#miles wood x oc

[ladylooch]

Summary: Kailey and Miles have their off day plans ruined when her water breaks.

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: blood, hospitals, pregnancy, birth, surgery, birth trauma, vomit. Basically if medical things freak you out, don’t continue on 😅

[Kailey]

“Remember when I was excited to lay on the couch all day?” Miles asks me as he walks into the Rose Medical Center. He has both of our bags slung over his shoulder and the carrier for the baby in his right hand. I tried to tell him we probably didn’t need that quite yet, but his nervous energy had him grabbing it anyway.

“You did this to me.” I snicker, tossing an amused grin over my shoulder at him.

“Yeah, I remember doing it to you too.” He hits my butt with the car seat gently.

“It was from behind.” I murmur as I walk up to the front desk. “ Hi, I’m Kailey Wood. I called Dr. Schmidt and he asked me to come in.”

“Great! I’m going to have you fill out some quick paperwork and we will get you checked in.”

I begin writing out the necessary items. Miles slides his health insurance card on the counter then settles a hand on my lower back. He rubs his thumbs into my tightened muscles there. I huff out a little noise of pain at the contraction tightening my belly up.

“Becoming parents is better than a couch day though.” Miles murmurs as he helps me get into the hospital gown once we are in the birthing suite. I smile, leaning my head back into his shoulder when he is done closing it up.

Miles isn’t wrong. We had a full day of vegging on the couch planned for his off day today, but our son decided to break my water and now we are here. Who knew curb walking this morning would be so productive?

Big hands stretch along my belly as Miles drops his lips to kiss along my clothed shoulder. He breathes me in, then releases me as I head towards the bed, wanting to lay down.

“I’m so glad you’re in town.”

“Me too.” He nods.

That fear of him being gone has now dissipated. He is here, ready to jump into full supportive partner and dad mode with me.

A lot has changed since that 20 week appointment. It is like Miles has transformed into a completely different person. He has worked hard to do better, show up fully, and walked with me hand in hand the rest of this journey. He was early to every post practice appointment. He made sure I felt pampered when I went home to Masschusettes for my baby shower. Then I had the most amazing gender reveal for me in our home back in Colorado. I’ll never forget opening the nursery door and seeing Connor’s name on that navy blue wall. The look on Miles’ face and the way he whispered: “I haven’t handled any of this well. I know you felt alone before. But you’re not. I’m here. Forever. I promise you.”

I knew he meant it then. His firm squeeze of my hand tells me again now.

“Ooooo f-fuck.” I stutter out. I shake my head. “You’re never coming in me again.” Miles chokes. “Just kidding.” I grin at his distraught face. “But I want the epidural as soon as I can get it.”

“Roger, baby.” He murmurs.

The nurse comes in to check on where I am measuring now that they have been able to get some data about the contractions. I am happy to hear that I am narrowing in on 5 cm dilated. All things considered, things are moving forward quickly. However once I start to move more into active labor, nothing is funny. Miles tries to joke with me about the look on my face and I pierce him to the chair with a glare.

“Sorry.” He squeaks, wincing at the grip I have on his hand.

“Where are my drugs?” I snap.

“Uh, let me go check!” Miles launches up. He tries to wiggle out his fingers discreetly but I see it. This man punches hockey helmets for a living but my grip is too much? I snort and shake my head at that. Men ain’t shit.

When he comes back into the room, he has the anesthesiologist with him. We get through the next anxiety inducing piece of labor and then I am settled back into the bed. The nurse is in the corner of the room, typing in notes to my chart. She closes the computer up, then smiles at us.

“Dr. Schmidt just got here. He will be by within the hour.” Then she disappears. I slide my gaze over to my husband.

“We are alone so much more than I expected. What are we paying these people for?”

“I don’t know.” He chuckles. “But I kinda like it just us.” He leans down to kiss me. “You’re doing great. Have I told you how beautiful you look?”

“No.”

“Fucking stunning.”

“Liar.” I smirk.

It quickly falls off my face as another contraction bares down on me. Miles gives me his hand and rubs between my shoulder blades. The pain sears through my bones, making me writhe on the bed uncomfortably.

“Breathe, babe.” Miles encourages. I puff out a breath, then inhale sharply, holding it again. “Breath-”

“You fucking breathe.” I snap.

“Okay.” He nods, watching my face. He matches my snarls with a wince that scrunches his crooked nose. “Oof, good job. Should be evening out soon.” I feel a lump growing in my throat at that. He read those baby books cover to cover and every pamphlet he could get his hands on.

This is my Miles. There is no one else on this Earth I would want holding my hand right now.

“I love you, baby. I’m sorry. It just hurts so bad.”

“Yell at me all you want. I’m tough.” He assures me, blue eyes sparkling with adoration as he watches me relax back into the bed.

A knock sounds at the door, then Doctor Schmidt greets Miles and I enthusiastically.

“Hey! It’s baby day!” He exclaims as he washes his hands in the sink. “How are we doing, Kailey?”

“Ugh.” Is all I respond with. I shift my hips on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. It’s no use. There is none at this stage.

When is that damn epidural going to kick in?

Another contraction hits me and I hunch forward in pain. Miles raises to his feet, rubbing my back in concern.

“Should she be in this much pain after her epidural?” He asks the question I can’t form words for at the moment. I grit my teeth harder, moaning as it feels like my body is resisting every contraction now. I’m dreading the next one as this one ends.

“Well, it depends. People react to epidurals in different ways. But let’s take a look at what is going on.” He steps between my legs with a nurse behind him. His eyebrows pull together as he examines me. He glances over at the contraction monitor then frowns deeper. “I’m not liking what I’m seeing.” He says directly to me.

“Okay.” I whimper.

“It’s going to be okay. No need to panic.” He holds his hand up as he stands to his feet. “But we know you’ve got a big boy in there for your small frame. With how many contractions you are having, he should have progressed further into the birth canal. With that not happening, its telling us that the contractions are not strong enough to move him forward. This raises concerns for potential shoulder dystocia, which would be an emergency situation for us. Knowing that risk is there, I don’t think it is safe for you or the baby to continue forward like this.”

“Oh. Wow. Um, yeah. Whatever you think is best. I just want him safe.” I say, stretching my fingers over my bare belly. Miles puts a big hand there too, fingers absently playing with the strap of the fetal monitor.

Since our 20 week appointment, we have been closely monitoring the baby’s measurements.This is not a surprise to us and I’ve long ago accepted that I may not be able to push him out of me. While I can empathize with mothers who desire to do that, all I care about is our baby being okay.

Miles kisses my forehead. I tilt my lips up to him, asking for a smooch.

“I love you.” He murmurs, squeezing my hand. “You got this, baby. Tough as hell.”

“I love you too.” I assure him, making sure to keep my face neutral so Miles doesn’t start to panic.

There is no need to panic. We are in great hands. This is all about safety and prevention.

Surgery prep begins quickly after Dr. Schmidt gives the word to the staff. Miles disappears to scrub in and I get more drugs loaded into my IV. I close my eyes as they place a hair net over my hair.

I am ready for this. I can do this. I’m so excited to meet our son I can barely sit still in the bed as they wheel me to the operating room. Plus, no longer being pregnant with this big baby will be instant, sweet relief for my hips and lower back.

Time to make this c-section my bitch, I think to myself as they stop the bed in the center of the operating room. Miles is there, smiling at me with his phone raised.

“This is your best look.” He teases, snapping a few pictures. I smile nicely for one after making funny faces at him previously. He giggles in his signature way, showing off the gap in his front teeth. “So gorgeous, babe. Mom material for sure.”

“Just call me MILF.” I chuckle.

A sheet is lifted up, cutting off the view for Miles and I to my lower body. His smile slides off his face and he takes a deep inhale. His blue eyes grow a little wet looking. Tears fill my eyes at his obvious worry.

“It’s okay.” I whisper to him. He nods.

“Stop worrying about me.”

“It’s like I’m a mom or something.” I grin at him. “You did that to me.”

“Thank god.” He presses his nose to mine.

“Kailey?” Dr. Schmidt asks.

“Yes?”

“How are we doing?”

“Good. Ready!” I insist.

“Miles?”

“Ditto, Doc.”

“Great. Parenting test one is already passed.” Miles and I laugh. “Kailey we got you strapped down because we don’t want any involuntary moments. We’re going to give you some more drugs to just take some of the rawness of surgery out of your mind. You’ll still be awake. You’re going to feel some pulling and tugging- general pressure too. You shouldn’t feel any sharp pains. If you do, let us know.”

“Okay.”

“Miles, you have the hardest part of all… sitting there and looking pretty.”

“Yeah, think my days of looking pretty ended when I lost my teeth that second time.” My husband jokes.

“I know a guy if you need ‘em.”

“Yes!” I say before Miles can fill in.

The room settles into a more medical air after that. Tools are opened, medical jargon is discussed, and a nurse stands on the other side of me from where Miles is. Another nurse hovers by the clear bassinet ready to hold our baby. I purse my lips at the thought. Our baby. He’s coming.

The specifics of what begins to happen next blur with whatever drugs the anesthesiologist has started in my IV. I feel cool and relaxed, vision blurring slightly around the edges. Miles fingers come to my cheek, rubbing there in a comforting, soothing rhythm.

“Ready?” He asks me. I nod in response, eyes blinking slowly, then opening again.

Time passes in a similar blink. Miles’ blue eyes never move from my face. I keep alternating between looking at the ceiling and him. He chuckles at the far off look my eyes must be glazing over him.

“Drunk AF.” He jokes.

“Mhm. Maybe drugs aren’t so bad.”

“Shhh the baby might hear.” Miles teases me.

“We live in Colorado. He’s gonna know about drugs.”

“Can’t wait to yell at him when I find him smoking weed in his bedroom.”

“And here I am, waiting for his first word and steps.” I mumble. My tongue feels swollen and clunky in my mouth. “ ‘M drunk.”

“Too much tequila before we came huh?”

I’m about to tell him to shut up when Dr. Schmidt calls my name.

“Hm?”

“I’ve got my hands around him. I’m going to pull him out. You’ll feel some of this. It’s normal.”

It feels foreign and alien like to know hands are inside my body. If I was more clear minded, I might care but right no-

A shrill cry shoots through the room. Miles exhales a breath, then shoots his eyes towards the curtain in awe. My head turns towards the noise, desperate to see a peak of the baby I’ve been growing for all these months. Tears fill my eyes and fall down without restraint. Miles rubs his thumb along my jaw, fingers extending along my throat to hold me as much as he can right now.

“What’s he look like?” I croak out to my husband.

“He has a ton of hair. It’s curly!” He beams proudly over at our son being cleaned with towels. Then he grins down at me, pressing his mouth to mine. His lips devour me as he rubs my hair over the hair net. “You doing okay?” He asks. I nod weakly, feeling disoriented. Miles straightens back up to look at our son.

“We’ll get him cleaned up and over to mom in a second.” One nurse assures us.

The room begins to feel extremely cold. A large shiver rolls through the parts of my body that I can still feel. My vision blurs together until all I can see is dots of color. I blink, wondering if there is something in my eyes I need to clear away. It doesn’t get better. It gets worse. Vertigo attacks me; I feel like my body is going to roll off the operating table. My lips are glued together, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth even as I want to form words to Miles.

“Baby, are you okay?” Miles asks, leaning closer to my face. His thick eyebrows are lowered in concern.

“Something isn’t right.” I say to him… at least I think I do, but then I realize I can’t move my mouth and everything is so cold and then……

Nothing.

- - -

[Miles]

I watch in horror as Kailey’s eyes suddenly shut. Her head goes limp and falls slightly to the side. A nurse puts an arm on my bicep. I try to move away from the touch, then another nurse is there.

“Dad, we need you to step out of the room.”

“I’m not leaving her.” I insist. I reach out for her shoulder, desperate to touch her body.

“Miles.” Dr. Schmidt’s calm voice comes over the sheet. “Kailey needs you to go.”

Something about how he phrases that has the hair on the back of my neck standing up. I want to go back to joking about my teeth. Right fucking now. Alarms start going off on the machines she is connected to. Hospital codes are shouted between the staff members. I stumble back, awkward on my footing as I attempt to remember where the door was. A nurse guides me to the right. I follow blindly.

My ears are ringing so loud that whatever the nurse is saying to me isn’t registering. My eyes blink slowly as I seek to orient myself. My legs lead me out of the OR, but nothing is making sense.

“How about we sit?” I hear her say through my vibrating heartbeat. Her hands come to my shoulder and side and she pushes until I’m seated on the floor in my scrubs. “Take a deep breath, dad.” She says that name again. Dad. And it jolts me. My baby. Our baby. But then, Kails. Where is she, I want to ask but I know she’s in there. In that room cut open without me.

“Is my wife going to die?” I blurt out to the nurse. Her face is purposefully neutral, just like my mom talked about with her nursing career. I doubt she will answer me and she doesn’t. Just encourages me to breathe. I don’t want to see Dr. Schmidt come out of that room. I don’t want them to tell me that she’s…. I jolt forward and the nurse flies back. I puke in her vacated place. She holds my hand, running her gloved thumb over my skin. Another nurse is walking by and they speak while I continue retching between my legs. I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth.

“Kailey.” I moan, trying to stand up. “No. Please. Fuck…. No!” I begin to sob, tears blur my vision into a watery vortex. I shake like a small child on the cold tile of the hospital outside the room where they do who knows what to my wife. “Please.” I cry again, the nurse finishes cleaning up my vomit. Another nurse leaves the OR with our baby in his clear container. I can hear his wails. My throat closes. I try to ask her to wait, to let me see him again, but I can’t form the words.

Nurses and doctors run by me. Some go into the room, others dash to different places of the hospital. I hear a page go over the intercom followed by the OR number of Kailey’s room. Then a different nurse encourages me up. She takes me back to the birthing suite we had walked out of less than 30 minutes ago. All of our stuff is still there waiting for us, but Kailey isn’t here. I look at her flowery, silk robe discarded on the couch from when she got too hot during her contractions. I gag again, thinking of where she is. The nurse disappears, off to do her job elsewhere as I struggle to maintain living.

Live without Kailey? I can’t.

The thought is sobering, widening my eyes as I struggle for my next breath. I vowed 5 months ago to protect her. To be her safe place through the good and the bad. I’m already failing at my vows. Yet I have no control over the situation we are in. I have no choice but to keep sitting here in the hospital bed she should be recovering in while they do whatever they need to save her.

