die, I'll just about fuckin’ die, Munson,’ once it drops below 40, I know, stop bitching,” he laughs. His tone? Pure fond; your stomach somersaults. 

You hear the smile widen when he goes on to remind you, “but I guess it's fall now. IE, your favourite.”

“Say ‘bitch’ to me again, I’ll shave your peanut head.”

He takes it back, giggling something about his favourite tough guy, but you know he’s got you there. You definitely are bitching, and—

Halloween month, cider season, big soft sweater weather, rain? It is the best, but it's never too early to argue. 

“You’ll love it, angel.”

You give up, melting again at his affection verbalized. You’re humming assent as he keeps the ball rolling, asking what you’d like to do today instead of going for a swim. Come over and take turns reading the new discount novel he found? Start that mead recipe you made last year? Drive over to Stobin’s—see who can sneak in and scare the shit out of them first? 

All great ideas, you assure him, but you decided long ago that the End of Swim also marked the beginning of piercing season. Your safety moratorium on body mods of all kinds has been lifted, now that you can’t dip your fresh wounds into scummy lake water. 

You've been planning a particular pair for some time. You also decided that it would be a surprise. Your Eddie is observant, dialed in, and sure, maybe you like to play the odd game here and there. He notices you, and you notice right back.  How long, do you think, will it take for him to note a new set of nipple piercings if you don’t warn him first? You figure it’s time to test it.

So, you break his heart a little, and decline to hang out today after all. You’ll see him on your next day off, you promise, and make plans for “four days hence, Munson, quit bitching. I just remembered something else I need to do,” before hanging up on his protests and pulling on your first pair of sweats in 4 months. 

ID, water bottle, and a sweet breakfast in tow, you head for the best (note: only) tat shop you know, braced and ready for a world of pain, going boldly into the cold.

—---------

And there had been almost no pain, at first. You had yelped girlishly before the first needle went in, then felt embarrassed about how easy and quick it had been. Before you had even realized, it was over, and you grinned big at the unique beads framing each pert, dark nipple. You loved them. You loved the piercings, and more than ever, loved your tits. Couldn’t wait to go home and check them out from every angle, actually. 

Then, a malicious towel snag, a careless door-jamb bump, and a hateful sweater-thread later, you were fearing for your life. Over the last few days, you had taken to crouching around them a bit, arms wrapped loose around your stomach as a reminder and for protection. Your nipples were insanely sensitive, now more than ever, and you had never understood ‘til now how often you simply walked through and into things instead of just around.  

But, they were calming down, and with each prescribed saltwater soak you breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of visible irritation. The standard piercing boogers notwithstanding, they looked hot, you felt hot, but found yourself nervous for the big reveal. You thought you would hide them well, your mission made easier by the cool weather and baggier shirts it allowed. 

You’re in his room now. Eddie’s ideas had been good, but you had both decided on the usual– you, rocking up to his trailer and spending the day with him throwing food and trading theories, hours whiled away in artistic pursuits and cat-naps, never too far from one another. It’s been a good day– you’re doing such a good job with the piercings, you forget to hide how entranced you are by Eddie's hands. 

“Aren’t you hot?” 

You count the veins and tendons as they flip pencils and drum against whatever surface they encounter, try to guess how long he can go before he bites that right pinky nail too short again, wonder if he’s running hot today. He’s tactile, your Eddie, but you’re sitting on the floor, legs sprawled, and yeah, a little too warm in the hoodie you came in as he lounges on the bed– too far for his idle touches to distract you into admitting anything. 

You love those hands. You want to taste them one day. He’s looking at you.

Fuck, wait, he’s looking, and you haven’t answered him. You cut your eyes away, to the floor, to your nails, like an idiot. That wasn’t at all suspicious, sure. You’re reasonably sure Eddie hadn’t noticed the piercings themselves yet until, as you snack and he chats again about his sketch, he suddenly drops the pink eraser you’ve been watching his square fingers systematically tear apart.

“N...Noooooo.” He takes in your belated answer and eyes you for a second, then starts talking again. You tug your hands gingerly into the hoodie you’re in and slide the thing over your unwrapped cloud of hair without snagging anything, then toss it away, wiping the light sheen of sweat you realize is cooling on your nose.

 Fuck, here we go. You hadn’t considered you’d have to hide in conversation, just that you had to keep him from seeing. You try to keep your cool, but answer too quickly. This wouldn’t last long.

“Have you been eating weird shit again?” Eddie asks, cutting himself off from explaining the lore of his latest campaign villain. He’s sitting up more since you last looked at him– leaning back on one elbow as the other arm drapes comfy across his belly– and watching you fidget in that weird posture you’ve adopted since the piercings. 

“Eat– We–, me? Weird? What’s– What?” Nailed it. Smooth, like butter. Too player. You thank God or Dolly or whoever’s watching that your blush isn’t visible, because you can already feel your face heating up.

He stares, eyes squinted. You watch your plate, then look back at his lovely hands, fingers pale and impatient, thr-r-r-rumming in sequence against his now-closed notebook.

“What’s with the air-head act? And why are you clutching your tummy and moving like you fell down the stairs?” Okay, that one’s easy.

“Cramps.” Your reply is stiff, but reflexive. The pink in his fingertips as he drums is entrancing. Maybe you’ve saved it– you think you sound sure. He’s silent for beat, and you pick up a cracker and look out the window. Maybe you’re a genius. The fuck’s he gonna do? Argue?

“Hm. Bullshit?” You look up to challenge that, and catch him peering behind you to the stuffed possum you had gifted him when his favourite, real, live, wild possum friend stopped her brief shuffle through the fire pit behind his trailer one drizzly day. 

(Eddie had called it the best week of his life, then declared that he’d never love again.)

After another beat, as if the scruffy thing has read the room and confirmed its answer, Eddie nods once, curls bouncing, then swings his neck dramatically back to you to assert, “bullshit.” 

It's panic creeping up your throat now, because he’s going to see you,  see them, this isn’t– well– it is– but you didn’t think it through, and you aren’t a good enough liar to dodge the impending question. You hem for another moment, hands hovering over your torso, and he looks between them and your face before snapping his bulk upright so fast that the bits of pink littering his lap and thin muscle shirt fly up in the flurry.

“What’re you hiding?”

A frown tugs your lips down before you can stop it. You watch Eddie toss the notebook and, with a loud thump, collapse off the bed boneless into your nest of blankets and towards you like a mad slinky before you can finish saying, “nothing! I’m not– hiding–, wait a second!” 

In that second, Eddie has slithered the 4 feet between him and you, kind of flinging himself on top, landing more gently than you expected in a straddle and pinning your now-closed thighs under his seat before you can wiggle back and away in time. 

“Did you get a tattoo without me? You fucking did, didn’t you?” He might be verging on genuinely hurt, by the sound of it. You’d promised after he’d started his stick-n-poke journey that he’d be your first, (tattooer, that is), once he got some training together. Had swore to him–

“Le’me see– what, is it that shitty? Who the hell did you go to? You can’t be–”

“Ow, Eddie, stop!” Your screeching protest belies real pain this time, curling in on yourself and to the side as much as possible. He bumped a piercing in the shuffle, the pain expected but still shocking, and he backs off a bit and coos in sympathy, all his next words coming out in a frantic rush.

“Fuck, oh no, I’m sorry. I’msosorry, Sweetheart? Are you okay?”

You’ve crossed your arms in front of you, breathing deep through the stinging. As it subsides, he ducks his head to meet your eyeline, his paint-stained palms up, promising no contact. He’s still straddling you, most of his weight on his heels. Still locking you under him, where its very warm.

If you looked down and saw your heart itself beating its way out of your chest, you wouldn’t be shocked. You’re almost choking on it, and plotting how to get him off you without knocking the new piercings again. Its enough to spin your head, to think you’ve been found out this soon, that the bravado in your spirit has fled so quickly at the reality, not just the idea, the real life prospect of showing Munson your tits. 

But it's thrilling, him on top of you. It's always thrilling, a dream fulfilling itself, isn't it? Even if the context is off. This isn't the first time a bout of “weird” from one of you or the other has ended up in a fact-finding mission– sometimes wrestling match, or pillow fight, or wild, short chase through the woods. 

But every time he gets this close, it's like the path between your head brain to the other brain is cleared– heat is flooding the thin cotton that separates you from his well-worn denim faster than ever. He has to get up, right now. You have to keep him there forever. 

You relax as the sting subsides, uncurling and groaning a bit as those strong, clever hands fall to bracket your head on either side. Eddie leans down, sounding the creak of floor beneath you,  and scowls, bathing you in his radiating heat. Studying you, taking in your full lips pressed into a thin, nervous line, your brows turned up where they’d meet, betraying distress. 

“What is going on in there, man?" He's really worried now. When did you start keeping secrets?

“It’s…not a tattoo?” You purse your lips and scrunch your nose, and the sweet smile that flows like syrup across his face seems involuntary.

“Then what else– huh?” Eddie is trying to keep eye contact, but the wheels are turning, and his lovely smile drops. He glances at your arms crossed over your chest, and his jaw falls open, eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“Not a tattoo. Not ‘a’ anything, actually. Two things.”

“No, you didn’t. No way, not a chance.” Eddie seizes your wrists and ignores your protests, pinning each arm by your ears where his once were, and tries to x-ray inspect you through your shirt. It's dark, but not thick enough to weather this kind of scrutiny. Those telltale bumps are right there in front of him, the middle of each trio hardening as he inspects. So, you give up trying to argue, and shrug, suppressing a smile. 

“With— wha?” Eddie’s looney-tunes double-take makes you hoot a laugh as he swings his head and bouncy curls up and down, looking at you, glancing back at your chest, and up again as he processes what he’s hearing. What the fuck is he hearing? 

Your eyes stay low but your brows arch together as you scoff at him, dork. “You’re really telling me you hadn’t seen them?”