The idea of living without her passes through my mind again. Stabbing pain follows causing me to rock slightly backwards on my feet. I bring a hand up to my chest, balling my scrubs into a fist over my heart. I see it all clearly: being a single father while trying to play in the NHL. Raising our baby alone, without the love of my life. The one who saves me from myself and made us a family of three. The one this will all be utter hell without. I squeeze my eyes shut, bringing my thumb and middle finger up to my eyes to collect my tears before they roll down my cheeks.

“I can’t do this alone. Kails, baby, please.” I sob out. My shoulders shake as I break down. Fat teardrops collapse into the stark bed sheet next to my thigh. I start to hyperventilate, struggling for oxygen as sharp gasps fill the room. I lay back onto the bed, staring at the white porous ceiling tile above. Tears continue to leak out while a numbness extends through my body.

“Miles?” Someone calls from the doorway. I sit up, wiping my cheeks, hopeful for an update on Kailey. Instead, I see a new nurse, with her hand on the corner of a rolling bassinet. “Would you like to meet your son?”

This is not the moment I saw for us. I saw Kailey here. I saw him on her chest doing skin to skin as we celebrated the moment he joined us. Not this. Not us meeting in this dark, hospital room that she is missing from while I ponder if I’m going to have to raise him by myself. What would Kailey do? She would be brave. She would hold our baby and tell him it will be okay because we have each other.

So, I nod, standing up, suddenly nauseatingly nervous. The nurse wheels him in. He is swaddled in a ‘back is best’ blanket with a pink and blue striped hat. He looks exactly like me. His eyes and face are swollen from the trauma of his birth. Red marks dot along his forehead and one of his cheeks. He has been cleaned up, no goop or anything, just soft pink skin.

To sum him up in one word, he is perfect.

“Hi buddy.” I hear my voice whisper.

“How about you sit back down and I’ll hand him to you?” The nurse suggests. That is when I realize I am shaking. Trembles of adrenaline roll through my whole body. I lower myself gently, then weave my arms together in anticipation of him being placed there. When I feel the soft cloth of his blanket hit my skin, I sigh. I make sure to support his head, awestruck at how small and fragile he is.

“You are perfect.” I whisper to him. “Just like your mama.” He jerks, feeling my body heat and turning his head towards me. “I love you.” I breathe out. “I’m going to take care of you. We are going to be okay.” I suck my bottom lip into my mouth. It presses up against my gums where my teeth are missing.

My sexy toothless. I can hear Kailey’s voice now, teasing me as she gets ready for date night in the bathroom of our old Hoboken apartment. I swallow hard, looking up at the nurse.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have news on mom to share. I’ll come back in a little bit to check on you.” She says, then leaves the clear bassinet in the corner, shutting the door behind her.

I am unsure how long we sit there like that. The baby lays contently in his swaddle, tight and warm, while I try to wrap my brain around my new reality. At some point, I move from the bed to the chair, hopeful that Kailey will be coming in soon. I hear no news. Nobody comes to check in on us for at least 90 minutes.

Then, there is a soft knock at the door.

“Come in.” I call after clearing my throat. I bounce my son as I sit up straighter to keep him asleep.

Doctor Schmidt appears. My heart floats into my throat. I try to read his face. He looks tired as he pulls off his surgical hat. The knuckle of his thumb flicks his nose up as he wipes at it.

“Hi Miles.”

“Hi.” My voice gives out on me midway through the word. I clear my throat before continuing. “What is going on? Is she okay?”

“Kailey is stable, yes.” He nods decidedly. I exhale heavily, my body falls back into the chair while clutching the baby in my arms tighter. “She experienced severe hemorrhaging due to a lack of contracting of her uterus. Her blood vessels were not clamped tight enough and began to release a significant amount of blood. We were not able to get the bleeding under control fast enough and it began to pool into her abdomen.” I suck in a heavy breath, holding our son even closer to me. “It took some time, but we were able to successfully stop the bleeding. She is currently receiving a full blood transfusion. She’s taking it well, so we are expecting her to be ready for recovery shortly.”

“When can we see her?”

“We are going to monitor her through the full transfusion, then move her here. Another hour or so.” I nod, then look back down at our son. He wiggles in his sleep, trying to adapt to the world out here where it’s so loud and bright and cold.

“Does he have a name?” Dr. Schmidt asks.

“Connor.” I respond. Kailey and I have said his name hundreds of times during her pregnancy. But saying it to his face, knowing what he looks like, having him in my arms, introducing him to someone else, it hits differently. Tears fill my eyes, falling down my cheeks silently.

“Welcome to the world, Connor.” The doctor pats my shoulder encouragingly. “Hang in there, Miles. You’re doing great. She will be in soon.”

After he leaves the room, I melt. The exhaustion drapes over my body, going into every joint and muscle group. I feel a dull, tension headache pounding in my temples.

But Kailey is okay. She is alive in another room. Her heart is still beating. And in my arms is our baby boy.

Everything else is grossly insignificant.

[Kailey]

My eyelids feel heavier than bags of concrete mix. I want to open them but can’t. Soft beeping reaches my ears assuringly. My brain tries to tell my hands to touch my belly, but they don’t want to move. They’re weighted down too.

Mindlessly, I drift in and out of consciousness for a long time. So long, I’m convinced days have passed. In time, my brain does get my hand to lift. I try to bring it to my belly to check on the baby, but it’s still weighted down. It takes a few more moments to realize a hand is on top of mine, brushing comfortingly along each knuckle. I turn my focus to opening my eyes. They lift begrudgingly.

I take in the hospital room, noticing Miles is next to me. He’s leaning back in a chair, eyes closed, brown curls wild. Last time I saw him, he was in teal scrubs. Now he is back in his clothes- a white Adidas sweatshirt and black sweatpants. My body becomes alert when I remember why he was wearing those scrubs. My eyes flick down at my tummy. It looks big and bloated, but feels empty. I try to talk but my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. No moisture can be felt and I cough at the awareness. Miles startles. When he sees my eyes open, he smiles.

“There she is. Hi baby.” He reaches for my face, cupping my cheeks gently. He sits up completely, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. “Do you need water?” I nod as frantically as I can. It comes out as a shrug. He reaches across my body, moving the bed tray over me. He picks up the tumbler filled with fresh water and ice. He maneuvers the straw up to my mouth so I can suck up a few sips.

“Where is he?” I ask immediately when I can.

“Connor is here.” He says, putting the tumbler back. “He’s amazing.” Miles grins, tears evident in his eyes. “He has been patiently waiting for you… me, not so much.”

“You’ve never been patient a day in your life.”

“Hey.” He chuckles at the truth. “They said you should do skin to skin right when you wake up.” He stands up to unswaddle our son, who startles at the intrusion. His soft wail fills the room. I bite my lip and undo my hospital gown with lethargic, fumbling fingers. “That should be good. I’ll tuck him in.” Miles murmurs, holding our boy up. My lip crumbles into a sob when I see his little body in my husband’s big hands.

“Oh my god.” I cry as Miles slides him into my hospital gown. I weep openly, clutching our newborn to my chest with greedy fingers. I tilt my head down to see his face. “Oh wow, he is a carbon copy of you.” I sob harder. “I’m screwed. I’m going to give him anything he wants.” Miles laughs, leaning down to kiss Connor’s head. His lips then find mine. Our kiss tastes like tears as we make out. I realize they’re mine and his.

“I almost died on the floor of this hospital when they made me leave you.”

“What happened?”

“You were hemorrhaging. They couldn’t get it under control so blood was going internally to other areas. It was bad. I didn’t know what was happening or if you were okay. It was just me and him in here alone.”

“Are you okay?” I ask him, reaching out for his face. My thumb strokes his left cheek, smearing his tear tracks together.

“No.” I nod in understanding, then pull him closer to me. I wince at the pain I feel in my abdomen. Miles puts his hands on me in alarm.

“My incision.” I assure him. “You come closer this time.” He leans down further.

“I love you so much, Kails. So fucking much. I will never let another day pass without telling you 5,000 times.” I chuckle against his mouth.

“Oh good. I’m finally going to get the treatment I deserve. 2,000 a day wasn’t nearly enough.” He puts his forehead next to me on my pillow. One hand comes up to my head, palming my hair, while the other rests on Connor’s back.

“I’m so glad you’re still around to give me shit.” He mumbles into the stuffed fabric.

“That won’t ever go away. When you die first of old age, you’ll feel my sass then too.” I stroke Connor’s bare back under my gown, tilting my chin forward to kiss the hat on top of his head. “Can’t wait until you’re old enough to sass your dad too.”

“Come on, our kid too?”

“Yes. It’s becoming a Wood family tradition to give you shit.” He pulls back, painting strokes across my forehead with his thumb. His eyes work all over my face, drinking me in like if he blinks I might not be there. “I’m okay, baby.” I whisper. His blue eyes close in anguish.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get the calm birth experience you wanted. I wish I could change that.” I shrug, looking down at our baby. Definitely not an ideal situation, but looking at this adorable baby- half me and half him- I would do it all over again. Every part of it.

“No, but look at what we did get. Connor Wood, you are what our world spins around.”

[toasttt11]

pretzels

March 3, 2021

Jack was over at Oscar and Nico’s apartment hanging out with the two, Oscar left the room to use the restroom and Nico and Jack were getting snacks.

“You guys always have a lot of pretzels.” Jack commented as he grabbed a bag that wasfilled with pretzels and Jack could’ve sworn the bag he saw last time he was here was just as full still when he left.

Nico snickered making Jack snap his head over to him, “What?” Jack looked confused on what’s funny.

“You are the only one that likes them.” Nico snickered answering him.

“But why do i always have them?” Jack looked even more confused as he just assumed that Oscar liked them because he always had them at his apartment.

“Because Beds buys them for you.” Nico told Jack having found it sweet when he realized what Oscar was doing.

“For me?” Jack repeated softly, he looked down at the bag of pretzels that are his favorite snack.

“Yeah Beds hates pretzels actually.” Nico chuckled again, “Like he can’t stand them but then started buying them from you.”

Jack smiled softly at how sweet that is.

Oscar walked in looking between the two suspicious before Jack walked over to him and cupped his face pulling him into a very passionate kiss.

Oscar blinked as they pulled apart looking at Jack with loving smile and flushed cheeks, “Not that i mind but what was that for?”

“You buy me pretzels.” Jack softly pouted looking at Oscar with his big puppy dog eyes absolutely melting from Oscar’s actions.

Oscar cheeks turned red as he realized Jack knows what he has been doing, “Yeah you like them.” Oscar explained extremely simply, Jack likes pretzels and he wants Jack to have what he likes.

If it was even possible Jack melted more and pulled Oscar into another long and passionate kiss.

“Alright you two no more in front of me.” Nico groaned being dramatic and covering his eyes.

“Then we won’t be in front of you.” Jack sassed, sadly pulling away from his boyfriend and stopping kissing him, Jack grabbed Oscar’s hand and pulled him out of the kitchen and towards Oscar’s bedroom.

Oscar smirked and waved at Nico, Nico just groaned and grabbed his headphones.

[fightingalgth8rs]

In my head Billie looks like Dana Scully (I haven't even seen the X-files lol) @sakuranova07 thoughts?

[kookslastbutton]

Too Late to Dream ༓ jjk (m) l ch. VI

✑ Summary: You did it. You married your college professor. You even bought a house together. Against all odds, everything had fallen into place. But after two years of marriage, you begin feeling something was missing. You want a baby but your husband can’t say the same.

Pairing: economics professor!jungkook x fem!artist!reader

AU/Genre: angst, smut, fluff, marriage au, age gap, series

Rating: M, 18+

Word Count: 6,192

Warnings: 8-year age gap, mentions of professor-student relationship (oc was a Masters student), kook gets pissed, jk mother is asdhjf!, mommy issues, lots of family drama/in-laws, fighting, manipulative parent, pent-up issues/desires, jk has daddy issues, jk being good hubby to oc, mild sexting, sexual content

Sexual warnings: bl*wj*b, jk c*mes on her t*tt*es, d*rty talk

Now Playing: Make It Right, Tryna Be, Infinity, It Will Rain, Heaven+

A/N: um so this got over 6k which i know isn't amazing but for me its big deal okay?! haha! Anyway Part VI here we go! No flashbacks in this chapter because of ch.V buuut, I have a little gift for you and me. Hope you enjoy!! 💞 also pls vote if youd be so kind 😙

<< ch. V ༓ ch. VII >> | series masterlist

Living in the country for over thirty years, the Jeons were known to be excruciatingly slow and cautious drivers. The town was tiny, roads were narrow, and no one was ever in a rush to get anywhere apart from maybe the farmers market.

Once when Jungkook first got his license he took one hand off the steering wheel and his mother almost had a heart attack, saying it was “reckless of him to put them in danger”. It was from that moment forward that Jungkook always made sure to drive at 10 and 2 or 9 and 3 when his mother was in the car. His father on the other hand didn’t care what he did as long as he didn’t go above 30 mph.

Jungkook was counting his lucky stars when he finally got his own car and the chance to move to the city where he could drive how he damn well pleased–responsibly of course. He had recently finished his Master’s studies and was offered a job as an economist in a major medical corporation. The only catch was that he’d have to relocate to Seoul which ended up being more than fine with him.

His parents moaned and groaned that he wasn’t sticking around but his mind was made up. He moved out of his parent’s tiny town one late June and headed to the city where life moved to a whole new beat.

Ten years later, Jungkook finds himself gripping the steering wheel with two sweaty hands again. Kudos to his parents who have been telling him which way to turn and how fast or slow to go for the past fifteen minutes. He honestly should have picked a brunch spot closer to home to avoid all the madness. Walking would have done them good.

“I’ll never get used to how you drive down here,” Mrs. Jeon grumbles from the back seat. “All these sharp turns and six lanes of traffic going 50-plus miles an hour. It’s a wonder you haven’t all gotten in an accident yet. It’s like I always say, the slower the better. You city folks just don’t get it.”

Jungkook peers in his rearview mirror before signaling to switch lanes. “We can’t afford to go too slow out here Mom. This is a highway and dropping down in speed will cause a safety hazard just as bad, if not worse. Environments are different out here than in the woods.”

As Jungkook merges to the right, Mr. Jeon watches the surrounding cars from the back seat window. “Ah son, son, son!” He hollers and reaches for the ceiling handle.

“What? What happened?” Jungkook asks with panic. He flickers his eyes to the mirror again to spot his father's distress.

Mr. Jeon slowly releases the handle and lets out a lengthy sigh. “It's okay now, we’re good. You did good son. You moved over with so little space I thought you were going to hit the car now behind us."