“I’ve– not–wha– I’m sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean–”

But, you had been talking shit. He couldn’t have seen anything in the dark shirt you had been wearing all day unless he’d been staring when you weren’t looking– had he been staring at your tits anyway?

 Did he do that often? Your jaw doesn’t drop so much as glide mischievously open. Surprise dawns and Eddie realizes he has, in fact, given himself away too quickly. Coolest dudes in Hawkins, you two.

He changes tack, slapping the floor by your head, still a little shocked.

“You got your nipples pierced? I don’t believe that. I don’t believe you! You’re full of shit.” His voice is almost petulant in its disbelief, high and tinny.

Your eyeroll is audible, “I mean. I can prove it, Munson.” 

“When?” He gasps, indignant, and slaps the floor with the other hand. 

“You barely have your ears pierced-“ he exaggerates. “Who the hell did ‘em? Was it a guy? You let some guy–”

“Please, some professional? Can you be serious?”

“You can’t take the pain, angel, not without my moral support, there’s no way. You’d have been whining about them being sore all fuckin’ week if you’d gotten your—“ 

He looks at your tits again, jaw slack, but in his shifting sends them undulating with the movement. His whole body goes still, except to inhale very slowly.

You’ve maybe never been this self conscious in your life, but his distraction emboldens you.  

“The idea was ‘surprise’, not ‘ambush’. But,” you drawl, smirking as you twist a wrist easily out of his now slack grip and push yourself up onto your elbows. 

“Do you—well.” Your eyes falter when your voice does. You want to offer proof. You’re not that bold yet, but you’re working up to it. 

He gives you room to sit up completely, hovering over your calves, back almost on his haunches. His heat leeches into your legs, swells in your chest and behind your eyes.

You want to touch him, like you always do. Eddie's deep brown eyes are wider, his mouth slack. His breathing is a little harder too, and you wonder for a second— do you want to un-ring this bell while there’s time?

“No,” he answers. “I mean, yeah, I—“ He rolls his plush lips into his mouth and then parts them, trying to work out how to ask. It’s not a dare anymore, and you feel a shyness completely unfamiliar, laid out in front of your best friend in the world. 

You wilt a little; Eddie finds his courage.

He swallows, and you watch his throat work while he figures out what to say, maybe as nervous as you are.

“Can I see?” He sounds hopeful, gentle, but to soothe you or himself, you can’t tell.

You dont quite answer with, “I’ll have you know, they didn’t hurt. At all, actually. It was...cold. Uncomfy, totally, but not painful— just a bit of a pinch? The last week has been worse than the actual needles were.” 

Eddie seems to realize he’s really staring, and cuts his eyes to the left, almost shy, and he seems to wipe sweat from his palms down the length of his strong thighs.

Your own hands pick at the hem of your shirt, and his gaze is split between your mouth and chest. Then, he shifts his weight, leans back like he’s about to give you space, when you reach for his warm, toned tricep, his skin shifting over muscle as he fidgets, and you’re ready to tell him the rest of the story. You can’t bear to miss his warmth on top of you, you realize. Now or never, you think. 

“I…” you croak, “I thought of you.”

 You hear him choke, like actually choke on his spit, then watch him shake his head like he’s rattling himself out of a haze. Eddie’s locked in on your eyes, searching for even the hint of a joke as you lift the shirt up just your stomach, exposing all the graceful cresting hills of your soft middle to his hungry gaze.

“When I picked them out, I mean.”

“Youf, you– fuc– You did this for me?” He sounds so absolutely incredulous, and breathless, all bravado bled out, or rushing to his reddening cheeks. It's like Eddie opened the next Discworld and found a dedication in his name, like the heavens have opened above him. For him? For him?

“Not for you, you clown, of course not. But like, maybe I wondered which ones you’d say I should get. And maybe... I thought you’d appreciate my pick.” Your crooked smile feels small, and you feel like offering something more substantial. 

So, you do.

“Appreciate..? I. Oh, god, Jesus, I.” You had been lifting your shirt so casually as you spoke, palms sliding up across your skin and dragging cotton with them, a caress so careless it seemed incidental. But you avoid hitting the new bars through each hardening nip, chills putting a mild tremble in your hands that he first catches, and is then distracted from. You watch Eddie’s short-circuit for a bit, feel his thighs tense around yours. You decide then that boldness is the only path forward. 

At the last rounding, you let them hem of the shirt catch on the underside of your bust, and just before its dangerous, lift them up by the hem and then drop them a bit, so they bounce for him, putting on a little show, posture straighter than before in presentation.

You’ve killed him. His plush lips try and fail to form a word, any word, as he lets out another shakey breath and leans back in to you by centimeters.  

“Eddie?” you prompt at his silence, voice quieter now. He’s still a little wide-eyed when he gasps out,

“What. Appreciate? Fuck, you’re beautiful. So, so beautiful. Jesus Christ, I never thought— Are those bats?” He’s moon-eyed and gaping like a dry fish, and you’re too keyed up to even tease him about it. You didn't just think of him, you conspired to match with him, to carry a little bit of him with you.

You know he wants to see you, more than just the piercings, and that teasing smirk is a distant memory, much like your patience. 

“So you hate them, huh?” He’s shocked into laughing before you can finish the question, restoring the quiet to something like normal as he raises his ringed hands to frame the low curve of your breasts. But he takes them in only with his eyes, flitting back and forth between them.

“They look, so so good, so good, god. The color you picked, even,” a warm gold that picks up the warmth in the soft creamy brown of your skin, “it glows, like, perfect. Gold’s your color, Sweetheart. It's all your color.” 

Bravado is fickle. You order him through barely parted lips, like you didn’t mean to say it out loud, then almost slur the hasty backtrack, “touch them. If-you-want, I-mean, if-you—.” 

In Eddie’s mind’s eye, gold falls from the sky; from his mouth tumbles a bewildered, “'If i want?' Are you insane?” 

As he reaches, you nod and sit up a bit straighter, feel heat rise in your cheeks, and take his confession with a crooked smile.

“I dreamt this.”

Here’s you, insufferably coy through a giggle: “Yeah? How’d it go?”

 His own knowing smirk is back, and you shiver, wanting fathoms deep as Eddie's hot hands envelope the heavy mounds of your breasts from below, cupped in the way he had threatened before you granted permission. Eddie seems to weigh them as he holds you, committing to memory how the plush fat of them sits in his palms, how they pebble across with gooseflesh at his very gentle fondling. 

You’re so soft, and warm, and he’s touching you; his mind splits in two. Some of him prays to any god for escalation, the rest could die happy right here.

On contact, you sigh together. Heavy, whispering things— you were both holding your breath— and inhale together, too. Your eyes flutter closed at the the drag of each body-warm ring as they poke into you. His calluses are almost sharp against you where they glide, some of the time ghosting over your skin, but mostly kneading you warmer.

It's your soft little hum of pleasure, how you arch, helpless, into his touch— the indiscreet rub of your knees together, and your thighs into his seat, the way you fight the smile back— these bring him back to himself,  and he checks your face again, watching the small smile grow as your eyes flick up to his. 

“Different,” Eddie intones, low and slow. “We’re out of order.”

You’re watching his pretty mouth again while he feigns serious, but as he moves just one hand to the floor behind you and leans in close, warm Cheez-It-breath tickling your face, setting alight every nerve that wasn’t already screaming for deeper contact. You meet his penetrating gaze and gasp at the pleasure-pain of that ringed thumb finally, finally, swiping up along one pert nipple. 

It's a shocked moan, not a gasp, that opens your mouth as he collides with it, timed perfectly with the upward jolt of your hips into his hardening cock. It's Eddie’s turn to gasp— his rushes out hot and quick, as if from a gut-punch. 

He's fighting for his life trying to steady his voice, act casual. “Usually, I get my mouth on your first.”

With that, he closes the gap again, but this time pulls away with a wet smack, a kiss so brief you’re compelled to chase him and get your licks in.

“Then, my hands,” he says, as he closes his fingers around as much of you as he can grasp with each hand to squeeze. Its at once electrifying and comforting, leaning into him and running from the cold. You want him pressed against you completely, but he's focused on the pillows of supple skin and heat in his hands.

“Promise,” he chokes, “ahhh, promise to tell me if it hurts, angel?”

“Eddie, touch me— I promise— touch me,” you positively beg, and your Eddie, egged on by your fingers now pulling deliciously at the hair on his sensitive nape, recovers fast. He’s on you before he can take his next breath in, and bites down around your bottom lip, pushing you with him gently as he leans forward, mashing your noses together.  

And you kiss Eddie back, hard, sucking his trembling lip between yours and earning yourself a groan that sends a lovely buzz through your jaw where you meet. That fucking noise, and his hand still on you, now not as gentle, sending little shocks of pleasure as he swipes gently along the outer dark ring crowning your nipple. The skin there is tightening, growing impossibly sensitive, and each brush and nudge shocks you between your clamped thighs, makes your body rock a little, sending kinetic energy across you that has him enthralled. So much evidence of his effect on you, the movement anchors him to reality.

"Good?"

"Really good, Eddie, yeah." You squirm under him as he massages one side, then both, then rests his forehead against yours to gaze down, intent on his project. 

“You feel good too, angel,” Eddie groans again, enjoying himself in earnest, crowding you gently together, then letting each breast roll in his hands, rough digits brushing in tandem against beads so taut it almost hurts, so intense its almost too much, but you need more.

“You know what’ll feel even better?” You ask him in a pant, breathless and focused– you need him between your legs too, and desperately, so you nudge one of his, asking to widen so you can rearrange. Eddie obliges, planting one solid knee right against your aching core and letting you fall back, propped up on both elbows. 

Neither of you wastes a second. This kiss is a hot, wet collision of sighs and spit, grinding sloppily into each other through just too many layers of sweet, stiff friction, whining into each other’s open mouths. 

While you nearly lift your hips off the floor, chasing the worn denim between your legs, tension in your lower gut building faster than it ever has alone, Eddie rides your linen-covered thigh just above your bent knee, murmuring between love-bites to your chin, the chubby apple of your grinning cheek, then the crook of your neck, where he finds and then latches onto a spot that makes you seize under his weight, clamping your thighs around the one at the very center of your focus. 

You clasp a hand at the back of his head again, scratching a bit at his neck and forcing a long shaky sigh out of his mouth as the rhythm of his swirling hips grows rough, devolves into a stuttering staccatto race to the finish, and he’s talking himself through it into your shoulder as you barrel him down.

Ed's heaving whines are gorgeous, ragged, as he sighs into your neck about how good you feel under him. He can’t finish a sentence as he groans into your shoulder, all about how good you smell, how he can’t believe you did this for him, how badly he wants to taste them. 

“Taste? I,” you cut yourself off with a near-panicked whine when his leg slinks heavily down, the relief of his wet but still straining crotch-tent another brief sliding kiss against your now soaking cunt, and you resist seizing him by the scalp, to keep him up with you, but only just. You’re both so close; he’s stalling?

No, tasting.

Through your horny fog, your mind starts to process his goal. Eddie works his body down yours urgently, never really breaking contact, and as he slips away all you can do is watch him watch you.

In a thrall, as he draws a scalding trail of open-mouth kisses down the heaving swell of your exposed breasts. The wet kisses cool fast in the chilly air of his room, and it feels so good you don’t care how needy your sighs sound, how obscene and high your breaths echo in your own ears. Then he pauses in his descent to admire you again, breaking eye contact for a few awe-struck moments, dropping a chaste peck just left of the left nip, then resting his forehead on your sternum. When he fully squishes your tits into his cheeks it makes you laugh out loud, and you feel his smile and then chuckle against your stomach.

He seems to paise there for a few moments, content to nuzzle, and your high whine-sigh takes even you off guard. Eddie looks up at the sound but stops himself saying whatevers on his mind. Instead, he double-takes between your mouth and chest once, and again, then and finally asks, “sweetheart?”

He’s got that look like he’s up to something, and you can’t say you mind it. 

Eddie drags his lovely nose across the wide valley between your bust, your shoulders cave a bit with the shiver, and he continues, “can I?”

Taste. Yes, “please, Eddie, yeah,” and he closes his hot mouth over one hard bead, swirling that devilish tongue around and over, knocking it roughly enough to pull a harsh hiss from between your clamped teeth. Your hands are both in his hair again, and in a little pain you pull at his sensitive scalp and feel the buzz of his moaning around you, closing the little pleasure circuit between you.

You feel every wet swipe of tongue like a brand, on your sensitive chest and melting, shocks of heat driving down in your sex, chasing the pressure and pushing your body into his chest where he lays against you. 

One of his hot hands mimics his mouth’s rhythm on the other tit, and the lewd sounds of his deep moans around you are only matched by the obscene slick of his hand finding the soaked core of you under his torso, his fingers tingling over the used cotton.

You nod assent before he can even ask, catching his eyes as he pulls away from your chest to check on you. He finds your open pant, you low lidded attention on only him, and smiles. Then, he grinds his own hips into your leg where he straddles it, lower than before, moaning again around your mound and sucking this time, a new kind of pressure that pulls the neediest cries from you yet. His fingers finally breach your underwear from the side, and the calloused contact jolts you to the precipice, climax just within reach now that your clit has direct, emphatic attention. 

His tongue swirls faster, and Eddie matches that pace with his slick fingers between your cunt lips, circling the trigger and nudging just the top of your gasping hole, pace quickening, just what you're begging him for. Your free leg hitches around his back and pulls him into you, then you clamp up and pull hard at the hair in your grasp, gasping his name over and over as you come shaking, curling around his head, pussy drooling on his rings and wrist, hips frantic in their desperate chase for friction. 

Eddie’s not far behind, rhythm incomprehensible as he’s distracted by his own big finish. He bites down almost too hard around your breast and fucks down onto your trapped leg, groans buzzing through you as he drools and sputters and comes a warm wet mess into the washed-out black. 

The grey light is blinding, you can’t open your eyes at first. But you start to collect yourself when you feel him pull off, sliding his hand slowly out of your panties. You open your eyes to him watching you again, eyes half closed, to him catching his breath, and with no regard for the mess on his hand he gathers your collar in his fist and hauls you forward for another kiss, other hand tucked in the soft folds of your waist, grasping, clutching, pulling you in.

“Ouch.” You say, with no heat at all. 

As he scoffs, Eddie slinks back down again to kiss it better, another gentle peck just to the side of the most sensitive bud of your breast where he sucked and nibbled hard enough to bruise. Just a pinch, indeed.

“Aw, I’m sorry, angel,” he promises, only a little sarcastic, and finally rounds his mouth around your right nipple, which he had neglected until now. 

Then, you hear the slightest crunch. Like crumbs rubbing together.

Eddie smacks his lips a couple times, tasting, considering.

"Salty," he says. No way.

Oh, god, no. No fucking way. He still licking you clean but you freeze, then he does, but Eddie, knowing exactly what he just set you up for, loses it. He buries the cackle in your tummy as it dawns on you, and you do some quick math– you last showered this morning, which means you last soaked your piercing this morning, maybe 10 hours ago.

Eddie crawls back up your body as you wail, “ohhh, my God, Munson, why would you—? I cannot–” and lands eye-level, with you spent and boneless on your back, him in a table-top pose, arms propped by your shoulders. 

He hadn't been neglecting your other side, he had been saving it.

10 hours. More than enough time for new “crusties” to form, so more than enough time to build your own nightmare from natural scratch. And he didn’t hesitate, or mention it at all, that your piercings were clearly crusted over as part of the usual healing process, he just sucked them off anyway like they were in the way.

“You– absolute– freak! Eddie what the fuck! Did you fucking eat it? Are you insane?”

“What? I helped! And it’s probably, like, I don’t know, nutritious somehow. Protein?” He shrugs, smirking in the face of your horror, your embarrassment. You hadn’t thought to look at your own tits when the idea of his eyes on you had been more than enough to deal with.

You punctuate every few words with sharp shoves, which barely register as nudges to him from your angle, still under him, fighting his weight and gravity itself. Little by little, he sinks against them, and you tire yourself out before his chest traps your arms between the two of you.

“You– sicko, I didn’t– give you permission– to snack on me.”

“You even said ‘please,’ sweet heart, no take backs. I believe they’re my boogers now.” His smile is just content now, mischief subsumed by all the love in his eyes. You were in his mouth; now you’re on your way through his system. He thinks its romantic.

He ate it. Like a weird pet left unattended too long, he saw something new and simply put his mouth on it. Your-- friend? hardly, you think-- Eddie Munson just ate the new piercing boogers off you, straight from the source as he came in his jeans. You don’t even know what to do, so bewildered you shove his shoulders and chest as rough as he’ll allow before he seizes your wrists and pins you again, only this time, your tits are still out. 

“Without full knowledge, that’s twisted– you’re sick.” Your smile betrays you. What a weirdo, sure, but who else would full-send like that? You can’t think of anyone you’ve dated– anyone you’ve let touch you– that has ever been so close, and you haven’t even seen his cock yet. 

God, what a freak– your freak, you think with a thrill.

“Yeah yeah, heard it before."

Its quiet for a bit as you stare at each other, smiles crooked and soft.

"Well. Cat’s out of the bag?”

“Seems that way.” So, there's your "what are we" convo' all sorted.

“Good. So you know— " Eddie ducks his head to tap his nose against yours, then pulls back again to hover a little closer than before, "clothes are no longer an option.”

“What. The hell are you saying.”

“I'm saying,” he whispers, suddenly against your ear, dragging out each syllable, and slides his thumb and it's cool bat ring now poking out of a soft fist across your collarbone and up your shoulder, just to see you shiver again, just to watch you shake.

“hu-.. what, Munson, spit it out!” Now, you grab him by both wrists, and the quick movement brings his eyes to your tits again, gold titanium winking in the gray light. The soft wave of your body warms his core. He's half-hard already just watching you move.

“Too late, ha.” You groan, still grossed out, and anticipating this, he groans with you, mocking. You feel it through your own chest, feel it down your pinned leg.

Then, Eddie’s voice is soft too, at once dreamy and deadly serious, when he says, “You,” drops a kiss on one shoulder, “were so, so right,” and another on the other, “you won't need clothes ever again.” 

—--------------—

Its only days later, your next day off, when your favorite metalhead greets you at your front door. You don’t even have time to say hello before he’s flashing you; Eddie yanks his shirt up, fast as he can, to show off two glinting barbells, twin gold angel wings framing each nipple, still red and a little swollen from the piercing.

He beams at you, proud of the shock written all over your face, and before you can recover, cradles your face with one ringed hand and swoops in to plant one on your open mouth, grinning all the while. 

[cod-dump]

IDK if this is at the 141 base or the Shadows' place, but I thought about how Moose is--how he's fairly chill & a big guy. Imagine Moose forgetting his own strength, maybe during a game everyone's playing (something that isn't super serious).

It's quiet at first, partly because Moose inadvertently beat the shit out of -insert thing that accidentally got demolished-

Then, it starts as a murmur. It slowly becomes a chant, then a roar: "THE MOOSE IS LOOSE"!!

Graves is politely petitioned to get some t-shirts made.

Moose busted down a door at 141 base.

This door has been slammed into repeatedly by 141 soldiers who were rough housing, had a forklift bump into it and dented it, and a incident with a golf cart that all but rammed into it. And then Moose, fucking around with some Shadows, opens it too excitedly and tears the thing off the hinges. The silence was loud. Shadows staring, Soap’s jaw on the floor, Ghost unable to look at anything other than Moose, and Gaz quickly snapping a picture of the legendary door’s end.

Then, the Shadows started to chant.

“The Moose is loose! The Moose is loose!”