"I told you it's a mad house out here!" Mrs. Jeon adds, tone thick. Jungkook puts his eyes back on the road in front of him and does his best to ignore the irritation bubbling within him.

"I know what I'm doing," he says. "I've lived here for ten years so can you guys please trust me? And stop with the driving advice and yelling every time I do something."

"We're just trying to help Kookie."

"Well, you're not alright?" The snap in his voice has Jungkook's parents sulking back in their seats in silence. "I want us to get to the restaurant safely and I can't do that when you're both shouting at me! So please just let me do the driving. Thank you."

God, if one more person calls him Kookie in that condescending tone he's going to lose it! Kookie was his childhood nickname but for some reason, it stuck to him like glue until he was friggin' 22 years old. He absolutely hates it and the only person remotely allowed to call him by it is his wife because she makes anything sound like honey to his ears.

The next five minutes are nothing but awkward silence and the sound of tires running on hard cement. Jungkook checks his phone—there's still a good ten minutes left according to the GPS. He moves to turn the radio on to break the eeriness of the drive when an incoming call pops on his car screen.

"Who's that? Who's calling?" Mr. Jeon pipes up.

"It's __." Jungkook hits the answer button. "Hey honey! You're on speaker." He smiles a big, wide grin that says nothing less than he misses you.

"Hi! I'm on my lunch break and thought I'd give you guys a call. I'm stopping at the grocery store tonight, after work. Anything you need?"

“Some booze would be nice!” Mr. Jeon echos and looks at his wife who merely shakes her head. He hasn’t had a drink in twenty years due to his high blood pressure, yet he’s still making the same damn jokes. “Got any Soju? Or maybe Bokbunja?” He chuckles at Mrs. Jeon’s sour face.

Jungkook pays his dad no mind and replies to you. “Uhm….we're low on milk again. I drank the last one yesterday.”

"You went through all those gallon jugs in a week?!" You'd think you'd be used to the amount of dairy your husband packs away but every time, it shocks you as much as the first. You married a milk-lovin’ machine.

Jungkook chuckles. "I'm sorry. I can get them for you if you want. We're on our way to get brunch, then hitting the bookstore for Dad, and after we'll swoop back home. I can pick it up along the way.”

“No need, I’m already going out later so I’ll get it. Anything else?”

“There’s nothing else I can think of. How’s work going?” He’s hoping it’s not hectic given the fact that last week was an absolute sandstorm. He distinctively remembers you coming home with nothing more than tired feet and dark circles under your eyes. He drew you a bath that night.

“Eh, so-so. I have a meeting with my boss later but besides that, it’s the usual. I wish I could have come to brunch with you guys. I feel bad I’m missing it.” Well, you do and you don’t. If Jungkook was planning on talking to his mom about the happenings of last night you wanted to be around for support but it was also a matter that should be between a mother and her son.

“Us too, but we’ll see you ton–shit!” Jungkook slams on the break when he sees he’s about to crash into a black SUV. Everyone’s seatbelts lock at the sudden jerk. “Sorry, sorry!” He checks the mirror to find his parents clinging to their seatbelts.

“Are you guys okay?! Jungkook?!”

He scans all around him to find rows and rows of cars all trying to merge into each other’s lanes. Some are coming from the exit nearby whereas others are trying to squeeze through people in hopes to get ahead.

Dammit, Jungook cruses to himself.

“Yeah, we’re good honey. Everything’s okay but we’ve hit a traffic jam. I’m not sure why since it’s literally 11:40 a.m on a Wednesday but looks like we’re going to be stuck here for a bit.”

“We’d never have this problem at home.” Jungkook hears his mother mumbling under her breath to which his father replies with a nodding of his head. “If it weren’t for all this nonsense we’d be there by now.”

“Absolutely. We’d be there fifteen minutes ago,” his father adds with his hands in the air. “Isn’t there some kind of way you can get around this son, like a shortcut?”

Ah yes, shortcuts on the highway. Why didn’t he think of that? Let him just push the button that says flight mode and–no! Having enough, Jungkook holds his foot on the break and twists his body around to face his parents.

“Alright listen to me right now. This is not Tiny Town where there are a million dirt roads that pop from anywhere and all seem to lead to one other. Everyone drives at least seventy out here and that’s just the way it is because this..." He gestures outside the windshield. "This is what happens! We all get stuck in this congested funnel! But if you two can think of a way to get out of here that doesn’t involve attempting to bulldoze other cars, I’m all ears. Until then we’re going to sit here and talk about the weather because there's nothing else we can do!"

Jungkook looks back and forth between his parents. Mrs. Jeon simply stares outside her window while his dad gives a slow nod in understanding.

"Is it really that bad?"

Jungkook relaxes his body back to face the front when he hears your voice. "Yeah, it's pretty bad __." He lets out a long, exasperated sigh. This is going to be a very long day.

"Nice out today. Mind if I roll down the window?" The traffic hasn't got any better and it was starting to get stuffy in the car. Mr. Jeon desperately needed some fresh air in his face.

"Mhm yeah, go ahead."

"How about some music? Find out what's on the radio will you." He sticks his arm out the window, letting the gentle breeze hit his skin. When the first song blares through the speakers, Jungkook's mother breaks her deafening silence.

"Dear god! What music is this?"

Mr. Jeon immediately perks up. "It's PSY! Turn it up! Turn it up, boy!" Jungkook appeases his father's wishes and turns the knob a few more notches. "Oppa Gangnam Style! Eae eae eae e, sexy lady!"

Hearing his dad singing at the top of his lungs has Jungkook rubbing the side of his head. It's not that he sounded bad but he was singing so loud that everyone around them started pointing, laughing, or rolling up their own windows. "Dad, people are going to get annoyed. Take it down a little."

Deeply immersed in the song, Mr. Jeon continues singing regardless of his son's request. "Op, op, op, op, oppa Gangnam Style!" He starts rocking in his seat which causes a few middle schoolers in the car next to them to pop out their phones.

"Dad!" Jungkook hollers when he notices the kids taking pictures. If doesn't put an end to this now, his father's face is going to be trending all over the internet with god knows what filter.

"Op, op, op, op, on on on on!"

"Dad stop!" He tries again, this time turning the music down. Mrs. Jeon attempts to calm her husband down too, placing a hand on one of his arms but it doesn't take much for it to be ripped out of her grasp. Mr. Jeon ends up nearly whacking his wife in the face due to all his energetic dancing.

"Erotic sexy lady! Oppa Gangnam Sty–hey! Song wasn't done yet!" Jungkook's dad never looked so offended in his life. If he had adjusted his gaze just a few inches to the left he'd see the group of kids, the ones taking photos earlier, giggling to one another. But he was too pissed at his son for crashing his party that it went to the wayside.

"Honey, you were causing a disturbance," Mrs. Jeon says.

"A disturbance? In this traffic jam, I'm the disturbance?" He refuses to believe he's the annoyance when they've been in the middle of a highway, moving at 5 mph for the last hour. PSY has recently become his favorite singer and not enjoying himself would have been an absolute tragedy in his opinion. "It's all of you who should be thanking me for offering some shred of entertainment at times like these."

"The entire population of South Korea is going to be thanking you then." Jungkook creeps forward as soon as the car in front of him moves up a ways. Finally moving again, he hums.

"Hey!" An abrupt voice calls from a slight distance. Two teenage boys pull up in a Jaguar, greasy grins on their faces. "Great singing Grandpa! Really know how to move!" The one in the passenger seat flashes his phone playing a video of Jungkook's dad online.

"Wha–how–What?! You delete that right now!" Mr. Jeon is stunned, tripping over his words at the shock of himself actually being the center of the internet. The video is unexpectedly clear.

"Just ignore them, Dad." Jungkook rolls up all the windows in the car and inches up the best he can to get the teenagers out of direct sight.

"But-but how did they do that so fast? It hasn't even been five minutes yet!"

"It only takes seconds, honey," Mrs. Jeon sighs, realizing her husband has become famous over a re-rendition of a PSY song. Of all things, it had to be that.

"I'm starving."

"Me too."

Jungkook glances at the time–2:40p.m. It's now been three hours of sitting in traffic and they've only moved about ten miles. What on earth is congesting the highway this much?

"Maybe we should take one of these exits." His dad scrolls through the map on his phone. "Says there are a few restaurants down exit 6A."

Jungkook considers the idea. He wants to get off the highway, yes, but so does everyone else. The exit his dad is talking about is off the far right lane which means he's going to need to shove in front of everyone's way.

"You sure it's a good place? Wherever it is you're looking?" The reason why he asks is that his dad is notorious for leading them into the most ruin down places. The last time he was in charge of directions, they ended up in front of an abandoned pizza shop.

Mrs. Jeon takes the phone from her husband's hand and swipes through the photos of a quaint restaurant. "It's not bad," she concludes. "And if it means we can get out of this mess, then I'm with your father on this one."

Two against one. Jungkook turns his signal on and waits for someone to let him over. He earns a few honks when he manages to squeeze his nose over but does his best to give an apologetic wave.

After a few more lane changes he gets in the exit lane. He isn't the only one planning to take exit 6B though, being that there are at least twenty other cars waiting in line.

"Maybe we were better off back where we were. All these people want to get off the same place. If we keep going there's bound to be another exit with far less traffic."

Really? Jungkook feels himself ticking again. After all that shoving to get over here and this is what he gets? No, he's not moving back over. They're going to wait in this stupid lane until it gets them to where they originally agreed.

"We just got here and we're not moving back anywhere. This lane should clear up in less time than it would take to go back on the main highway," Jungkook says. "Also, I probably don't need to clarify this but, we're not going to make it to that bookstore you wanted, Dad."

"It's fine, son. We'll go another day."

Which means tomorrow, Jungkook half grumbles to himself. His parents are here for another day after all and he knows his father well enough to know that "another day" really means the closest day possible.

Despite its size, the restaurant his parents choose is charming with its floor-to-ceiling wood paneling and giant, bay windows. The odd hanging plant is spread throughout the open dining space as well, perfectly setting the mood of serenity.

The restaurant only seems to hold about a dozen people inside, however. So thinking it is best to avoid sitting in an overly crowded space, Jungkook asks for one of the tables outside.

“Oh now this is lovely,” his mother praises, pulling her chair up to the table. Jungkook can’t describe how relieved he is to finally hear something positive after hours of nonstop grumbling.

Mr. Jeon takes a seat next to his wife and across from his son. “I just saw someone get Samgyeopsal and it was huge! Let’s get that to share.”

His enthusiasm is short-lived when the scrunched-up face from his wife says she's not a fan. “That's too much food! We still have to be hungry for dinner so we can eat with __."

"Mom's right," Jungkook agrees reluctantly. "__'s stopping at the grocery store after work so we can prep for dinner tonight. I know traffic slowed us down so we're eating at a weird time but it's better we go with something light."

"Oh well, we can always take some to go! Surely __ will enjoy some beautifully grilled pork!" Jungkook's father is adamant. He wants nothing more than a heavy meal after being stuck in the car all morning.

"__ doesn't like pork Dad. And we all know as soon as we get a whiff of it cooking there's not going to be any leftovers."

"Alright, alright," his dad concedes. "I guess I'll try their bibimbap. What are you having hon?"

Jungkook checks his phone messages while his parents make small talk over the menu. You texted him earlier to see how traffic was holding up and he only able to get back to you minutes ago.

Wifey ❤️ : So I'm guessing you haven't talked to your mom yet?

Jungkook: No, haven't brought it up. She seems fine though with the way she's been acting. It doesn't take much for her to go back to her usual self

Wifey ❤️: Her usual self being...?

Jungkook: You know, really particular.

Wifey ❤️: So she's complaining again. I'm sorry 😞

Jungkook: When I was talking with her on the phone before we left, she was much more careful about what she was saying. I expected it to still be that way now. Must have been a mood.

Wifey ❤️: Sounds like she wasn't sure how you'd be reacting after what happened last night. Maybe she's just reverting to back what she's used to because she's unsure what else to do or say. I'd still try finding a way to talk to her. Does it seem tense?

Jungkook: Yeah, you have a point. But Mom's also had a good way of sweeping things under the rug. It's not tense but it's just uncomfortably normal?

Wifey ❤️: Hmm, strange. And your dad's fine?

Jungkook: Honey...have you been on any social media in the last half hour?

Wifey ❤️: No, why?

Jungkook: Might wanna check. We had a little incident while in traffic. I'm still in shock honestly 😅

Jungkook waits for you to find the video of his dad. He already had the guys blowing up his phone from it so he's surprised none of them at least forwarded it to you.

Wifey ❤️: oh my god! Jungkook what happened?! 😂 I hope you're prepared for your students to be all over this

Jungkook: oh shit, that didn't even cross my mind 😩 also it's not funny honey! Listening to my dad singing eae e sexy lady was traumatizing enough. Now I have to see and hear it every time I pop open my phone or some teen punks show it to me!

Wifey ❤️: Aw Kookie, they're just being kids...try not to overthink. And you know those videos come and go. Your dad will be at the bottom of the chain by next week. Until then keep him away from PSY 😅 But I'm sorry you're having a day, I love you 🥺

Jungkook: I MISS YOU SO MUCH 😭

Wifey ❤️: [sent an image]

Fuck! Jungkook chokes on his spit when he sees a blurry close up of your cleavage. Thankfully his parents are still too occupied by the menu that they didn't notice.

Jungkook: sexy af but this isn't the time to be sexting me baby!

He nearly saves the photo if it weren't for the fact that he already had an album dedicated to very sensual *ahem erotic* photos of you. You had let him take them himself —best motherfuckin' birthday ever.

Wifey ❤️: oh adhjjhj, sorry!! That was an accident. I'm such a klutz. This is what I meant... [sent an image]

"What's going on over there?" Jungkook merely glimpses at the new image before whipping his head up, hearing his mother's, sharp tone.

"It's just __. She's asking about groceries again."

With slightly narrowed eyes, Mrs. Jeon continues. "We're about to order if you're ready."

Dammit. He'll have to reply to you later. Jungkook swiftly pockets the phone. "Okay yeah I'm good to go."

"This is delicious," Mr. Jeon says, patting his mouth with a napkin. "Best bibimbap I've had in a long time."

"That's great Dad." Jungkook stirs his noodles.

"Ah, where's the restroom around here?" He asks the waitress as she walks by. She tells him it's in the restaurant, all the way to the back. Mr. Jeon pushes his chair from the table and excuses himself. "All that broth has me needing to go."

"Yes yes, just go." Why his father needed to explain himself every time he needed to use the restroom is beyond him. Jungkook peers at his mother, taking her time eating her own bowl of noodles–they ended up ordering the same thing. "How is it?" he asks.

"It's good."

"Not too spicy?"

"No, it's mild."

Jungkook gathers more noodles on his chopstick. He freezes halfway when he sees his mother eyeing him intensely. "Everything okay?"

Mrs. Jeon folds her hands in her lap. "It's occurred to me that we still have an elephant in the room. I was hoping we'd be able to talk about it while your father browsed the bookstore. But plans changed."

And here he thought his mother had been playing down last night when really she was biding her time. "You know Dad's gonna be back in like ten minutes right?"

Mrs. Jeon nods. "I know it's not the most convenient of times or places, but I'm afraid if we delay it won't get discussed."

"Okay." Jungkook sets his chopsticks down. "Well...where do you want to start?"

"An apology would be nice." Her voice is mellow but the words are a clear demand rather than an offer. Of course, he wants to apologize to her for all the things he accused her of last night. But he wasn't expecting her to be this forward with it, especially since she was guilty of plenty herself. "I'm waiting Kookie," she coos, taking a sip of water.

Jungkook knits his eyebrows in response, unsure of what he's hearing. His mother looks far too relaxed about this whole thing. He decides to give her the benefit of the doubt. "You're right," he starts. "I'm sorry for what I said last night. I shouldn't have spoken that way and I'm sorry for making you leave. I think you and Dad showing up all a sudden threw me off and I reacted poorly."

Mrs. Jeon cracks a tight smile and reaches for her son's hand. "Thank you, Jungkook. I accept your apology." She gives his hand a squeeze before moving to pick up her chopsticks. "Now that we got that settled let's talk about the reunion. I'm thinking about talking to–"

What....the fuck? His mom did not just glide over this whole issue. She did not just put everything on him. And she did not just bring up that damn reunion again, which he's made very clear he wants nothing a part of. "Is that all you wanted? For me to make my amends with you?"

"What else would there be Kookie?" She scoffs, eyes wide.

"Goddamn it." He struggles to maintain a hushed voice. "Can you please stop calling me that? And what the hell do you mean 'what else would there be'? I'm not trying to put the blame on you but there's a good amount you should be saying to me too."

"What things are you referring to? Don't tell me this is about the reunion again. Look, whatever it is that I said was because I just want to see you more. And no more swearing. You know I don't like that kind of language."

"How can you be like this?" Jungkook can't stop himself. He figured his mom and he would have a better, heart-to-heart than this. It makes his skin crawl that his mother continues to play the victim. "It's genuinely shocking me how....do you even love me?"

Mrs. Jeon pauses at that. "Of course, I love you Jungkook. Why–why would you ask that?" She blinks back the slightest hint of tears forming along the edge of her eyes. Never in a million years did she think her son would doubt something this crucial.

"I feel like–"

"Feel what? What is it?"

"I feel like you care more about what I can do for you than you do me, as your son." Jungkook sniffs. This is a lot harder for him to say than he imagined. "There's been so many times that you've–"

"Don't say this honey! I care about you very much!" She reaches for his hand again but he yanks it away. "What are you trying to tell me?" His mother waits for him to form the rest of the sentence.

Jungkook hesitates to look at her straight on because behind what appears to be concerned eyes is disbelief. She isn't taking any of this seriously. It's written all over her face, tone, and all the way down to the way she's focusing on an answer rather than his inability to comfortably talk to her.

"What have I done so many times?"

"Honestly at this point, what haven't you done?" With an icy glare, Jungkook can't hold himself back anymore. The pot that's been brewing, deep in the darkest parts of him is finally overflowing and it's not going to be pretty to behold. "Do you realize how many times you chose your job, your status, and even your friends over me? And you make Dad go along with literally anything! Is it so horrible for someone to say no to you?!"

The couple next to them shoot uncomfortable looks his way, whispering to each other. Jungkook ignores it and starts counting with his fingers.

"Never once have you ever taken responsibility for showing up uninvited, nagging me about this that, and the other thing, making backhanded comments about my life choice, and most of all pretending our relationship is peachy fine. Well, I'm sorry mom, I'm thirty-four years old and I don't need to live by your rules! Our relationship is barely hanging by a thread and being quite real, it's __ and Dad who are the ones clinging to that thread, making sure it doesn't completely snap."

Mrs. Jeon opens her mouth to interject but Jungkook doesn't allow it to happen. It's not exactly intentional that he's pouring out so much in the middle of people's lunch. Still, he's been shoved over a steep cliff, head first.

"I'm sorry mom, I don't know how many times I need to say it. I don't enjoy any bit of this. It's just been a long stretch of–"

"That's enough! I don't want to hear any more." Mrs. Jeon immediately grabs her purse and twists her neck every which way. "Where's your father? I want to leave."

"Mom I'm trying to talk to you! Why won't you let me talk?"

His mother doesn't reply. She doesn't look at him. It's the silent treatment, Jungkook concludes–it's fucking irritating. "I'm not trying to be hurtful," he says, forcing himself to calm down. "Mom look at me."

She doesn't move.

It only takes seconds for their waitress to near her way up to the table with anxious steps. "I'm sorry to be doing this but unfortunately, we've received a few complaints of a disturbance out here." The young girl clasps her hands. "To ensure all our guests are comfortable we're going to need to ask you to take your conversation elsewhere. I'm really sorry."

Fuck. How embarrassing. Jungkook clears his throat and stands up from his seat. "We understand and are genuinely sorry for the commotion. We'll pay at the front and be on our way. Thank you for waiting our table."

The young girl gives a nervous smile and retreats inside the restaurant. Jungkook makes a note to give her a generous tip.

"Hey, what's going on out here?" Mr. Jeon rushes over, hair blowing over due to the breeze. "I heard there was some inconsiderate party out here airing out their dirty laundry for all to see. I tell you, people these days don't know what privacy means anymore!" He shakes his head and takes a seat.

"Get up Dad we're leaving."

"But I'm not done my–––oh shit." Mr. Jeon clenches his teeth. "You two?"

Mrs. Jeon gets up from her chair, still wordless, and walks towards the parking lot. "I'll get this Dad." Jungkook stops his father from pulling out his wallet. "It is best if you go try to ease Mom. I don't think she'll be talking to me for a while."

Mr. Jeon puts a hand on his son's shoulder. It's his way of offering comfort. "You're mother has made things difficult for you, Jungkook. I'll try getting through to her. In the meantime don't let this eat you up. It's been a long time coming."

Jungkook doesn't get home until quarter past six. The drive home was better than the drive to the restaurant, but hitting the notorious five o'clock traffic slowed them down once more. He also had to drop his parents at their hotel which was no easy task. His mother barely gave him a glance before hopping out of the car. The amount of guilt settling in his gut isn't going away any time soon.

"Hey." Jungkook finds you searching through the kitchen cupboard. "I hope you're okay with spice tonight! I got this really awesome–oh baby what's wrong?" You stop what you're doing when you see your husband come up behind you with sunken eyes. He wraps his larger arms around you, desperately needing your scent.

"I blew it," he croaks. "She's so mad at me."

"I'm sorry Jungkook. I'm sorry I couldn't be there." You turn in his arms to pull him into a full embrace. His nose tickles the side of your neck but you don't laugh. "You wanna tell me?"

Jungkook takes your hand and sits you both on the couch in the living room. "The morning started out rough with three hours of traffic and the two of them in the back seat, telling me where and how I should drive. Then my dad got unexpectedly famous off a PSY song. We finally got to some restaurant about half an hour west of here before 3pm. Everything was going okay until dad went to the bathroom."

"Okay," you say, scooting closer beside him. You rub small circles on his upper back as he leans forward on his spread-apart knees. "What happened?"

"Mom suggested we talk about last night so I said sure." You watch as Jungkook fiddles with his hands. "But she didn't actually care about a conversation or what I had to say. All she wanted, all she expected, was for me to apologize to her so we'd be okay again. It all came out after that and I feel so horrible about it. We ended up getting kicked out of the restaurant too."

"Jungkook..."

"I tried __. I wanted to be patient and to be a good son but she can't even look at me right now." He falls back on the couch, staring at the blank wall in front. "Dad's convinced it was bound to happen."

"You are a good son, Jungkook." You comb a few strands of his soft, ebony hair. He closes his eyes as you do. "You're mom's the one who needs to readjust her view."

"I never thought I'd yell at my mom about all that stuff. And certainly not in public where everyone is trying to have a pleasant lunch. I'm a grown-ass adult and I should have had better control of myself."

You settle into his inner shoulder, laying a hand on his chest. "Even grown adults have limits and your mom's far surpassed those limits. Don't blame yourself for this."

"Dad said the same thing."

"Well, that's two against one."

Jungkook smiles. Two against one, that's where he got that from. Not that you're the first person to use the phrase but he never used it as regularly until you moved in together.

"I missed you so much today. I don't deserve you."

You cock your head up as quick as the words fly from his mouth. "Don't you dare say things like that! You're a good man despite how awful your mother treats you." You lean your face near his, eyes wandering deep into his dark brown ones. "If you're not otherwise too tired, I'm going to show you how much I love you."

Jungkook opens his lids at that–apparently not too tired. You smirk and get off the couch.

"Here?" His classic doe-eyes peer down at your kneeled position. Seeing you settle this perfectly between his muscular thighs triggers an intense blood rush that goes straight to his dick. Jungkook didn't think he was going to get horny tonight but here he was with his half-harden length in your hands in the middle of the living room.

"Mhm." You position yourself just enough for him to have a clear view of your tits. You had taken both your shirt and bra off before starting. You know how your husband likes it. "That okay with you?"

Jungkook groans when you grip his cock harder, gliding it from the base to the tip in repeated motions. "Fuck yeah. It's more than okay." You giggle at how quickly your husband gets in the mood. He thinks you're the bitch in the bedroom? You quicken your movements.

"Oh shit this feels so good." He grips the couch cushion, keeping his focus on you. "Need that gorgeous mouth wrapped around me baby, please. Shit–"

You honor your husband's requests and trace your tongue from the base of his cock all the way up to his tip. Once there, you suck lightly before taking him in whole.

"That's it. Take my cock, fuck." Jungkook goes on to praise you as you bottom out. You gag a little at first being that you haven't done this in what....weeks? Damn. Whatever happened to the days when you'd literally go down on each other every day?

"We need to get you reacquainted with my cock honey," he teases, bucking his hips forward to push himself further into your mouth. "All these weeks without my cock in your mouth has you gagging all over me. Been it's been too long hasn't it?"

"Mm," is the only thing you reply with, the weight of his thick length dragging back and forth on your tongue. By now your pussy is pulsating like crazy and you're tempted to just get up and fuck yourself on him. But tonight was about your husband–you're going to make sure of it. And Jungkook loves nothing more than getting head with your bare tits in full view, obviously.

A few sucks later and Jungkook starts fucking himself into your mouth. They began as soft, needy bucks of his hips but now they're rough, full-force thrusts. His length shoves to the back of your throat and you moan desperately around him. "Did you miss my cock baby? I bet you did. My sexy wife....you're mine and you're gonna make me come, aren't you? Fuck yeah, you are."

Your eyes water as you continue to take him, hallowing your cheeks the best you can. Jungkook has his eyes screwed shut and sweat dripping from his forehead. Your panties are so fucking soaked right now and your nipples are defiantly hard from sheer arsousal.

"God I'm so close baby. You're mouth is---fuck I don't even have the words. It's fucking magic! And your tits are so hot from this angle. Kinda reminds me of what you sent to me earlier. Can I come on them? I'm so close." Jungkook takes your broken moans as a yes and starts ramming into you two more times before pullout and covering your breasts with warm liquid. "Fuck fuck fuck," he grunts, spilling himself on you.

What a mess. You look down at yourself. What a motherfuckin' mess and you love it. Jungkook pulls you into a passionate kiss, tongue rolling with yours in heavenly harmony. "Thank you for this," he says between kisses. "I'll help you wash up, I promise."

"Mm Jungkook," you pant. "I think I need you inside me."

Hey, he got his dick sucked and he creamed your tits–it's mama's turn now, or excuse you–wifey.

A/N: this got nasty whoops. not sorry. Anyway LMK what you think, thanks for reading! 💞 also pls vote if youd be so kind

Masterlist

Taglist:

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P.S. I'm sorry but I'm not sure if I'm able to tag all of you!

no reposting, copying, or translating my work– © kookslastbutton

[laracrofted]

baby, i'm high octane (epilogue)

synopsis: on her 29th birthday, nora wakes up in her new home.

pairings: jake seresin x nora rogers (oc)

warnings: 18+, minors and ageless blogs dni, swearing, smut (brief oral sex and shower sex), bradley is an idiot (affectionate), nora and jake are happy and domestic and in love. (wc: 4.4K)

note: i'm saving my sappy note for the end, but if you'd like all of the vibes, listen to daylight before or while reading 🩵

previous chapter | series post

TAGS: @theharddeck @bradshawsbitch @sometimesanalice @callsignspark @hangmanbrainrot @kandierteveilchen @startrekfangirl2233 @lostinwonderland314 @hangmanscoming @t-nd-rfoot @dempy @mlibbydp @bellaireland1981 @clancycucumber230 @kmc1989 @averagereader35 @eli2447 @filmflux @bethbunnyy @kajjaka @roosterbruiser

On the morning of her 29th birthday, Nora is awake before the sun.

At her side, Jake is fast asleep, a pillow crease across his flushed cheek, visible proof of how early it really is because between them, Jake is usually the earlier riser. He’s such a morning person. It’s almost obnoxious. 

During the week, he gets up at the crack of dawn – sometimes before, 4:45 AM sharp – and runs the five miles up the coast to Torrey Pines. He’s back with enough time to kiss a groggy Nora good morning and shower before he has to drive the half hour down to North Island.

It doesn’t make much sense logistically for him to sleep over during the week and drive an hour to and from the base – sometimes more with the evening traffic – but when Nora brought it up to him, watching a movie with him on the couch, tucked into his arms, Jake shrugged it off and said, “It’s worth it to me,” with a sweet kiss on her cheek. 

Weekends are nicer, slower.

On a slow weekend morning – a morning like this one – Jake sleeps in. He does a shorter run with the intention of catching her still in bed after; slipping back under the covers, freshly showered with dripping hair, a clean soap smell to his skin; hoping to convince her to spend another hour in bed with him.

(She never needs much coaxing.)

But now, for once, Nora’s the one who is awake.