Moose repeatedly starts to apologize about the door but it’s drowned out by his very excited coworkers. The 141 members that were present didn’t say a word as the Shadows usher Moose out of the doorless threshold, chanting and laughing as some even start chanting after their commander. The three 141 men just stare, even after the Shadows had left, unable to do anything else.

“He… oh my god-“

“The door was at its limit, let’s not be so surprised.”

Ghost blinks, “I wanna be his friend.”

Soap grins, “Is that all-?”

SMACK.

They would learn that the phrase ‘The Moose is Loose’ was coined a while ago. And that Moose has a habit of breaking things that no one else has managed to break before. Soap was the first one to grab a shirt.

[dvchvnde]

You let the thoughts pass by as you reach for his old bible amongst the stack of books he left for you. You pick it up gingerly, the cover tattered and worn. The spine is broken, snapped beyond repair. You're not much of a believer in pristine book collecting, but the state of it leaves you feeling an odd assortment of pity and intrigue. 

The scent of him is thicker on the cover. Robust. You hold it to your nose and inhale. It smells ashy, of old cigarettes and charcoal. Pine. It makes you feel a little dizzy. The potency of it is strong, gluing to the fibrils of your lungs where it soaks, stains them with the sticky tar of his masculine smell. 

The cover is made of old leather. You peel it back, and run your fingers along the inscription inside. To our boy, it reads, the scratch of ink pressing hard into the soft give of the hide. May he always find the answers he seeks. 

This seems to be a hope he'd taken to heart. Blue lines bleed through the thin pages. Underlines, highlights. Sections smeared with oil and ink, blurring the words together as he thumbed across them over and over again. The margins are filled with his own notes. Doodles. Insights. He fills space with ink. Musing over his own questions, and underlining the answer he finds.  

It almost feels intrusive. Voyeuristic. Had he not left it amongst the pile, you might have closed the book and put it away for the sake of his own privacy. But it draws you in. Ensnares you. His questions grow broader, the subject evolving. The answers he finds in the pages become less and less frequent. 

It feels—

Lonely. 

His despondency shows vividly when he covers the words in art. An entire page bears the face of a woman. The likeness is shaded around the eyes, in the arch of their nose. It must be his mother, perhaps. Maybe a sister. You turn the page, marveling at the artistry line in dark charcoal. A rifle. A bird. A skull. Cigars, scotch. Dog tags. A cross. Bible passages with toiling lines circled around them. Notes. Little insights stenciled into the margins. 

Another page speaks about head trauma. Brain injury. Bullet fragments. Low caliber. tbi is circled in blue with lines branching out from the side of the curve. impaired thinking. memory issues. personality changes, depression. 

remarkable the cognitive recovery is stenciled in between the passages over and over again, as if he was reinforcing this notion to himself. 

It's jarring. Uncomfortable. 

The next several pages are even moreso. It screams its loneliness into the thin paper and you read each divot until you can't anymore. Until the words run together, and stop making sense. It's all nonsensical. Scribbles, doodles, and numbers that mean nothing to you at all. Unnerved, you go to put it away—

Something catches your eye. 

It's a photograph. 

A younger version of Johnny, maybe. Shaded in black and white. He's barefaced, too. Beard shaved down to a thin dusting of stubble, an odd sight compared to the thick tangle of hair you're so used to seeing on him. His hair, too.

A mohawk. The shorn sides cropped as close to the skin as he could get. The top coiffed and styled for the photo. His asymmetrical hairstyle makes sense now. You trail your finger down the slope of his jaw.

You deep an indent underneath. Ink pressed tight to the thin page, bubbling up from below. You tuck the photo of him, all cocksure and rough around the edges, back into the seam before turning the page.

And it doesn't make sense. Not at first. A series of small sketches cover the page, littered across it like small pondstones leading to the bottom. Nahanni, you know. Recognise the magesty of this gorgeous park. You follow the trail, thinking distantly of your old art teacher in school and the magnetism of the gaze, and—

The bottom is a black circle. Needlepoints cutting through the curves. Sitting in the centre is woman. She sits in the valley watching a moose graze at the bottom of knoll, and in her hand sits an apple—

"What'd ye got there?"

[dragonskxn]

👁 (ooohhh,, uh... modern verse, maybe like cursed recordings or mysterious radio transmissions?)

Send me 👁 for a spooky drabble!

The following radio transmission was recorded on the day of [REDACTED], 20[X] in [REDACTED] National Park by a game warden named [REDACTED], who was patrolling the area after multiple reports of mutilated animals being found near recreational areas.

[REDACTED] is still missing at the time of the recording's release.

There's another one... Jesus...that's not the- the result of natural decomposition, y'know?

[Leaves crunching]

It's like it was spit up. Like... like a huge owl pellet. There's the fur... and the whole skeleton's nearly intact. Everything else was stripped off. All the meat - What the hell - just - what could do this to a goddamn grizzly bear?

[Footsteps, leaves crunching]

It's dead quiet. God. You'd think, you know, there'd be birds and stuff all around. Migration season. But I can't hear anything. Not a peep.

Hold on - yeah, I see something else over there. It looks fresh. Jesus - is that a goddamn moose? Shit, [REDACTED], I think it's still alive. Barely. I don't want to get too close.

[Low, weak moan]

Oh, god... it - oh god, it stinks. One of its hind legs is missing. Yeah. The moose - it's been burnt. God -"

[Twigs snapping, trees rustling]

"What is that...?"

[Low, crocodilian rumble]

"Oh, shit— oh god—"

[Leaves crunching, heavy breathing and panting, panicked whimpering]

"Pleasepleaseplease, oh god, oh god, help me— HELP M—"

[Loud screech, sound of jaws snapping, flesh tearing, radio falling to forest floor]

[Loud footsteps fading into distance, static from radio, silence]

[magnoliamyrrh]

the second dream was equally fucking weird or moreso actually but the first one was just??

i was here i guess but it looked different too and i heard noises so i went to get to the door to the garden and?? there were three moose, one mother and her two moose babies, twins, and the babies were both laying on the ground presumably dead?? and i was talking to someone abt it and we were both like dear god what the fuck. one of them seemed entirely dead and kinda shredded up and the other one was caught in the door to the outside,,,? like it was laying in the door as if someone had tried to slam it shut over the poor thing, while the mother, this giant moose was wondering outside in clear distress. and me and the person were like ????? this is freaky as scary as all fuck what the hell happened?? and then i noticed that the moose baby in the door was still breathing, and that horrifyingly enough the other shredded up one was too, but this one more prominently, tho still weakly. and i was like oh fuck man we cant just leave this one then i have to try to help this poor thing maybe its not so bad maybe theres a chance, while the person screams at me this is a horrible idea.

so i approach this poor thing, open the door, and reach down to pet it and start trying to move it, get it up, drag it, see if its got any chance, anything at all. and its clearly still alive and at first glance not that bad but the longer i look at it and the longer i try to get it into a more comfortable position outside and try to see whats wrong w it, i see more and more. one of its eyes is whitened out and glorry, while the other eye looks,,,, malformed,, melting, like theres liquid white fungus pouring out of it or something, its too big, its melting. i look horrified but still try to keep my cool somewhat, i look quickly at the other baby and see that the shredded up one which cleatly should not be alive still is. and theres something wrong w this. it shouldnt be alive, it cant be

i look back in horror at the one im trying to help as i manage to get it out into the garden, and i look around for its mother. shes still there, tall as hell, a giant moose, but acting weird. seems to have calmed down, but not be paying attention to her weird baby being outside anyway. shes got her back turned. she then realizes were outside, and she turns around. but shes got no face, shes got no face, her face has been entitely shredded or torn or eaten off, theres just the top part where the antlers and ears are and the small bottom half of a dangeling jaw and shredded tendons and skin, and anyway a massive fucking hole where its actual face should be. this thing most fuckingly definetely should not be alive and walking around and its horrifying. i realize something is deeply wrong with all of this shit and let go of the moose baby in horror, and wake up

[moonbeam-dreamer]

The Storm (Continued from part 1. Ending)

I made sure to keep it at the speed limit and safe for the animals, while tending what I could to my wounds. Blood streaked down my head and into my shirt, thankfully of black material. My hand dripped and soaked into the fabric of my jeans. Moose, the poor sweet lab/German shepherd mix, was beside himself with anxiety, panting whining, and trying to muzzle me to claim my attention. He’d always come to me when shit hit the fan and this was worse than anything he’d been through. The cats were crying, which aggravated the pain, but I couldn’t bring myself to yell at them. It wasn’t their fault they were afraid and put in this situation by a psycho. Besides, I was scared too, and it made my already high blood pressure soar. There was nausea, dizziness, and I couldn’t get myself to stop shaking from the tension in my nerves. The highway out of town was a straight path, and it made concentration an effort. I turned on the radio to metal to keep me awake and somehow made it to town without further incident.   

Inside the city, however, I sent a prayer to the Goddess Brigid, asking her to keep the eyes of the townsfolk away from my vicinity. I didn’t need anyone playing hero and involving themselves, least of all the nosey biddies at the salon. They had a way of spreading gossip that would put the women on ‘The View’ to shame. It wouldn’t matter once I got home and secured the animals. I could bandage myself up and hide until the wounds healed. Li told me to call if I had issues or needed help, but he was better off keeping to his own affairs. I’d have to message my father about this and I was already dreading his reaction. Maybe I just Wouldn’t call him, and let the incident pass? It wasn’t like I was going there again. She’d just have to find her own ride to QT for smokes and a way to charge her phone. Her friend and drug dealer could order her an Uber to the laundromat every day for all I cared. The days of being her enabler were at an end.  

By some miracle, I pulled into the drive and killed the engine. The rush of quiet sent my nerves into a frenzy. Moose was finally relaxed in the passenger seat and the cats had stopped howling. I was thankful to have made it home, but the eventual call to my father made me anxious. I was going to need a reason for my decision, but I wasn’t going to revisit the events. Better they stay between two than play out for the world to see. It could wait until tomorrow, however. The animals needed to be made comfortable after that hellish journey, then I had to see about myself. I wasn’t looking forward to the cleanup process, specifically running a washcloth over the gashes, then using alcohol to disinfect. There would be pain enough to make the dizziness worsen, and I hadn’t been able to stand up yet.  

Before I could take hold of the doorhandle it was ripped away and an imposing figure in black kneeled at my side. The sun on the drive over had been blinding, but the shade from my trees perfectly shielded the rays and after a moment of fuzziness incomprehension, Li’s face appeared before me. Those beautiful pastel silver/blue eyes surveyed the damage, assessing the best way to move forward, while his jaw tightened to keep his anger under a tight lid. If he blew up now it was going to make it worse for both of us. There was much that I wanted to say, explanations, the entire backstory that involved childhood trauma, abuse, drugs, and narcissism, but nothing would come out. It was scary how normal that was becoming. After every fight and argument, I internalized and disassociated. I was a commendable zombie. It seemed that the time I spent out of her grasp hadn’t truly changed anything.  

In the end, he was the one to break the silence.  

“I’m going to take them inside. Then, you’re going to a hospital”. His tone was gentle, yet firm. From this point on, he was taking over and I had no choice but to follow his lead. My body was past the point of taking my own orders, and it let me know.  

The last thing I remember was the world tilting and darkness rushing in. There was a feeling of warmth, safety, then nothing but the blessed silence.  

[allisonreader]

Story Idea; title Canadian Zed

A group of Saskatchewan kids make a band, calling it Canadian Zed.

They focus on Canadian-isms, particularly the west.

They write their own songs about particularly Canadian things, Saskatchewan things, events that they grew up with.

Most if not all are from Saskatoon and surrounding areas.

Will only cover songs that could be considered Canadian.

At least one went to school at both (redacted) and (redacted).

Perhaps one at Tommy Douglas, Walter Murray, Marion Graham, Henry Kelsey, Pleasant Hill, Caswell, Queen Victoria, ED Feean (mix of elementary and high schools)

Mix of boys and girls.

They don’t really stick to on genre country/folk/pop/rap/alternative/punk

None of them expect to make it big, who wants to hear a bunch of people sing about western Canada? Most likely not most people.

One of them First Nations or Métis 

List of songs

Blizzard of ‘07 (The day the city shut down.)

Half way to Davidson

Just past Chamberlain 

Bloody cold weather

Poutine, toques, and toboggans

Dry heat when it comes

Sweet home Saskatoon (Parody of sweet home Alabama.)

Making a name Canadian style

Saskatoon, the biggest city (in Saskatchewan)

Saskatchewan Phrases (from bunnyhugs to vi-co)

We got lakes

Manitou, Saskatchewan’s place to float (our one personal Dead Sea)

An ode to Gordie Howe

The confusing world of Canada

Identity crisis

Canada's boring history 

When we fight

What the east wants (it gets)

Feeling forgotten

First Nations were here first

Paris of the prairies

Americans laugh at Saskatchewan's capital 

Ditch the province (Alberta's the place to be, or at least it was)

Saskatoon berries 

Gophers everywhere

Big names, Saskatchewan connection 

New York is big... but this is Biggar 

Moose Jaw has a connection to Al Capone 

Saskatchewan Riders, Rush, and now Rattlers (bring your green)

Z(ed)

Not Justin Beiber's Sorry

The Bonanza burned down

No more eat in Pizza Huts 

Midtown Plaza, The Centre, Confed, and Marketmall

Circle drive/ring road

Last ditch nice weather as fall changes

Pow wow days

Ribbon dresses and star blankets

Teepees are real, symbolisms behind them

Not Indians

Small towns

Metric rules, but we still use imperial too

Insulin is our jam

WWI hero

Canadian heritage moments 

I wanna house hippo

Canadian seasons

Construction season 

Cold season 

Saskatchewan Riders, Rush, and now Rattlers (bring your green)

Before River Landing

Down at the Bez

oOo

Bring your green,

And let’s go to a game,

Bring your green,

And we'll make a sea,

Bring your green,

No, this isn’t about Canadian grammar, words, or pronunciation. It isn’t about how Canada is different from the USA or anything like that. This is a story about a band, group of us who decided that we wanted some more Saskatchewan influence in the world, and decided to name ourselves Canadian Zed, because a radio DJ referred to ZZ Top as Zed Zed Top, being the proper Canadian that he is, fully knowing that’s not the proper way to pronounce it. Though this isn’t a story about our formation either. This is our story of hoping to gain some audience in Saskatchewan and maybe the rest of Canada. We didn’t expect to make it big at all, and we’re not on a global scale, but we’ve found our place and rock it.

And cheer on your favourite team

oOo

[casspurrjoybell-30]

Howling Love - Chapter 8

*Warning Adult Content*

Amille Laurent

I was clearly in a way obsessed, maybe it was the way he said my name or called me duck-face, maybe it was coco-moose or whatever else he called me that made me blush and want to hide but then couldn't because his hand was in mine and he held me down.

Clearly I was whipped with Camryn Summer, I just hadn't decided to tell my father that, although I'm sure he was already suspecting that something was going on between me and Camryn, since the dinner we had together, till the day of the barbeque, which was actually today.

[Will you stop texting Camryn for just a minute and help your dearest dad set up for this barbeque?] Dad signs and I couldn't help blush whilst putting away my cell-phone.

[It's not Camryn] I argue and he snickered handing me a large bowl of his favourite lettuce garden salad.

[You can only fool your friends, not me. I know you. You're my son and I know only Camryn could make you smile like that] he retorted and I made a face akin to a cringe since he had actually been right about who I was talking to and yes, my dad did know me pretty well.

I was more like him in way I couldn't explain despite being adopted, it confused a lot of people but I actually appreciated that similarity and bond.

"So since I have your attention, did you send that painting, also did you give your headmaster the other one?" he questioned and I nodded setting down the bowl on the large picnic table.

[I did and I've started on another one, the headmaster's wife paid commission for, it seems I might just get back all the money I used on supplies] I announced and dad gave me that proud of you smile.

"I'm still not letting you touch your other cards, allowance only, I still can't believe Kyra actually allowed you to buy so much and paid for it too," he stated and I chuckled looking away with a smile

Dad hadn't really liked the idea that I almost bought a whole store's worth of materials for my studio, so I was cut off from my cards until further notice only my allowance and uncle Kyra wasn't allowed to buy me anything unless it was an emergency.

Even if I used my puppy dog eyes but what dad didn't know is that aunt Bonnie caved just as easily to my requests meaning she could buy stuff for me but I wouldn't tell him.

We continued with setting up until everything was ready, uncle Kyra, aunt Bonnie and my cousins would be here soon since uncle Kyra volunteered to man the grill.

I'm sure Maxine's dad would be there too, it was a small gathering but I liked it better because it had the people I was closest too.

[Dad did you invite Dean and his mom?] I questioned as we stood in the kitchen placing covers on the food that would be served later.

"I thought you did," he replied and my jaw dropped, I was in shock, Dean was my friend and not inviting him would be bad.

"Just kidding sweetie, he told me he would come with Maxine since he lives close to her," he asserted and I sighed in relief then glared at him.

[Did you have to scare me] I signed and he chuckled.

"Seeing you all flustered is worth it, you're too cute. I couldn't resist," he laughed and I groaned wanting to smack him but I huffed and turned to walk away.

"Okay okay, I'm sorry. Forgive your dad, hmm? I'll make you that french toast in the morning," he was goading me into accepting his apology and honestly I was weak enough to accept, dad had a way with food that I couldn't resist.

[Fine] I grumbled in sign and he ruffled my hair letting me go from the back hug.

"Great, now go get ready, do you want your friends and Camryn to see you all oily and sweaty," he teased and my surprise was evident as I dashed up the stairs leaving my dad laughing in the kitchen, I still had time to get ready but I knew I wouldn't have time if I didn't start on it now.

After a not so quick shower, I was in black jeans, they fit just right, a mustard tee shirt with a black print of a lion.

I didn't accessorize much, only a black choker and a full piece gold earring, with my shoes on, I was ready to go.

[On my way duck-face, hope you made a feast, I'm bringing my beast] I read the text from Camryn which made me chuckle and smile, his line was corny but for some reason it's why I actually liked it.

[Of course you are, what would you be if you weren't a beast, neanderthal] I replied the text and placed my phone in my back pocket whilst grabbing my tablet from the charger, today it would come in handy.

"Thanks Mr Laurent. I'll just go up," I heard Maxine by the stairs as she came up to my door in the moments that came, a knock alerted me that she was there.

"Amille, can I come in?" she asked and I quickly grabbed my phone.

[Come in Maxine] I replied as the door slightly swung open and she smiled happily.

"Oh my goodness, look at you, you look great. Are you sure you're wearing this for a barbeque?" she questioned in sign and I wasn't surprised.

Max could easily learn new things, she was a genius and ever since we met, she had actually tasked herself with learning my language and from how she was signing  soon she would be able to say a lot more and understand more.

[I didn't overdress, you under dressed] I retorted with my phone and she scoffed.

"Please, normal people wear normal clothes to a barbeque, you're dressed up for someone," she suggestively stated wiggling her eyebrows.

[No I'm not] I argued and she snickered.

"You can't even type it right without your face giving you away, if you aren't then why are you blushing, huh?" she asserted as we both laughed.

[Okay fine. Do you think he'll like it?] I finally confessed.

Of course I was dressed to impress the large wolf who made me angry and happy at the same time, ever since the dinner he had come over to my house to hang out.

We talked for hours and I could barely go an hour without a text from him, it was ridiculous how much I wanted Camryn around but I liked it too.

"First thing is first, if you're happy with what you're wearing then, there is no reason why he wouldn't be happy," Max exclaims and I appreciated her words, sometimes I was insecure about how I looked or if she or any of my friends and cousins were okay with me and my inability to actually speak.

Maxine and everyone else had reassured me that I was okay, that we were okay and Camryn most of all had even taken up sign language classes just so that I could use my cell-phone less when we were around each other, the gesture itself made me feel some type of warm way for the big oaf, it was nice.