She rolls onto her back with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling, at the exposed wood beams that slant overhead; listening to the steady rhythm of Jake’s even breaths at her side and the faint clicking sound of the AC switching back on – because Jake runs warm and Nora lived in the city too long to be able to sleep without some sort of background noise  – and outside, the gentle sound of the songbirds, flitting between the branches of the lemon trees in the garden, chirping softly. 

Is there enough bird seed in the feeder? She makes a mental note to check. 

She gives herself a few more minutes to will herself back to sleep before she gets up.

She’s never awake this early. She shouldn’t let it go to waste. 

Nora quietly patters across the room to the dresser and digs blindly around the top drawer for a blue one-piece she knows is in here somewhere. She doesn’t want to pull out her phone and use the flashlight, not when Jake is still sleeping so Nora continues to feel around in the near darkness in the mess of a drawer. 

She’s actually been thinking about clearing it out, moving everything in it to the second drawer so…

So Jake can have his own drawer.

She’s never lived with a boyfriend before – never gotten serious enough with one to get to that stage – and while Jake doesn’t actually live with her, he has started to leave some of his clothes at her place. 

It was unintentional at first. He'd come back from a run and throw his sweat-stained shirt into the hamper out of habit and forget to grab it from the laundry room. And then, Jake asked if Nora minded him leaving a spare linen-button-up in the closet for those nights when Nora wants to put on a little black dress and blow $50 on drinks alone at some beachside wine bar in Del Mar. 

She has been finding his clothes here more and more and always ends up leaving them in the closet or folded on the dresser, but Jake should have a place to leave them, have a place here.

She finally finds the swimsuit and ducks into the bathroom to change.

He’s still asleep when Nora comes back out, chest rising and falling, steady like the sea, arm outstretched into the slight indent in the mattress where Nora used to be. She catches her lip between her teeth, smiling, and slips outside. 

A pre-dawn chill lurks in the late summer air as Nora locks the blue door behind her and heads down to the beach. She’s grateful for her extra layer, a faded NYU sweatshirt that’s almost long enough to cover the hem of the linen shorts Nora pulled on inside. 

She doesn’t see a single person on the sidewalks on her short walk to the beach. It’s quiet and calm, and within a few minutes, Nora kicks off her sandals and sinks her blue-painted toes into the cool sand.

Dropping her bag in the sand, Nora casts off the sweatshirt and shorts and stuffs them into the bag.

She wades waist high into the ocean and curses sharply under her breath.

A sunrise swim might sound very dreamy and all, but goddamn, it’s so cold.

“Fuck,” Nora hisses.

She sucks in a harsh breath, bracing herself, and swims deeper. 

She adjusts to the cold after a few minutes – a few long and cold minutes – and after that, Nora floats on her back, letting the waves rock her closer to the shore and back out again, always keeping an eye out to make sure she doesn’t drift too far away. 

It’s quiet out here and so still, and with sea salt on her lips, Nora lets her mind drift with the tide. 

It’s been a little less than a month since Nora decided to stay in California.

At the end of July, Charlie helped her pack what little Nora had on North Island into a suitcase and a few boxes that ended up in the back of Penny’s garage while Nora went back to New York. She wasn’t there for long. She grabbed cocktails with a few of her friends who still lived there, shipped the rest of her stuff across the country, and hopped on the next flight back to San Diego.

She hardly left the house in the week that followed, busy unpacking her boxes in the cottage-style house, settling in to this next chapter of her life. 

Natasha and Bob were kind of enough to come over and help her with some of the unloading, diligently washing and putting away the meticulously bubble-wrapped kitchen boxes, organizing the built-in shelves in the living room. Nora left Bob in charge of the latter and came back from a coffee run to find the books separated by genre and then alphabetized. She could’ve kissed him. 

Jake and Bradley rallied Javy, Mickey, and Reuben into Nora’s own personal movers, and in a single afternoon, the Daggers carried in and unpacked the couch, bed, and bed frame and didn’t complain once. She had to promise them pizza and beer, but still.

Who needs movers when Nora has Uncle Sam’s finest?

From there, Nora has started to slowly furnish the rest of the house.

She’s been searching online and frequenting the local consignment stores with a very particular vision in mind, a vision of creams and pale blues; white linen and oak; sea shells and cowboy boots and gold.

Last week, Nora picked up the most gorgeous rug for the living room, one that picks up all of the blue accents and makes the whole room look bright and open. It’s perfect. It feels like a coastal dream, like hers. 

It is hers, Nora reminds herself again.

She doesn’t have somewhere to go, somewhere to be a month from now, four months from now. It’s all on her time now. And damn, isn’t that something?

When Nora heads back, the mid-August sky is a patchwork of blues, denim clouds and fading stars and the barest thread of gold creeping over the horizon. 

At home, she quickly rinses off in the shower and pads back into the bedroom. 

She slips back into bed and snuggles into the crook of Jake’s shoulder, resting her head on his outstretched arm again, and Jake mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep and tugs her closer, breath stirring the strands of pale hair at her forehead.

She’s asleep within minutes.

Sunlight pours into the bright room and spills across her back when Nora wakes up again. At a much more reasonable 9 AM. 

Stretching, Nora reaches her arms above her head and extends her legs in front of her, kicking into the sheets. She rubs the sleep from her bleary eyes and looks around the room. She’s alone.

A familiar shirt sits in a crumpled pile on the hardwood, like evidence, unmoved from when Jake cast it aside before bed, but Jake is gone. He even made up his side of the bed, meticulously straightening the sheets and pillows, stretching the wrinkles from the fabric. A military habit that’ll never cease to amuse her. 

Huffing out an amused breath, Nora plucks the shirt from the floor and slips it over her head.

She wanders out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, following the faint sounds of movement in there.

She’s greeted with the sight of his bare back,  ripped muscles and golden skin, rolling and flexing, as Jake moves between the pans on the stove – bacon, from the smell – and the humming espresso machine in the corner of the counter. Charlie gave her that as a housewarming present, and Jake’s made it his mission to make the perfect oat vanilla latte.

He’s humming a country song under his breath, one Nora doesn’t recognize.

It sounds happy.

She quietly crosses the kitchen and wraps her arms around him from behind, setting her cheek against the strong line of his spine, and Jake makes a startled sound like a sleeping cat that’s been unexpectedly patted on the head. She secretly grins. 

“No,” Jake protests immediately, shuffling to shield the breakfast from her view, voice comically close to a whine. "Go back to bed."

She laughs against his back. "No?"

"You heard me," Jake insists. "Get outta here. I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed."

Despite his words, Jake sets one of his hands over hers and intertwines their fingers. He has a spatula in the other hand, still pushing the eggs around the pan.

Grinning, Nora presses a kiss against a freckle on his back, against a dimple of muscle between his shoulder blades.

"I don't need breakfast in bed," Nora says. "Let's eat on the patio. It's beautiful outside."

She uses her most convincing voice, but Jake is stubborn, determined.

He gently argues – as if Nora suggested digging their breakfast from the Hard Deck dumpster – and eventually, Nora gives in with an amused shake of her head. He can win this round.

Mostly because Jake is adorably excited about the idea of bringing her a birthday breakfast in bed.

A few minutes later, Jake comes into the bedroom, balancing an iced latte and a few plates: blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon. It's delicious, which isn't a surprise because Nora's come to learn Jake is a damn good cook.

Handy because Nora is only well versed in cocktail and dessert recipes.

When Nora's finished, Jake cleans up the dishes and brushes her hair out of her face. He kisses her cheek, her temple, the corner of her lips with a kind of reverence, like Jake can't stand to kiss her just once.

He ducks his head and murmurs, "Happy birthday, sweetheart," against her shoulder.

She catches his chin and kisses him, as honeyed and sweet as the maple syrup on her lips.

After breakfast, Nora gets a call from Bradley.

He's in the neighborhood – on his way to Penny's where, Bradley later reveals over coffee, is basically Maverick's these days – and wants to swing by and quote, see the birthday girl.

A cool breeze blows in from the coast, smelling like salt brine and sea lavender, so Nora shows Bradley to the stone-lined patio in the back and grabs a sweatshirt from the bedroom. She pulls it on over her linen dress on her way outside.

It’s only when Bradley raises his eyebrows that Nora realizes it’s a Dallas Cowboys fleece, one of Jake’s. 

“Shut up,” Nora says preemptively. 

She hands him a homemade Americano and sits next to him on the bench in the back, crossing her legs under the dress, looking out at the blue horizon of the ocean, a misty grey from the fog that lingers in the mornings.

“Didn’t say anything,” Bradley half-laughs, clearly holding back some joke about her being a born-again Cowboys fan. “Is Hangman here?” 

She shakes her head and sips her coffee through a glass straw.

"He's with Javy. They're going for a run in Point Loma." A run that Nora practically had to push him out the door for because Jake wanted to cancel all of his plans for her birthday. Both sweet and ridiculous. "He'll probably be back in an hour if you wanted to hang around and wait for him."

"Nah, I'm alright. I see him too much already." She gives him a look, and Bradley cracks a smile and knocks his knee against hers, all playfulness. "I'm here to see the birthday girl anyway."

“And drink her coffee.” 

He drops his shoulder in an easygoing shrug, brown eyes twinkling. “It’s good coffee, Rogers.” 

She grins. “Thanks, Bradshaw. You get me anything?” 

"Yeah, but I'll give it to you when I leave so I don't get punched."

He's wearing a cryptic expression, an I know something you don't know grin.

But before Nora can press him further, Bradley expertly changes the subject, distracting her with the latest gossip from the base, including Captain Mitchell all but moving in with Penny.

She still makes it down to San Diego a few times a week to hang out with Jake and see the rest of her friends. She pops down for the occasional night of cheap drinks and pool at the Hard Deck, meets Natasha for brunch at Little Frenchie, or spends the afternoon on Penny's boat with Bradley; but Nora will probably never see them as much as she did before. It's a strange and bittersweet feeling.

She's done with the documentary, and Nora doesn't miss the work, but she does miss seeing them every day.

Bradley drains the last of his coffee and sets the mug on the weathered wood of the bench. Another secondhand find from a neighbor who didn't need it anymore.

As if reading her mind, Bradley says, "We all miss having you on the base, you know? We all got used to having you around. It's not the same without you."

A faint smile as Nora says, "It's kind of weird, isn't it?"

"Don't you get bored out here?"

"So bored sometimes," Nora exhales, laughing, and Bradley chuckles, "but I really feel like I need to be bored right now. It's good for me." This is the longest break Nora has given herself in... well, ever maybe. She needs the space to recharge and breathe and feel like herself again. "It's nice to have some room in my brain to be bored for once. I felt so... scattered before."

"And I like it here," Nora continues. "I like having a place that's mine."

He goes quiet for a long and thoughtful moment, a slight scrunch between his brows.

“I’ve been thinking…” Bradley starts slowly, almost cautiously, testing the weight of the words. “I might want to move out of the apartments on the base and maybe get a house or something, I don’t know.” 

She looks at him, surprised. “You do?”

He chews on his bottom lip. Nods. “Why not? My squadron’s stationed here. Maverick’s probably going to propose to Penny soon. I won’t be leaving San Diego anytime soon, and I’m not getting any younger. I want something that feels more… grounded, you know?” 

She does know.

“Giving up on the bachelor life already, Bradshaw?” 

A cheeky grin pulls at his mouth as Bradley shrugs again. “Well, I don’t know if I’d say that. I should probably start with the house. Take it slow.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me.” 

“Yeah?” 

An undercurrent of uncertainty leaks into his voice, and Nora softens. 

“Yeah,” Nora reassures. 

A moment passes, settles, and Nora’s lips pull into a slight smirk.

Noticing, Bradley asks, “What?” 

“Don’t go too slow though. You said it yourself. You’re definitely not getting any younger.” 

He makes a face, and Nora can’t hold back a laugh.

“You need to kick Hangman out,” Bradley grumbles, good-natured. “You’ve been spending too much time with him.” 

Another laugh bubbles from her lips.

“He doesn’t even live here.” 

“Could’ve fooled me.” 

She ignores the pointed look Bradley gives her sweatshirt and continues, “And besides, I happen to like spending too much time with him. He’s my boyfriend.” 

She expects him to make a disgusted noise or fake gag like Bradley did when Nora first called Jake her boyfriend in front of him, but Bradley watches her and doesn’t say anything.

Her leg nudges into his. “What?” 

“Nothing. Just…” A shake of his head. “Hangman’s happier. You seem happier. I’m happy for you. It’s nice to see for both of you,” Bradley says sincerely. He drops an arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer to him. “I’m glad you’re here, Nora. Glad you stayed.” 

Moisture pricks at the corners of her eyes, but Nora blinks it back and swallows the rising lump in her throat. 

She leans into him. Presses her face into his solid shoulder.

“So am I.” 

On his way out, Bradley gives her a hug and her birthday present.

She sits crosslegged on the couch and slowly pulls the crumpled blue tissue paper out of the gift bag until Nora finds a messily wrapped rectangle. He must’ve wrapped it himself. She smiles to herself and carefully rips the paper away.

It’s a small waterproof camera, complete with a wrist strap so Nora doesn’t have to worry about losing it in the ocean. She can bring it on her next morning swim or the next time that Bradley invites her out on the boat. It’s sweet, so sweet that Nora’s a little confused.

She pulls out her phone.

Nora, 11:24 AM: Thanks for the camera! So sweet of you!

Nora, 11:24 AM: Why’d you think I’d punch you??

Bradley, 11:27 AM: There’s something else in there.

Curious, she pulls the rest of the paper out of the bag until she finds a rolled-up shirt at the very bottom. It’s a deep blue, a soft fabric. She lets it fall open and holds it up to get a good look at the words printed across the front.

“Oh,” Nora says out loud, reading. “You asshole.” 

Nora, 11:32 AM: Proud Navy Girlfriend???

Bradley, 11:33 AM: Do you like it?

Nora, 11:33 AM: What is wrong with you?

Bradley, 11:34 AM: Happy birthday, Proud Navy Girlfriend :) 

She sends him back a picture of her middle finger.

A hour later, Jake comes back, and Nora’s on the phone with Charlie.

He strolls in the front door, headphones around his neck, shirtless and drenched in sweat. Sweat shouldn’t be allowed to look that hot on someone. It should be illegal… or something. His dog tags gleam from the center of his collarbone. His shorts are slung obscenely low on his hips, low enough to reveal the mole there, and admittedly, Nora has only heard every other word out of Charlie’s mouth since Jake entered her line of sight.