[Thanks Max] I typed as Dean knocked on the door.

"Well look at you. I'd definitely hit that," he asserts and all I could do was roll my eyes.

Leave it to Dean to make some sexual innuendo remark, all meant in a good way but still makes you a bit flushed.

"Thank you Dean, truly," Max mutters and Dean with his tall frame leans on the door and winks towards Max who rolls her eyes and comes over to me, Dean was a great guy but his flirtatious ways made you want to hit him, yet he was adorable, he clearly made a lot of people confused.

"Man, you should see the food outside, I am never going to another barbeque," only Teja could make that announcement as he got up the stairs with none other than Camryn, I could just feel it.

His presence alone filled my room, commanded it as I turned to face him, everything faded away, even my friends, it was just him and I, that stupidly sexy smirk.

"Hey duck face."

Oh... That baritone, so smooth, it gave me goosebumps.

[Hey neanderthal] I replied as he walked closer and we hugged.

It felt so good, so right, though I just hadn't seen him in a few hours since we had spent the day together testing out the car he had fixed and seeing the city.

Maxine called it an impromptu date, I just didn't want to label it, whatever it was, it was fine by us.

"Okay, so we're gonna be outside, tell me everything," Maxine announced, whispering the last part, then grabbed Dean and Teja walking out of my room.

The door closed behind them and it was just me and him.

"You look really, I mean seriously fire," Camryn signed and I blushed unable to say anything but then I just had to.

[Don't get the outfit wrong. It's not for you] I jabbed and he scoffed.

"Oh really, so you want me to believe you got all dolled up for a grill or maybe Teja, we both know he wants food," he retorted and here we go again.

[No. I got all dolled up for me. Yeah me] I argued.

"Right, so I should just give these flowers to your dad then, since I'm pretty sure he got dolled up too," he teased and my hands worked on their on.

[No, wait, fine, yes] It was all jumbled up as he just burst out laughing.

"How are you this adorable when you're so flustered," he teased handing me a bouquet of flowers.

[I'm not..] I tried to argue... typing on my cell-phone.

"What was that duck-face. You aren't what?" he questioned and I reacted too quickly showing my face.

[I'm not flustered] I typed but my blush gave me away and I snapped looking away but Camryn was already laughing.

"Short-stack... you're priceless."

My heart couldn't take any more, I was sure of it, as he just laughed with a twinkle in his eye.

[danicruel]

Where the grass grows tall (18+)

Jess McCready x Lupe García fic

Alternate Universe - Cowboys Falling in Love

Summary: Lupe Garcia arrives at the McCready farm to do a job - shoe the horses ahead of the Moose Jaw rodeo and maybe stick around as a farm hand if she's lucky. But when she meets the farmer's daughter, Jess, she quickly realizes she's not only in it for the money.

(Or: Lupe Garcia falls in love with the dirty, feral farm boy Jess McCready.)

(Photo Credit: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9)

Lupe arrives to the McCready farm in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan sweaty as all hell.

The leather upholstered steering wheel of her growling 1995 Ford F-150 is hot under her calloused hands, and both her thin cotton t-shirt and undershirt are clinging to her back. Her dark, chin-length curls are tousled around her face from the earlier highway winds, and she’s trying to get some air flow behind her by sitting forward in the driver’s seat.

“Fuck me,” she mutters under her breath.

It’s mid July, and the truck’s air conditioning has decided to die on the hottest week of summer so far. She’s driven from her little rental apartment in a town called Drinkwater, 30 kilometers southeast of the city, with both of the two-door’s windows cranked all the way down to no relief.

She’s also stressed, so that may be contributing to the sweat dripping from her hairline.

And Lupe knows she shouldn’t complain about today’s high of 29°C, but she hasn’t spent a summer in her home state of Texas for years now. Instead, she’s spent the past few years roaming the Canadian prairies, working as a travelling farrier in the springs and summers for rodeo season and then as a farm hand in the falls and winters when there wasn’t as much shoeing work. She’s built something of a reputation for herself across the prairie provinces, and that’s how Mr. McCready heard of her. Based off the phone call she had with him last week, it sounds like he wants Lupe to work both roles for him.

Today’s her first day, and with McCready being such a well-known name in the rodeo scene, Lupe is determined to prove herself. She could use some steady work and a place to settle for a while. Being on the road has started to wear on her.

She turns down the volume of her ‘50’s Country Hits’ CD as she rolls up the long, gravel driveway, passing several sprawling pastures on her way. When she reaches a fork in the driveway, she slows the truck to a crawl to take in her surroundings.

To the right, there’s a pale-yellow farmhouse with tall double-hung windows and a big, wrap-around porch to the right. A wall of sunflowers sway against the side of the house, and the fenced off garden at the front is teeming with growing produce. Upon closer inspection, Lupe notices there’s a younger man sitting on the porch stairs, hunched over, smoking a cigarette.

From under the brim of his cowboy hat, he gives her a nod.

“You the farrier my dad’s expecting?” he calls out.

“I am – Lupe García,” she hollers back.

“Nice to meet ya, García! I’m Matt. Dad’s in the horse barn,” he points across the driveway.

She raises two fingers on her steering wheel at him. “Thanks, Matt!”

The barn looks straight out of a picture book, complete with red wood, white framing, and two big sliding doors at the front of it. The doors are open, but the inside is too shadowed to see anything from the driveway. Further in the distance, on the far side of the barn, there’s a fenced-off outdoor arena, outfitted with a holding pen and chute.

Another smaller barn off to the left looks to be where the cattle are housed.

Straight out of the early 1900s, Lupe thinks. It's charming.

She parks her truck twenty feet back from the barn’s doors, leaning to grab her ball cap from the passenger seat before she hops out. Outside, the air is sweet with the smell of alfalfa and grass, and the gravel crunches under her chunky, lace-up leather boots. It feels cooler now that she’s not baking in her oven of a truck, and she pulls her shirt away from her skin with a sigh. Stretching her arms over her head briefly, she shakes out her hair before pulling her ball cap snug onto her head.

“García, is it?” a voice calls from inside the barn.

“Hey there!” she calls back, striding toward it.

She’s got her favourite pair of Wrangler jeans on, held up with a black leather belt and her chunky 1994 roping champion belt buckle. In her plain white t-shirt, she suddenly feels underdressed when she spots who must be Mr. McCready dressed in starched jeans and an ironed long sleeve button-up. He’s leaned up against the outside of one of the horse stalls, looking straight out of an 80s Wrangler advertisement with his crisply shaped straw cowboy hat.

He’s also wearing a wide, toothy grin on his face.

“Mr. McCready, I assume?” Lupe approaches him with her right hand out. “Lupe García.”

“Please, call me, Tom,” he says, grabbing her hand for a firm handshake.

Tom McCready is a tall man, at least 6’3 in his boots and hat. He’s lean and a little weathered looking, like most of the older generation farmers are, and there’s a warm friendliness to his tanned face as he regards her.

“Welcome to the McCready farm, Lupe,” he says, gesturing around him.

The barn is even bigger looking on the inside.

There are five stalls and one tack room on both sides of the red brick alley way, and the rich smell of leather lingers in the air. Directly over their heads is what looks to be a loft, accessible by a wooden staircase over to the right, and at the opposite end of the barn is two more sliding doors to match the ones Lupe just walked through. They’re open as well, and from here, she can see somebody riding a horse in the outdoor arena.

“It’s a beautiful place you have, sir,” Lupe says.

“Thank you. It’s been in the family for generations,” he sighs. “Why don’t I show you around?”

“Yeah, please.”

They head further into the barn, passing many empty stalls on their way.

Both tack room doors are open, and from the brief glance Lupe gets as they walk past, they look stocked. She counts eight western saddles, at least a dozen colourful saddle pads sitting on a rack, and upwards of twenty bridles hanging on the walls.

And that’s only what’s visible.

“Most of the horses are turned out today,” Tom says. “You would have driven past the big field they’re grazing in on your way here – you can see it from the highway. The broncs are in another field further out.”

Lupe makes a noise of acknowledgement, wondering to herself how many horses are on the property total, if 10 are just the ones that stay in the stable.

“A few of the horses belong to folks boarding or training with us, but most of ‘em are ours,” he explains. “All of my kids are still so dedicated to it … I suppose they don’t know anything different. They were born and raised in the industry, but it still makes an old man proud.”

“How many you have?” Lupe asks.

“Six – five sons, one daughter. In that order, too.” he says, smiling fondly. “The oldest is 33, married with babies of his own, and the youngest is 25, still living and working here with me.”

Tom McCready is guiding them in the direction of the outdoor arena, and Lupe’s watching the horse and rider circle around the pen at a jog. It’s a long-legged sorrel paint horse, muscled and built out. She’s pretty sure she can make out long blonde hair on the rider, bouncing to the rhythm of the horse’s stride.

“You got a family, Lupe?”

Lupe nods, immediately thinking of her own younger siblings, who she left behind in Texas five years ago when she had been 22. They’ve been able to stay in touch through email, but she’s made a point of being inaccessible to her parents, on the odd chance they did want to reach out.

“They’re in Texas, actually. I moved up here a few years ago and haven’t really looked back. Something about the prairies agrees with me, I guess. But it’s just me here, sir.”

Tom nods thoughtfully.

Now that Lupe isn’t stuck in her stuffy truck, the sun feels pleasant on her bare arms and the back of her neck. The light breeze and shade from the cover of maple trees – in combination with Tom McCready’s warm, pleasant nature – has put her at ease, and she can feel her heart slowing to its regular pace.

As they get closer, Lupe can see that it’s a woman on the horse, wearing dark-wash blue jeans and a white ribbed undershirt identical to the one she has on underneath her own t-shirt. She’s got on a pair of yellow leather work gloves, and Lupe thinks they look almost comically large at the end of her long, lean arms. But then her eyes travel up those arms, and she finds her gaze hesitating at the swell of well-used biceps and triceps, and then further up to tanned, broad shoulders. Lupe also observes the soft way she uses her hands to steer the horse, and how she sits deep enough in the saddle that really only her hair jostles to the rhythm of the horse’s trot.

“Jess, come say hi!” Tom calls out.

The rider – Jess – glances back over her shoulder then, before turning her horse to face them with a small adjustment of her wrist. She’s holding the reins in her left hand, and she brings her right hand up to shade her face and squint across to where they’re standing.

Lupe adjusts her hat on her head.

Jess trots toward them on the prettiest paint horse Lupe’s ever seen. Soft in the eyes, ears pricked forward with curiosity, their coat is a rich, dark red colour with white patches that look like they’ve just been scrubbed clean. Jess rides with a loose rein, and their heads hangs softly.

Then the details of Jess become clearer, and Lupe finds herself blushing.

Jess has a strikingly angular face, with a wicked sharp jawline and high cheekbones that appear to be in the early stages of a sunburn. The bridge of her nose is narrow, and she’s squinting in the afternoon sun, so that her thin, light eyebrows cast a shadow on her eyes below. From this distance, Lupe thinks they’re probably blue or green based off their lightness.

Then Lupe makes the mistake of looking down at Jess’s mouth – deep pink with pouty lips that are pulled up into a smirk – and her stomach drops between her knees.

Standing there with one boot raised up on the bottom slat of the fence, Lupe suddenly realizes it’s been a long time since she’s felt this kind of electric tension in the air – the kind that prickles along her neck and threatens to produce a shiver. Perhaps, she’s just been so focused on securing work and making ends meet that she’s regressed to some teenage-boy level of touch starvation, she thinks.

But despite her roiling feelings, she forces an easy smile on her face when Jess stops at the fence.

“Jess, this is Lupe García – our new farrier and, potentially, farm hand if she feels like sticking around for a while,” Mr. McCready says, turning to Lupe with a wink.

Lupe chuckles, like she’s not at all flustered by the way it feels to have Jess’s eyes – definitely blue – flit over her, up and down. They jump back up to her face, and the two share what feels like too intense of eye contact for a first meeting. Jess’s lips part, like she’s about to say something, and Lupe’s eyes flick down to them just in time to watch her lick them.

“And Lupe, this is my daughter Jess.”

Daughter.

Oh, fuck.

Note: Hiiiii, thank you so much for reading! This fic is on AO3, and I will hopefully be updating regularly, so please subscribe to get updates on it if that’s your thing. I will try to update it on tumblr, but I likely won’t be posting full chapters again. Love youuu, byeeee 💗💗💗

Link to AO3

[muffindaddystyles]

Keep holding my hand.

Harry was in an emotionally abusive relationship before y/n, something happens that makes his insecurities float back.

Impetuous reel of dithery thoughts rapidly bustles on the wall, Harry stares at it blankly – he stares and stares and stares ..... yet it does nothing for what he wishes.

His stomach fills with acid and his mouth burns with foulness with each painful beat his heart gives realizing maybe this's the end ---- he doesn’t spare a glance to the dinner wafting off he cooked with much happiness looking forward to tonight.

Where did I went wrong?

Did I hurt her in any way? What if she didn’t like me popping up at her studio that day to remind her of tonight

Well Keat didn’t like it ..... She used to hate it Infact,

No! She’s not like keat —--

But, then why isn’t she picking your phone? She knew, promised and she still didn’t came tonight?

What if she’s sick? Fuck, then I should go to her.

He shuts his screaming conscience down, shoving the heels of his palm against his pop-sockets wearily to make him feel something --- to escape the hurt that’s looming around him, crushing and squeezing him to death.

He blows off the candles, melted to their base from being sorrowfully lit from three hours atleast --- mocking him and his sincerity.

You deserve this.

Why did y’think ye' deserved anybody’s love?

She doesn’t love you anymore --- just like keat....

The corners of his glossy eyes prickles with pearly tears and it drops down his clavicles, with blurry vision he dials her one last time and it goes straight to her voicemail alike past three hours.

Hiya, Y/N here! Leave a message ‘cos I mighty be busy or maybe lazyin' round the farthest corner of my home .......

He tosses and turns, does it manifold times --- his sleep betrays him too and he’s angry soaring with venom, if he could scream from a cliff and throw stones down the pound furiously he'd instead his eyes runs droopy.

His shuddering breath sulks to tranquillity, all he could hear’s a screech of wind that’s hitting the window and his guts.

His body jerks at the chirp of voice he’s oh so familiar with —- other days he'd be submerging in the honeyness of it but at the moment he bites down his wrist to keep him wrenching his empty stomach out.

“Happy anniversary, bub!” His brows clinches down into a grumblish frown and he presses his hand between his thighs turning his back upon hearing the careful steps treading in.

The creaking stalls and she stands at his doorway with heavy heart, her throat —-- uff her throat feels like as if someone punched it several times.

Not letting her tongue to utter any word —- anything that’d assure him and her, everything’s alright --- it’s not a big deal.

Ofcourse, it is!

Little things matters most to him – told you —- he .. — he told you himself and you hurt him, you hurt him just because you couldn’t stand to your boss.

She wanted it to be perfect for him, for them — winded up the work her boss hoarded on her mercilessly last minute demanding her to wrap it up in an hour --- felt giddy and motivated to do it speedily looking forward to their celebration. Bought his favourite chocolate moose cake standing in the line of his favourite bakery, since he doesn’t like any other flavour.

She stands at the side bed looking down at him, heartbreaking in million pieces seeing him torn, all teary cheeks and this stoic for the first time they’ve been dating.

“’M sorry -- I –- my boss trapped me and – ‘n I really wanted to call you —-- then it took me forever at your favourite bakery, I’m so sorry baby.” She rambles nebbish-ly and catches onto his shoulder when he tries to face away from her.

He mutters, “Forget bout it. Go back home ‘s getting late.” Though, his heart lurches forward to embrace her and shower her in kisses telling her “it’s totally fine.” And that “how bout we celebrate now,” but being an emotionally sensitive person has it's very cons and one of it is requiring space and time to recover for better thinking.

His eyes slips into abyss and he holds back a sniffle when he feels the mattress dip behind him, she sighs, coos in the softest voice she only keeps it for her lover, “Oh baby .... you’re my home.” She's well aware of the anxiety he goes through. He feels like everything crumbling but she's there to catch him and she rubs his back.

The many many reassurances he needs from his lovie to keep going for them, the praises for him for treating her like the most precious daffodil —- because he never got praised before; even though how much of the world’s luxuries he'd lay at his ex's feet was never assured that how much she loves him (because she never did).

Y/N would never want his insecurities to float back and sting his scars, she'd never want him to ever go through from what he did in past —-- to be used like a toy and manipulated, might sound weird and whumpy of her but she’d kill many dragons to keep him protected at any cost.

He sleeps with her body cocooning him from behind and his erratic breath syncs to her calm ones.

..

His dreams full of suffering, void and darkness violently clashing and swirling against eachother as the ugly creature takes Y/N away from him, leaving him in prison of his own pathetic head.

Fear of loss —- he fears loosing her and does it make him toxic? He was snubbed so many times – being told his behaviour was toxic that he’d hesitate before doing anything precisely very fondly caring —- but then Y/N came in his life and she'd tell him how much she appreciates him, how he’s like the best sundae in hot summer and he felt like she’s the sunshine he was waiting for in the never-ending rainy days.

Y/N stirs from her light sleep on hearing the broken whimpers, the valley of her chest moist as he cries into her and she cups his cheeks gazing down at him concerned, “What happened sunny .... baby talk to me ...” Her voice groggy and on verge of tearing.

She sits back a little with him still between her legs and wipes his tears away gently, “I’m so sorry ...” He mumbles –-- eyes bloodshot and she shakes her head pulling him closer, if she’d be able to cradle him in his lap she'd but apparently he’s too big.

Queasy hiccups, “f – fo'--... d —- dou...” sad sniffles and hiccups that tightens his chest.

She tenders his wobbly lip kissing his temple, “shhh. shhh, puppy I should be the one apologising yeah?”

“no .. I didn’t gave another thought before doubting --- that –-- that you’re about to leave, no person in right mind does this – I —-,” His body trembles with blue sobs.

“Harry ...” she tries to gain his attention and when he still doesn’t listen, “I know I don’t deserve y'n – ‘n maybe you don’t want me anymore —--” she raises it a bit, “Harry!” he falls quiet --- nibbling the corner of his cheek to hold back hiccups.

“Look at me puppy, yeah? Shh hold my hand and take a breather.” She smiles. Takes his sweaty hand and aligns his palm to her mouth for a deep kiss – then squeezes it.

“Keep holding it baby, keep holding my hand, you’re going to be fine --- we – see us here,” she points between them with gleamy eyes and he nods timidly wiping his nose with his sweater paw, “we are fine baby –- we are okay..”

How could someone be this dreamy? This gentle and sweet? What did I do to deserve my lovie?

“Better?” She inquires. Little worried that he'll fall back into rabbit hole and tucks his head under her chin, keeping him warm against her chest and he clutches the hem of her shirt nuzzling into her.

“Did you really think, I’d leave you and that on our first year anniversary? Sorry to tell you .... ‘m stitched to your hip for life time, there’s no exchange policy puppy how much you grump.”

She grins. Happy to earn a feeble chuckle from him and scratches his head, looping his curls around her fingers.

“I love you.” She startles when he speaks hoarsely after the longest time and it’s not like he's saying it for the first –-- but it still doesn’t fail to engulf her in warmth, so much of it.

“I love you too, you’re my only puppy and very loved one.” His eyes crinkles prettily at that and she kisses the tip of his nose.

“You want to rest? We could eat the dinner you dearly made for me and oh we got moose cake in fridge too, what a coincidence!” She giggles. The room fills with wet treacly noises of smoochy kisses she’s patching on his cheeks and his jaw.