“Nora?”

A droplet of sweat runs down his neck and pools in his glistening collarbone.

“Uh huh.” 

“Do you need to go?” 

Jake stretches his arms, folding them over his head, running his long fingers through his damp hair and setting his baseball cap back down, and Nora doesn’t even pretend not to watch the ripple that passes through his abs. 

“I, uh…” 

He catches her, of course, and smirks – a slow and humiliatingly smug smirk – and it’s all Nora can do not to fan herself. She coughs. 

On the other end of the line, Charlie snorts. 

“I’ll let you go. Have a good birthday.” And Charlie adds knowingly, “Tell Jake I say hello.” 

“Love you, bye,” Nora exhales and all but throws the phone across the couch, cheeks burning. “Charlie says hi.” 

“Hi Charlie.” Jake pushes the bill of his cap up with one finger, like the brim of a cowboy hat, and drops a slightly salty kiss onto her lips. His voice softens. “Hi, sweetheart. Did I already say happy birthday?” 

“A few times, yeah.” 

His eyes gleam. “A few? That’s not enough.” 

She bites her lip, grinning, and Jake presses his face into her neck, inhaling the smell of her perfume with a soft groan and also smearing sweat across her cheek. She wrinkles her nose at him and pushes him back by his shoulders.

“You need a shower. You’re all sweaty and gross.” 

“You weren’t lookin’ at me like I’m gross,” Jake drawls. He clambers onto the couch and puts his full body weight – his sweat-covered body weight – on top of her. She makes a high-pitched sound of protest, which quickly dissolves into a laugh, and Jake shakes with laughter. “You’re pretty gross now too, sweetheart.” He puts his lips to her ear, and Nora shivers under him. “Wanna join me and conserve water?” 

“You’re ridiculous,” Nora says, which isn’t a no, feeling a little breathless.

Grinning, Jake allows her to push him off the couch.

He ends up on his knees on the blue rug and looks up at her, green eyes glittering.

Jake reaches for her ankles and pulls her to the edge of the couch, begins to slowly push the hem of dress up, one inch at a time.

“What about that shower?” Nora asks, watching as Jake pulls the fabric higher and higher, exposing more and more of her bare thighs, which part slightly for him, almost like a reflex.

“In a minute, sweetheart.” 

He spins his baseball cap backwards – a move that should be douchey and shouldn’t even remotely work for her but infuriatingly, because it’s him, absolutely does – and bends down to kiss the center of her panties.

He licks at her through the fabric, drinking in the soft sounds Nora makes. 

“Jake…” Nora exhales. She knocks his hat from his head, burying her fingers in his damp hair, pulling on the strands. “We should… You shouldn’t…” Her brain isn’t doing its best work right now, and Nora can come up with is, “Guests sit on this couch.” 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Jake reassures, voice low and syrupy. “I’ll get it all.” 

"Fuck," Nora breathes.

He slides her panties down to her knees and spreads his tongue over her, and Nora’s head drops back on the couch, hair fanning across the back.

His mouth doesn’t leave her until Nora’s come apart on his tongue. Twice. 

After, Jake hikes her legs around his waist and carries her into the shower, hands spread across her ass, curled in her hair. 

It’s slow and certain as Jake works her open with his fingers and pushes into her from behind, warm water misting on her face, dripping down her front; hot lips pressing lingering kisses along her shoulders and throat. He pulls her dripping hair away from her neck, slowly winding it around his fist, pulling her head to the side to lick a stripe up the side of her neck. 

And all the while, Jake is murmuring in her ear.

Words full of praise and adoration and desire, and Jake smells like coffee and lavender shampoo and sweat and him, so very him, and god, Nora likes this, likes him more than she can put into words; loves this, loves – 

It’s burning, molten hot, full of feelings, pushing through the soil like early spring flowers, and when Jake breaths her name, it sounds like three precious words stitched into one. 

Around noon, Nora curls up in the arm chair near the front window, soaking in the feeling of the sun at her back, casting a shadow in the shape of her on the rug and the knotted floor boards. She loves the light in this room, gleaming, reflecting off the sun catcher that Nora hung in the window, sending a fractured light across the room in the afternoons. 

It’s her favorite spot in the whole house. 

She has a lot of free time now, and in that free time, Nora’s been sitting in this chair and digging through the buried files on her laptop; rereading old screenplays from college; half-written and abandoned drafts that Nora let her own perfectionism shred into something unrecognizable.

She’s been combing through the wreckage, hoping to make something new from the pieces.

And Nora finds herself coming back to the same idea – an ink-stained and half-formed whisper of an idea that’s lived stubbornly in the back of her mind for years now.

Something hopeful about losing your way and finding it again; about losing people and meeting them again; about soulmates, both platonic and romantic; about meeting someone and being absolutely sure.

She is scribbling in her journal when Jake settles into the chair within reach of hers.

He reaches for her hand to brush a kiss across her knuckles, a smile dimpling his cheeks, crinkling the corners of her eyes. He’s humming again, something happy, and Nora feels like a firework has gone off inside her ribcage.

She says his name to catch his attention.

And then, Nora says, “I love you.” 

And Jake grins in that easy and self-assured way that Nora’s come to love so much, like Jake knows her, really knows her. 

“I’ve loved you since June,” Jake says easily, so easily it steals the air from her lungs. “Just been waiting for you to catch up, sweetheart.” 

And just this once, Nora’s too happy to fight for the last word. She lets him have this one.

A year from now, Nora will be 30.

Not long after, Nora’s first feature film will come out. She’ll go to the very first screening. A small affair for her friends and colleagues and a few fans. She’ll wear a pale blue dress, and Jake will wear a suit and matching tie and pat his pocket the whole night to make sure the ring hasn’t fallen out, his grandmother’s ring.  

That’s later. This is now.

And now, Nora’s 29 and in love and for the first time in a long time, the world doesn’t feel like it’s ending. It feels like it’s just beginning. 

So Nora starts at the beginning. Starts with what she knows.

She opens to a blank page. And writes about love. 

end note: i finished this last month and fell into a bit of writer's block – slash post-creation depression lol – and didn't want to actually edit what i wrote, my bad.

i love nora and jake and everything BIHO has become so much. i love being here with all of you, and i love you for reading it and being so generous with your words and your feedback and your attention. 🩵 i'm also hoping – please, writer's block, i'm begging – to write more in this universe so if you really want to see anything or want to know any of my random post-biho headcanons, let me know!

likes are always appreciated, but comments and reblogs make my whole day, and i'd love to hear from you.

[1427]

i love you (always forever) pt.1

Daryl Dixon x sister!OFC

Summary: In the winter of ‘95 Daddy died. Leaving Lady to finish up her senior year in high school, and Daryl to brood over when to sell the house. The summer of ‘96 is the first time Lady feels alive. Daryl wants to give her one last summer before she has to grow up for real.

He gave her anything she asked for that summer.

Setting: Doublewide on some lone property in the middle of the woods, Georgia. Summer 1996

Warnings: INCEST (like it's the whole thing), virgin!oc, drug use (a joint), underage drinking, TENSION, poorly written SMUT, masturbation (f), lite!somno, oral (m receiving), some leering (??); most of the smut will be in part two. 

Word Count: 6.1k

A/n: INCEST I'll say it again. if it's not your thing, or can’t ever be your thing, DON’T READ IT. 

I didn't write it. I simply lived it in my head and documented (I wrote it but it felt like I didn't have a choice). 

Lady, Daryl calls her Lay, Bug

She calls him Bub, Bubba

// part 2 //

MDNI 18+ 

Wind chimes. Soft like the breeze. The heat of the Georgia in June. Daddy died this past winter, and Lady’d never had a summer feel so much like a hug. Finally able to really breathe again. Like a little kid. Magic around every corner. She swore sometimes, when she looked out the window in the dead of night, that she could see the faeries dancing out back in the woods. For a few years they'd gone, but this year they were back again.

Just her and Daryl (and the deer, and the squirrels, and the mice, and obviously the mosquitos, and sometimes the faeries); Like it shoulda always been. Like it always kinda was. After Merle left and all. Got older, moved out. Daryl stayed, though. Past his 18th birthday, and a few more after that. Didn’t wanna leave Lady all by herself with their old man. Couldn’t. 

Now he couldn’t really leave her alone in the house, even though she’d turned 18 last fall. Doesn’t even cross his mind. 

Lady’s finally done with school for good unless she decides she wants to go to college. First one in the whole damn family and no one but Daryl was there to see it.  Daryl quit his job as soon as Daddy died. Even if Daddy didn't have a few dollars in his bank account he didn’t know about, Lady figures he would have anyway. 

Daryl thought about selling the house but… not yet. 

He knew he was putting a pause on his life for this summer with Lady, but his whole life had been on pause til now anyway. Knows that when it’s over, it’s all over. Her whole childhood, their whole upbringing. Their dad dyin’ was just the bow ontop to seal the deal. They’d both think of it as the end. For the rest of her life, Lay’ll know this is when she had to grow up for real. So Daryl wouldn’t sell the house until Lady had her last summer as a kid with nothin’ to worry about. 

The heat was starting to get unbearable. 

“Lay!” Daryl yells, standing above a bed she'd made up in the living room. Dad had always kept the one lone air conditioner in his room, in front of the tv, in front of the recliner, in front of the bed. Lady had the idea to hang sheets on the doors to the living room and make a bed on the floor big enough for both of them to sleep in. She forgot the pillows, though, and now she was nowhere to be found. 

Daryl put down the tools he’d been using to fix the a/c to the window, pushing past the pink floral sheet between the living room and the hall toward the bedrooms, “Lay!” He quickly paces the double wide but she’s no where. 

Left a towel on her bed though, so Daryl’s got a good guess where she went. Swimmin’. 

It’s about a half miles walk, so it’s pretty far to just up and leave like that without saying anything, but Lady did it all the time. Like the creek was her own personal bathtub. Daryl’s not annoyed, not really. But he walks the half mile like he is anyway. Why couldn’t she just let him know? Because then he wouldn’t have to make sure this is where she went. And he wouldn’t have to bring her the towel she forgot. 

Daryl walks down and sure enough Lady’s shoulder deep in the muddy creek water, her clothes and shoes all bundled up on the dirt a few feet in front of him. She’s faced away, and at first doesn’t hear him come up. 

Lady tried to sneak away without being noticed to have a private moment. Like momma taught her. You’re allowed to touch yourself like that, but you can’t do it around other people. Momma said as long as you can be in private, it’s alright. 

Lady didn’t mean to forget her towel, but she almost assumed Daryl would find her anyway. She’d been fast though, always was. Was easy with the hormones. 18 and learning all new kinds of feelings. Merle always called her a late bloomer. Not being interested in boys until recently. She thought about the boys at school, and their plush lips on the soft skin of her shoulder, the protection in their arm wrapped around her waist, the butterfly light kiss of their eyelashes on her stomach. 

It didn’t take much for Lady to feel somethin’. Not in this heat, not with the breeze of freedom prickling every inch of her skin. 

Daryl can’t tell what she’s doing. All he sees is her shoulders barely moving in the lake, her head above the water and facing away from him. “Lay!” 

Daryl’s voice cascades through the air a few seconds after Lady, with a barely there mew, has her orgasm. Lady’s kisses with pleasure are soft, new, wanting. Like a light peck instead of a deep kiss. A soft mist instead of a thunderstorm. Lady only knew sweetness, even in her private moments. 

She’s beaming from ear to ear as she turns around to face him, making sure to keep her body covered by the water, “Bubba, what? I’m just swimmin’.” She already knew he was ready to be annoyed with her by his tone. 

“Yeah, uh-huh,” he nods, and smirks. Despite being annoyed he’s casual, “Thinkin’ maybe ya forgot som’n?” He throws the towel down ontop of her clothes and goes to stand behind a tree while she gets out of the water. 

Lady was always doing this. And Daryl was always following her with whatever thing she’d forgotten, or didn’t know she was gonna need. Daryl was always there. 

Full name Lady-Rae Cheryl Dixon. See momma wanted the name to rhyme with the boys but always said if she had a girl she was gonna name her Lady. Really liked that movie when she was a kid, didn’t matter it wasn’t a girls name. Didn’t matter to her what anyone thought. She thought it was sweet. And Lady was sweet. Could get away with probably anything if she wanted to, but she never even tried. Besides running around the woods naked, she didn’t find herself in much trouble. Sweet as honey. 

Daryl wasn’t sure how that was gonna work out in the real world. If she would get eaten up, or if she’d outshine everyone around her. He didn’t like to think about it. She didn’t belong out there. Not yet. Right now she’s naked in the woods, covering herself up just to be polite; right where she’s meant to be. Who she’s supposed to be. 

They make the walk back, Lady’s teeth chattering but she never complains. Barefoot like she grew the forest herself. She knew every inch. Daryl shuffled behind her, knowing the trail just as well, but letting her be the force she was. Skipping and stopping and stepping on her favorite parts as she went. He watched. 

Her towel small, and frayed on the ends. See through in spots. He tries to look away. He knows he should. But he can’t manage to stop himself. the way her tiny ass bounced as she walked, it was too lewd for him to avert his eyes. Like maybe if it wasn’t jiggling so much he’d have been able to stare at his feet or off into the woods, or at her bare shoulder or something, anything, else. 

But it was, just… her tight skin moving the fat of her ass back into place over and over, snapping against the sheer fabric of the towel, moving that too. Daryl keeps himself from leaning back to see more, to peak through and see the light between her legs. Wouldn’t do that. He’s not trying to sexualize her. What her ass is doing is right there in front of him? He tells himself it’s not his fault he’s looking. He’s seen her naked anyway, it’s not even a big deal. 

Getting caught up in shit that doesn’t matter, that’s what Daryl was good at. Getting stuck up in his own head and hung up on looking just barely a little too long at his sister. Merle would say it was no big deal, Daryl just needed to relax. He was making it weird by thinkin’ about it. 

He manages to look away, and to forget all about it.

💕 

Lady always assumes Daryls looking. Why wouldn't he look? Didn't mean nothin’. Boys always looked, wasn't a big deal unless they made it one. Unless someone made private thoughts public, with a purpose. Who cares who's lookin’? Lady doesn't. Never did. Why would she? How could she?

With Daryl for a brother, Lady never even got the chance to know what a bad touch might be. Never even heard of it. Maybe that's why she was such a late bloomer. Never even knew what she had down there until last summer when she met a boy who had a truck and talked like her brothers and he touched her through her pants and she ignited. 

Never saw the guy again. 