Without a word he holds her finger and leads her to kitchen, she creates proud noises of “ooh!” and “ahh!” trying to sneak a glimpse from over his shoulder but he'd shoo her away as he heats the food; she gets out gorgeous smiles from him she cherishes so much.

“You did all of this for me?” She gasps sweetly, hand over heart to accentuate the love she's feeling and walks towards him when he nods timidly rubbing his socks feetsies one over the other.

His cheeks blazes peach and she giggles pinching them, “You’re so cute aren’t you?”

“Okay then. Let’s eat!” she claps her hands together and pecks his lips before pulling her chair beside him rather than opposite to him and his heart flutters at that --- each pore oozing with deep love for her and every insecurity and anxious ideas completely drains out of him when she pats his seat and wiggles in her own --- anticipated to taste what he made.

“Hmm. This tastes so good, H! Your hands are really magical, huh?” She passes him a smirk pecking each of his knuckle to make him feel better about himself and his lips quirks up softly, “Thank you – d’ya w'na umm eat the moose here o'in bed?” Her face beams at that, him speaking more than two words and looking forward to spend the night with her.

“On bed, please –-- would you like tea? Think ‘m running out of if —- proper jello ....” She cleans the table and raises her brows when he gazes her adorningly as she’s the nymphs of stary oceans.

He shakes his head, nose twitchy as she nudges him teasingly and he takes her off-guard --- hugging her by waist and kisses her soft tummy.

“Nothing just love you bleedin’ much.”

..

[grumpylia]

sokka🥲🥲

When Sokka was ten years old, he broke his arm. Cold and alone in the icy barren tundra of the South Pole, too far away from the fire and warmth of his village to call for help. 

He did anyway, of course, too young for teeth-gritting pride to have him in its firm grasp, his yells disappearing into the howl of the wind, only to be heard by the ice and the snow and the infinity of the endless summer sky. The harsh wind tore into his face, chilling everything that wasn’t swaddled by the protective layers of the furs of his people. His tears were hot on his face and he imagined them freezing as soon as they hit the icy ground, becoming a part of the shifting landscape as much as the snow from above or the water in the ocean. His wrist ached where he had fallen on it, and terrified and alone, he began the slow trek back to his home. The walk home felt like eternity - like all that had ever existed was ice and cold and snow, like the endless sky and sun beating down on him without any real warmth were the only things that were real. Logically, he could imagine his family - Katara probably safe and warm and curled into his Gran-Gran’s arms - but they were as distant as a dream. All that existed - maybe all that had ever existed - were the thrum of the ache in his arm where he’d fallen and the to-the-bone cold and the howl of the wind sweeping away any evidence that he’d ever been there in the first place. But on he walked.

Gritting his teeth and wiping away the tears with his good arm, Sokka trudged onwards, trusting his instincts to lead him back home, hot shame and embarrassment already starting to course through him, because how could he be this stupid? He was meant to be a warrior. A protector. He had a little sister back at home and a whole village that was filled with women and children that he was meant to look after, because his father was the Chief and now his father was gone and it was up to Sokka. He was meant to be strong and brave and to know how to fight, but trudging through the endless nothingness, Sokka secretly wished for his mom to kiss him and make it better and then cried some more, a whole hurricane of shame and loss coursing inside him, burning him in all the wrong ways. 

And he made it home, eventually. Sokka always made it home. He dried the tears from his face and fixed it into a mask of bravery (even though Katara could spot his lip wavering and his too-red eyes) and he held his arm close to him and the the angakkuq Kaya padded his arm with caribou-moose skin and wrapped it tight with cloth and dried sealskin and pretended not to see when Sokka turned away with tears in his eyes because Kaya reminded him too much of his mother. And all afternoon Katara tried to cheer him up by showing him her newest fancy bending trick and all afternoon Sokka told her he didn’t care and went back to brainstorming ways to build a watchtower to keep the village safe and all afternoon Gran-Gran watched them both with a strange expression that Sokka couldn’t quite pinpoint. That night, around the campfire, the women all tried to baby Sokka and he turned away, jaw jutted out defiantly. He wasn’t a baby. He was a warrior. He was ten years old and just wanted his mom. He didn’t want his little sister to see him cry, because it was his responsibility to protect them all. He was a man. He was a child. 

His arm healed. Life went on. But Sokka never did quite forget that feeling of being ten years old and completely alone, dragging himself across an endless landscape of ice and snow and silence, the howling wind and the sound of his own muffled tears the only sound, his home and everyone he’d ever known as distant as a dream, torn between being the bravest warrior of the southern water tribe and a kid who just wanted his mom, feeling like the cold and snow and ice were the only real things in the world.

[allisonreader]

I'm in that odd place where I've come to the end of my reading list that's currently held my attention and I'm in that listless place where I'm struggling to find what to read next. I just finished a whole bunch of different time travel stories (Hunger Games ones to be specific) and now I'm at a loss for what I want to read next currently.

Maybe I need to try and find a time travel book that isn't fan fiction, maybe that will fix me... Maybe it's time for a reread of the Time Traveler's Quartet. I haven't read that for a few years again. (In high school when I originally came across the series, I read it once per year before buying the e-book version afterwards I was done school, so that I could read them again.)

I don't think the Clockwiser series or the Tunnels of Moose Jaw series would fit the bill. Though I've read each of those more than once too.

Otherwise I might have to try and find something new. Or another good idea would be to go into the Inklings Challenge and see if any of those time travel stories would fit the bill. (Avoiding Tales Of A Frozen Sailor, I'm not in the mood to read my own writing. As much as that might get me back into the groove of continuing my rewrite.)

[lovesickrobin]

Little Bit Distracted | Robin Buckley x Reader

Summary: Your crush suggesting everyone to strip down after being drenched in bat venom is definitely not how you thought your day would go.

Word Count: 0.8k

A/N: so this is my first fanfic I’ve written in hmmm maybe 2 years? I’m still getting used to it again so I’m sure I’ll get better with time. I used to write fanfics every single day and that’s gonna be a goal I pick back up! If you know me you know Robin is my biggest crush so writing a Robin fanfic again was amazing! I hope you enjoy! :)

Warnings: Nudity

—

The Upside Down.

Filled with floating orbs, killer bats, and apparently four people who have zero clue what they’re doing.

You are way too busy stressing over your millionth near death experience with the bats to even remember your intense, head over heels, if you could you would be clinging to her every part of her body, crush on Robin. But she’s certainly about to bring that thought back to the forefront of your brain soon enough.

Steve and Eddie are doing this thing that looks like arguing, with it being an obvious cover for them to flirt and dance around that sexual tension everyone could see a mile away.

“Harrington, I’m just saying, the amount of moose and hairspray and shit you probably have in your hair, I honestly expected it to stay in place much, much longer!”

Eddie reaches to mess with his hair even more but Steve ducks, shooing his hand away.

“Oh I’m sorry I let down your expectations as I was BATTLING DEADLY BATS!” Steve says as he turns to face Eddie.

“Okay guys, not to break up the fun, but we have god knows what on us- probably venom, and it could be seriously poisonous. We need to get out of these clothes before our body consumes whatever bat shit liquid this is,” Robin interrupts.

Suddenly you were brought back down to earth- well not earth, since you’re technically in the upside down, which is probably not classified as earth, but whatever.

You pause as Robin takes her backpack off her shoulders and hands out spare clothing.

“Damn Robin, you were really prepared,” Steve says, taking the clothes from her.

“Gotta be ready for anything,” she responds.

You stand completely still, unable to move as Robin hands you your clothes. Somehow your hands are able to grab them though, despite your body feeling like it had already shut down.

Everybody rushes, Steve and Eddie both lifting shirts over their heads in quick time, obviously understanding the dangers of the situation, but your brain is a little preoccupied to fully understand those dangers.

Robin pulls her shirt off, quick but delicate, and tosses it to the side.

You swear your jaw is laying on the floor as you watch the fabric leave her body, revealing a small red bra, cris crossed in the back. Her boobs bounce as she shimmies her pants down, tossing them to the side as well. You can’t believe it. Robin Buckley, the hottest girl in Hawkins, is standing in front of you in nothing but a bra and panties.

Robin lets out a breath, lifting her hair off the back of her neck with her fingers, some hair still sticking to her damp skin. She picks up the spare clothing, and begins to put it on when you soon realize you have been starring for way too long. As much as you would love to stare at her gorgeous figure or imagine your hands caressing her soft skin, you unfortunately have more important things to do. And yes, they are somehow more important than gawking over Robin Buckley half naked in front of your eyes.

You notice Steve looking at you as you snap out of your trance, a knowing smirk on his face that he shakes off into a laugh. He knows just how massive of a crush you have on Robin, and he also knows how terrified you are to ever tell her.

You shoot him a look before shaking off your feelings and stripping down.

—

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” Eddie asks as you all walk through the upside down.

He looks at Robin who is talking with Steve up ahead.

You blush, hanging your head down.

“Is it that obvious?”

Eddie laughs. A comforting, reassuring laugh.

“You sorta haven’t taken your eyes off of her since we began walking.”

You squint your eyes shut with the words.

So you really weren’t that great at hiding it, huh?

“Well,” you say “what about you and Steve?”

You get a smirk out of Eddie as he cocks his neck down to the side. He laughs before lifting his head to speak.

“Well…”

—

“You’re seriously in love with this girl, aren’t you?” Steve asks Robin as they walk ahead of you and Eddie.

She scoffs while rolling her eyes.

Something you failed to notice moments ago was Robin stealing glances as you slipped out of your clothes.

When your shirt hit the ground her eyes quickly looked. She was in awe. Her cheeks grew warm and she looked away with a small smile before Steve gave her that same look he gave you, with an added eye roll.

“Yes I’m in love with her, how could I not be?! But it’s not like she even likes me.”

Steve stops in his tracks, his brows furrowing as he sighs.

“Wow, you’re both oblivious. It’s like you were made for each other!”