Never wanted to. Never needed to. She was alive and on fire and everything around her burned brighter for it. 

She was finding it hard to get comfortable in the bed she’d made. Still too hot even with the air conditioner on full blast. Daryl was about 3 feet away, a whole heap of comforter between them. “Get up” Lady’s voice a playful smirk. 

Daryl had been trying to fall asleep but got stuck staring at the ceiling fan. Trying to watch a single blade in its rotation. He stands up like she’d asked and watches as Lady lays the comforter out on top of the rest of the blankets she’d piled up, “if we’re not gonna use it.” She explains. 

Lady’s still got her light blue baby blanket that goes almost everywhere with her. Just as tattered and falling apart as the towel. Daryl never sleeps with a blanket anyway. Usually just passes out in his clothes, on his bed. Now he’d do the same thing here, in the living room. Hum of the a/c, chatter of the TV, the heat from Lady’s body - Daryl didn’t think he’d be able to fall asleep anyway. 

Well maybe. He did have a joint stashed in with his cigarettes that he’d been saving for sometime this week. So when lady gets up to grab herself an ice cream cone from the fridge, Daryl yells, “Lay, grab ma pack’a smokes.” 

Lady’s halfway to the living room but she turns back and grabs them from the kitchen counter for him. “You’re really gonna smoke in the fort?” 

“Fort, huh?” He grunts then smiles at her as she tosses the pack at him. 

“Yeah?” She looks around, elbowing the sheet hung behind her, “What else would you call it?” 

“Th’ livin’ room.” He’s not looking at her when he answers. Eyes and fingers fixed on the pack, fidgeting with the hinged top for a bit before pulling the joint out and putting it in his mouth. 

Lady stops complaining when she sees it’s not a cigarette, and takes her seat back down on the pallet. Laying on her stomach, up on her elbows, facing Daryl. Her ice cream cone had already started melting, her tongue now on a race with the liquid dripping down her hand. 

Daryl just watches her struggle, until she finally gets a hold on it. “Y’good, there, Bug?” 

“Shut up.” And she shoves him a little. She’s got strawberry icecream all over her cheeks and chin and Daryl wishes he took pictures because at this moment he needed one. He needed her to remember forever who she is right now. 

“Y’wanna hit?” He asks her like he asks her every time he smokes a joint in front of her. Which is often. And every time she says no, because it’s always no. Never wanted to, never really saw the point. Things were beautiful enough. And it reminded her of Merle, and the bad things he got up to. 

Her mind slowly has been changing about it, with Merle gone for so long now. And Daryl being so chill about it when he was about it. A lot of the kids in high school had been doing worse and Lady found herself wanting to say yes when Daryl asked her. 

But when she does, Daryl doesn’t believe her, “No fuckin’ way, Bug. Yer buggin’.” 

“Bubba, no I’m not. I been thinkin’ about it.” 

“Oh, ya have? What’chya been thinkin’ ‘bout it?” 

“Just that I kinda wanna try.” She sways on her elbows, licking at her ice cream, “I’m gonna eventually, right? Why not now?” 

She’s trying to keep herself calm, but she was more relaxed than she’d usually be when she thought about sayin’ yes. Maybe that’s why she’d finally said it. She was finally able to. Lady thinks that means she must be ready, if she’s not afraid to say she wants to try it. 

She remembers this moment for the rest of her life. 

Makes her feel brave, like she’ll always know if she’s ready for some new scary experience or not. If she can ask, she’s ready. 

He thinks about it for a second, but he doesn’t see where she’s wrong. She probably was gonna try it eventually, why not now? She was safe here, he knew it. She knew it. So he says, “Alrigh’, fine. But yer prolly gon’ jus’ get tired,” and passes the joint to her. Thinking she'd take a tiny hit, probably not even inhale, and wimp out.

Lady takes it delicately in her fingertips and brings it to her lips. She’d tried cigarettes before (and didn’t like them), so the motion wasn’t completely foreign. But everything about it felt new and different. It burned. She almost didn’t feel it until she exhaled. A cloud of smoke billowing out and surrounding the both of them. 

Daryl laughs and mutters, “Shit, Bug,” while Lady’s face falls. That was way more than she thought was supposed to come out. Way more than her little lungs were expecting or could take. Her hand shoots out to Daryl for him to take her half eaten ice cream cone as she turns into a rabid dog. 

A wild beast on all fours hacking up half her lung and Daryl’s laughing so hard he’s crying, taking the ice cream and the joint back from her as she seizes. 

She’ll be okay. He knows she will. And she’ll sleep amazing and she’ll be safe like she always is. Somethin’ in the air felt different there now. With everyone else gone. Like nothing could touch them. 

So even though Lady’s about to be as high as a girl could ever be, neither of them are worried it won’t be a good time. 

Just them in their fort. Way too old to be playing little kid games and way too young to be playing house. 

💕

Lady’s vision was fuzzy. Glittering and dancing and hazy, rainbow bursts of fizzy glowing sparkles. 

Lady was secretly afraid she was on fire. She stared at the TV but wondered to herself if it was possible that her lungs were embers that were slowly consuming her chest cavity. She could breathe now, it had been nearly an hour since she hit that joint, but she was sure that she was literally burning alive from the inside out. 

“Dar, do you think you can be burning inside your lungs? Like on fire? Is that how people spontaneously combust?” 

Daryl’s eyebrows shoot up, she’d been quiet for a while and he had been pretty sure that she’d fallen asleep. He had to think about her question. If he wasn’t also stoned he probably would have been able to tell her the answer was obviously no. Instead he says, “Don’t think so.” Which doesn’t really make her feel better. “I ain’t ever hearda it.” That does. Daryl’s hearda everything. 

Their voices are soft, the tv’s the only light in the room. Daryl looks over at Lady. Her bare legs disappearing under an old pair of pajama shorts, she’s definitely not on fire. Not the way she means. 

“Think yer good, Bug.” He reassured her before asking, “Need som’thin’?” 

Lady, sweet as ever, asks, “Tuck me in?” 

Daryl rolls his eyes but sits up anyway. Crawling the two steps toward her. He takes what he can of the stretchy old fabric and wraps it around her body. It’s not big enough, it was never gonna be. Daryl cracks a smile, Lady’s been laughing at his attempt. He pushes his fingers with the fabric around her, she’s laying straight as an arrow, blanket stretched to its limit tight against her body. 

Daryl isn’t paying attention to his fingers as they tuck the fabric under her thighs, or how tight it’s pulling against Lady’s breasts. Lady does. She took one look at him after she hit that joint and she hasn’t been able to sit right since. 

It’s the air, it’s the heat. It’s the sun, maybe something in the water at the creek? Its the pot. It’s gotta be the pot. It’s somethin’ that Lady doesn’t understand. That sometimes just being in proximity is enough. 

She felt brave. She wanted to skirt that line. The line itself moving, and blurry, and hard to make-out. She wanted to be touched. And she wanted Daryl to touch her. Not too much, just a little. Just enough to make her heart race. Just enough to kiss her sleep with something that felt like magic. 

Her pulse is pounding in her ears and down her throat as she looks at him up above her. She feels her blood burn in her palms, slowly falling away from her sides as the tight fabric comes loose from around her. 

Daryl’s lost in the same moment, just caught staring down at her, in a haze himself. Stuck in his head, romanticizing every moment of Lady’s last summer.  

“Kiss goodnight?” 

The words come from between them. Lady’s voice had spoken them but she’s certain it didn’t come from her mouth. 

Doesn’t matter. They’re in the air and Lady and Daryl both pretend that she doesn’t mean it in any way other than what a sister might say to a brother. 

Daryl leans down and just barely brushes his lips over hers. Soft and sweet, like he was leaning down and smelling a flower. It’s so brief, and it’s so feather light it almost wasn’t there. Lady and Daryl both pretend it wasn’t. 

She closes her eyes and snuggles into her blanket, all bunched up in her arms. And Daryl moves back to his spot, trying not to think about what just happened. How it’s all different now. In two seconds everything was different. 

She initiated something new and Daryl already knew he was gonna do what he always did with Lady. Whatever she wanted. 

💕

The sun is just barely peaking through the windows when Lady opens her eyes. The tv still playing, she sits up and leans herself forward to turn it off. Turning around to observe Daryl. But she wasn’t expecting… this. 

He must have gotten up in the middle of the night and ripped his clothes off because he’s just laying there in his boxers and his wife beater. Head leaning back off the pillow, arms laying on either side of his body. The part that catches Lady completely off guard was between his legs. Hard and trying to push its way out of his boxers. Lady can see a hint of pink between the fabric. The hole in the front tenting out around his bulge. 

Lady tries not to look. Knows she shouldn’t. But it’s too lewd to look anywhere else. He moves briefly in his sleep, which only makes their situation worse. His erect member pushing its way completely out of the hole. Lady gawks, feeling something akin to a squeel in her throat. She’d never seen something so… she needed to touch it. 

She shuffles closer to him, her knees padding on the layers of blankets underneath them. Her small hand moving out in front of her, she can’t look away. 

Her fingertips meet the skin of his bare cock with something Lady is sure is electricity. It’s warmer than she’d imagined, and as she moves, her nails grazing on the skin as she lightly traces up and down, she realizes that his skin here is softer than she’d imagined too. 

After a while, she can’t help herself, and wraps her fingers around him. Slowly working her hand up and down, her fingers just barely putting any pressure against him. She wants to squeeze it, to feel how hard it really is, she wants to roll it between both her hands and put it in her mouth and she wants to get to know it better than she knows any part of herself - but she doesn’t wanna wake Daryl up. 

It wasn’t even her fingers that woke Daryl up. It was the pressure. Below his stomach, twisting deep inside and throbbing.

He keeps his eyes closed, tries to keep his breathing steady. Tries to get himself to speak up, say something, tell her to stop. At least let her know you're awake. But he can't move. 

With his eyes closed he can feel every light touch of Lady’s hand. The way she pushes her palm down when she gets to the base and pulls it off as she gets to the tip, the way she's moving in soft semi-circles, but not while she's going up and down. She's exploring. 

Daryl didn't want to stop her. 

He's so hard it hurts. He almost winces when she grips him tighter. She was only moving herself in a different position, Daryl realizes, because he feels her other hand on his cock now too. 

Lady holds him in one hand, bringing the other up she grazes her index and middle finger over the tip of his length. Gliding his pre-cum all over his head. Trying to see how far it would go, she's surprised it's as slick as it is. She wants to taste it. 

Daryl feels her fingers leave him, and hears the slick pop of her tongue as she moves her fingers between her lips. He has to stop himself from rutting his hips up into her hand, stop himself from pushing her head down onto him to feel her wet mouth. 

He doesn't have to make her do anything, though.

Daryl feels a soft veil of hair tickle his skin above the waistband of his boxers, and he realizes she's about to put her mouth on him. Her pretty pink lips were about to wrap around his cock head. Her tongue, that he'd watched lick up melting icecream only a few hours ago, was gonna be flat against the underneath of his dick. Lady. With all the sweetness inside of her, was about to suck him off. 

Lady can't help herself, doesn't want to. Never learned how. She’s not quite sure how to start what she wants to do but decided to put her lips together and kiss right underneath the tip. She doesn't pull away. Parting her lips and flicking her tongue out from between her teeth to taste more of whatever was coming out of him. 

She feels it twitch under her tongue, so she licks him again. Longer, this time, with more certainty. Moving her fingers out of the way, she licks him once all the way from the bottom to the top. 

Daryl didn't think about what was gonna happen when he came. What he should do. It happens so fast that he doesn't have time to warn her. The first shot goes right on her face. 

Daryl sits up in time for the second and third to be lost somewhere on the blankets or his boxers. 

“Shit, Lady. M’so. M’fuckin’ sorry.” 

“It's my fault.” She explains in a flat tone. She sits still while Daryl uses his shirt he was wearing last night to wipe off her face. He’s a mess. Red-eared and scared as a dog but Lady's smiling bigger than she has in her whole life. 

She ignores his apology, his frantic attitude. She was serene. Like she always was. “When did you wake up?” 

“I’unno.” Right at the beginning, really, but he can’t tell her that. Can’t tell himself that. 

She ignores him, she didn't really care. “So that’s what happens then? When a guy…” she mouthes the word ‘comes’ in an exaggerated way, looking in Daryl’s eyes the whole time. 

He lays back into the pillow, grabbing another one to pull over his face. He can’t believe she just asked him that. She can’t believe this just happened at she was being so casual about it.

Lady pulls the pillow out of his hands just as fast. “No, come on. Ya can’t just not tell me. Not now.” 

Daryl puts his arm over his face, only his mouth and his nose peeking out behind the crook of his elbow. She had a point, “Whad’ya wanna know?” 

“Everything. All of it.” 

“Whad’ya wanna know righ’now.” 

Lady tells herself that if she’s ready to know, she’ll be able to ask. “When I have an orgasm nothing comes out. But when guys do it, that’s what happens?” 

She bites on her lip and looks down at him, his eyes and most of his face still hidden behind his arm, laying back on the bed. He’d stay like this and answer her questions. Wouldn’t be able to do it if he was looking at her, “uh-huh”. It's more of a grunt than a word.  

Lady tries to figure out which question to ask next. She knows a lot of stuff. Boys like it when girls suck on it. Boys like it when girls let them put it inside them. Lady isn’t sure exactly how that works, but she knows what she has. And what they have, and she doesn’t need to ask where it would go. 

“Did you like it?” 

A long pause. A half sigh, a grunted response, “uh-huh.” 

“Do you want me to do it again? Can I.. can I do it again?”

“Na’righ’ now.” 

Those words hang there even after Lady gets up and Daryl gets up and they both go about their day. This promise of ‘maybe later’. Daryl has errands to run in town and Lady says she’s got laundry to do, but hes pretty sure she just likes staying at the house. 

“Need somethin’, Lay? Goin’ ta town!” He shouts inside the house from out of it, he’d been outside most of the day, mowin’ the lawn, finally cleaning up the old trampoline. Trying to tell himself that even if he'd tried to stop her, she wouldn't have let him. 

Lady appears in the doorway in a breath, “Where ya goin’ in town?” 

“Store.” He leans against the wood frame lining the area around the steps and lights a smoke. 

Lady leans back, swaying her body with both hands on either side of the door by the handles, “Hmmm, maybe we could get stuff for grillin’. And we’re out of ice cream.” 

Daryl nods, taking a drag, his eyes squinting against the sun, “Somethin’ else?” 

“More pot?” She squints back at him. 

He breathes out an almost laugh against the cigarette between his lips, “Yeah, alrigh’. Tha’s it?”

“Wine coolers?” 

Daryl actually laughs at that one, “What’re ya tryna prove, Bug?”

She stops swinging on the door, “Not provin’ nothin’. Daddy's dead. Let's live a little.” 

💕

So Daryl gets some girly somethin’ - what he assumes are wine coolers. They're in the refrigerated case at the distributor, and there's strawberries and an island on the cardboard carrier. And the bottle’s shaped stupid. Daryl’s sure he's gotten the right thing, or at least something she'd probably like. 

Daryl doesn't feel bad indulging her. Never did, and anyway he's surprised it's taken her this long to ask. As far as growin’ up in the sticks, Lady was a good girl. And so she wanted to smoke some pot and drink some wine coolers with her brother? 

So what she had all the curious burning of an explorer on their first expedition with every new thing that she tried, and so what if that new thing was Daryl's body and how it reacted to hers? 

Daryl doesn't feel bad indulging her. He reasons with himself his whole drive that it can't be that bad. Not if Lady wanted it. Lady never wanted anything bad ever. She never gossiped, or tattled, or cheated at board games. Lady never even tried to sneak sweets. She told Daryl once it was cuz she didn't want anyone else to get in trouble if someone noticed it was missin’. Nah, Daryl figures if Lady wants it, if she asks for it, it can't be somethin’ ugly. 

💕

Daryl's on his third beer before he's able to say it, “Lay. Wha’ we did this mornin’ -“ he’s tried to figure out how he feels about it, he’s still not sure he’s making the right choice, but he needs to decide something before she decides for them. “Ya didn’t do nothin’ wrong but - can’t go tellin’ people we did that.” 

Lady laughs, she’s on her second wine cooler of her whole life, and all of a sudden Daryl thinks she’s new to the planet earth. She was backwoods but she wasn’t that backwoods. She was, after all, a high school graduate. “You mean I can't tell Auntie Norma I made you…” She mouthes the word ‘come’ again in the same exaggerated way she had earlier before losing herself in a fit of giggles. 

Lady and Daryl had folded up their temporary bed and shoved it in the corner. She was currently leaned back on the far edge of the coach, head thrown in laughter. Her shoulders shaking, her hands gripping the bottle between her thighs. 

Daryl bites at his thumb, sitting in the armchair across the room from her, he was trying to be serious for a damn second and she was laughing at him. “Jus’ don’ really know whatya think yer doin’. If yer in your right mind ‘n all. An’ y’know we ain't supposed ta.”

He just needed to hear her say it, if she could say it - if she could ask for it, it couldn’t be bad. 

“Wasn't thinkin’, Dar. Was just doin’.” She doesn’t really have an answer for him. She's in her right mind, she knows people aren't supposed to do that kind of stuff with their family. But nothin’ ever felt wrong between her and Daryl.

Daryl downs the rest of the beer he's holding in one gulp. He puts his finger in the hole at the top and spins it absentmindedly on his knee, “Jus’ need ya t’know what yer doin’.. it ain't somethin’ people usually do, Bug.” 

Lady’s starting to get frustrated. She knew what he was getting at, but why'd he have to say it? “I know I'm not supposed to, Dar. It's like those times you and Merle let me watch scary movies when I was little and I had to tell Momma and Daddy we were watching lions on PBS instead.” 

Daryl reaches down and grabs another beer from the case next to the armchair. He just shakes his head. She's gotta know it ain't that simple. 

“Bubba, look at me.” 

Daryl looks over, curious what she needed the eye contact for, “W’sup, Lay?”

“It’s just you and me out here and as far as I can tell we didn’t hurt anyone.“ She finishes the rest of her drink in one gulp just like he had, “The woods are good at keepin’ secrets, Bub. You know that.” And she smiles, looking down before looking directly at him.

If they didn't know before they both knew now. It wasn't just going to be that one thing that happened between them. The stagnant ‘maybe later' coming back and sitting on their shoulders, in their laps, in every empty space of the room. 

‘Maybe’ turns to definitely. To obviously.

Daryl grunts, trying not to let a smile on the corners of his lips. He opens the bottle in his hand and takes a sip before bringing it back down to look at it. Pondering her words like they're written on the label. All he thought he'd needed to hear was that she knew it had to be a secret. That she knew she was committing a crime against god here with him. But now what?  

Lady almost can't take it, the cicadas buzzing from outside are so loud it's infesting her brain. She’d been sitting there for an hour trying to figure out how to ask him if she could touch him again. And now that he's brought it up, she can't think of anything else but the way he tasted, the way his thing pulsated and twitched underneath of her tongue. She wants to make him cum again. 

Daryl's drinking his beer, lost in thought, while Lady decides she should probably have another one too. She gets up and walks past him to the kitchen. 

“Where ya goin’?” He half shouts behind him, a little worried he'd hurt her feelings. Read something wrong. Said something wrong. 

Lady smiles to herself, Daryl worried all the time about everything and it always ended up being for nothing. “Just gettin’ another one. That okay with you, pop?” She teases. 

She reappears from behind the sheet holding another wine cooler. As she takes her seat back on the couch Daryl leans forward, elbows on his thighs, taking another sip of his drink, “Might wanna slow down on those, Bug.” He's smiling into the bottle. 

Lady sticks her tongue out at him, her eyebrows drawn down in mock anger, “What, afraid I'm gonna blow chunks instead of blow you?” She's been on the edge of it for so long it spills out of her mouth.

Daryl has no idea what the fuck to say to that but he laughs out loud. He genuinely guffaws. If it wasn't his little sister he'd be frozen in his fuckin’ chair. Churning a little at this realization - Cuz when she said it he wasn't uncomfortable. Wasn't afraid, or worried that he was gonna have to do something he might mess up. 

“Nah.” He answers her before his mind takes off on a tangent about how it's his sister and the proposition of her sucking his cock should make him uncomfortable. But it didn't. 

Cuz if she wants it, it can't be wrong. 

“Just keep drinkin’, Lay. If ya blow chunks yer the one stuck cleanin’ it up though.” 

“Let's smoke that pot.” 

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon. Why not, bub?”

“Cross-faded.”

“What's that?” 

“Pots different after y’drink. Jus’.. trus’me on this one.” He sips his beer, “‘nless yer really set on blowin’ chunks. Tha’s definitely a sure fire way.” 

Lady shakes her head, taking her drink from between her thighs again and sipping it before putting it back. 

She's gotta figure out how to ask soon or she was gonna drink herself to sleep. 

Daryl can see her workin’ something out in her head, “S’goin’ on, Lay?.” 

She’s staring at a spot on the ground and she doesn’t look up, “Thinkin’.” 

“‘bout wha’?”

“Your cock in my mouth.” 

Daryl chokes on the spit he was swallowing, “Christ.” He says as he coughs. He doesn't think he's ever heard her say that word. “Yer really serious, huh?” He asks again, this time because he truly can’t believe it. Why would she, the sweetest piece of Georgia pie, wanna put her pretty mouth on him? Even if he was her brother. Especially because he was her brother. 

She smiles and looks down at her fingers around the top of her bottle. Blushing beet red and nodding her head so aggressively her hair moves. 

He wants to let her but somethin’ about it doesn't feel right. Not because of who she was or who he was, or cuz it was wrong. “Shouldn't jus’ blow guys, Lay.” 

“Whaddya mean?” She picks at the label on her drink, not looking up at him. Nervous and excited and hanging on his every word. 

“People, uh - usually… do other stuff first.” He explains, not wanting to make her feel bad for what she'd already done, but wanting her to understand she can't just do that to other guys. 

Lady laughs, a sigh of relief escaping her as she brings the brim up to take another swig. There's a million things sitting between her teeth and her lips just waiting to be said. Instead, she just asks, “Do you wanna watch a movie?”

💕

pt. 2

A/n: This is coming out a whole lot sweeter than I thought it was going to be and I know in the end it's going to break my little heart. 

Anyway sorry, most of the smut will be in part 2 where I imagine going into detail about their first time (for a few different things) as well as how they are once they get more comfortable as they get deeper into the summer. 

Broken up into two parts because I can't fathom proofreading these 6,000 words one more time. 

(Next part will be up as fast as I can write it.)

[saltysultry]

Untouched: Part One

Pastor Lemuel Childs x OC

Synopsis: Pastor Childs has been lost this past year after what his family and the parish went through. But when a young woman comes into town, aimless and without guidance, the Pastor takes it upon himself to be her shepherd, and lead her out of the darkness... And into his arms.

Warnings: older man x young woman, religious exploitation (kinda), religious trauma, eventual smut, angst, OC is a virgin, Pastor Childs is not a great person but he sure is hot as hell, I apologize for any spelling errors

@justme12200 @its-in-the-woods @hiddlebatchedloki

Word count: 6.2K

315 miles between here and there. 1,663 feet between the home Virginia knew, in the town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and the old house in West Virginia, where her uncle used to live. If dwelling like a hermit is considered living at all, she mused.

By the 302nd mile, her rusty old truck, another inheritance by her father, had ceased to run, sputtering and spitting as it slowed to a stop on the side of a road in the middle of nowhere. Virginia hadn’t been reckless, she had paid attention to the meter and was heading towards the nearest station when the tank was near-empty. She knew better than to overestimate the distance an empty tank could take her. 

“Crud.” She muttered, hopping out the side of her car and slamming the door shut. She had a spare gallon in the back, but when she picked up the red jug only to find it empty, she cursed and threw it back into the truck’s bed. 

Her phone was well-charged, though the lack of service made the attempt of contacting any help impossible. And so, Virginia knew she was stranded. Stranded somewhere in the woods of West Virginia, on the side of the road with the sun going down faster and faster. Damn autumn, why did the daylight have to go so quickly these days?

She would have to wait out her isolation inside her truck and flag down the nearest car. Virginia must’ve seen something like this in a horror movie before, a young woman stuck in the woods, at the mercy of the nearest stranger or strangers. It was getting colder by the minute, and after half an hour, she was shivering. 

“I’m gonna die in West Virginia… Great.” She shuddered. 

The house her uncle left to her ought to be a damn mansion if merely getting there cost her life. It should have impressive architecture, fountains, a zoo of lions, tigers, and bears. The toilets should be made of gold and the food imported from all over the world. The harder she shivered, the more Virginia cursed her uncle’s house.

Then, there they were. A pair of twin headlights floating between the trees far off in the dark. Perking up, Virginia sighed in relief and hopped right back out, waving her arm at the oncoming vehicle. It was another truck, rusty and old like her’s. Perhaps even the same year.

“Thank goodness!” Virginia said, pulling closer at her pathetic excuse of a coat. 

The truck pulled over to the side, just a few yards ahead of Virginia’s. The driver parked it but didn’t shut the engine off. Soon, a figure exited the driver’s side and shut the door before slowly walking over to her. 

“Are you alright, ‘mam?” 

She couldn’t see him at first, but the voice suggested her hero was male. He was relatively tall, looked like he was dressed warm, and had a thick Appalachian accent. Must’ve been a local.

“Uh, yeah, but my truck’s outta gas. I was heading to the nearest station when it crapped out on me.” Virginia said, standing close by the driver’s door. “If it isn’t any trouble, would you be able to take me to the gas station? Or maybe to-”

“No trouble at all, miss.” The man said, waving his hand. “I can drive you to Slaughter’s, she’ll assist yah.”

Slaughter’s? Virginia paused. What kind of a name was that? Perhaps she was inside of a horror movie. 

“Thank you, sir.” She said, forcing a smile. “Let me get some things.”

“Take yer time.”

Virginia grabbed her satchel from the passenger seat, The one possession that contained all forms of ID and basic needs, such as her phone, a couple of spare pads, her wallet, and a tiny booklet of sermons, a gift from her father. 

She followed the stranger back to his truck and climbed into the passenger side, shutting the door carefully while he slid into the driver seat. Getting a better look at him, the man was rather handsome looking. He had a proud forehead, dark hair that grew only just past his ears, combed back over his head neatly with slivers of gray here and there. His cheekbones were defined, lips soft-looking and sun-kissed skin aged with lines. He must’ve been in his late forties or early fifties. 

“Thank you so much, sir.” Virginia said as he put the car in drive, slowly merging back onto the dark road. “I was afraid I would’ve had to wait all night for someone to come along.”

“You’re lucky it was I who came along, miss. These woods aren’t exactly kind to standed women.” He said. While it was a warning, his soft-spoken voice suggested he didn’t mean to scare Virginia, merely inform her. “The name’s Lemuel, by the way. Lemuel Childs.”

Virginia repeated that name in her mind. Where had she heard that name before? Surely they had never met before. And yet, Lemuel Childs plucked the chords of her memory, as if she was trying to recall the tune of a song she used to know. 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Childs. I’m Virginia Godwin.” She said,

“Godwin?” Lemuel’s brow furrowed as he stared ahead at the road, illuminated only by the lights from his truck. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Joshua Godwin, would you?”

Virginia perked up. “He’s my uncle! Well, he was.” 

Poor uncle Joshua had suffered a sudden stroke only two months ago. He was buried in their family plot in Gettysburg, but he had lived in this backwater town in West Virginia most of his life. 

“We heard about that. My condolences.” Lemuel said, glancing over at Virginia with a sorry expression. “He may not have been part of the congregation, but we always kept him in our prayers.”

A religious man? Of course he was, Virginia thought to herself. She had nothing against men of God, being a Christian woman herself who knew her good book well enough. But she always felt weary around the type who felt the need to announce to others about their good will, always praying for those who didn’t ask for it.

After Joshua’s wife, Virginia’s aunt Grace, had passed about fifteen years ago, he had pulled away from God. It was a stark turn around, being that Joshua used to preach himself at his local Methodist church. But Grace’s death had stripped him of his faith and confined him within his humble home, no longer interested in the outside world or what God did with it. In a way, Joshua had already been dead for years.

“You’re with his church?” Virginia asked Lemuel.

He shook his head. “We’re a small congregation, but we’re firm believers in the Full Gospel.” 

So they were Pentecostals, Virginia realized. Being raised a Methodist, she understood the importance of one’s personal relationship with God. But speaking in tongues and divine healing always seemed borderline occult to her. She wasn’t one to judge how others express their belief in the Bible or God, given those who did weren’t dangerous to others. But she had reservations about those who preached against modern medicine and rejected man’s ability to reason outside of the word of God.

“I assume my uncle was rather unfriendly towards your congregation, then.” Virginia said. The last memory she had of her uncle Joshua was when he ripped her mother’s Bible out of her hands and threw it against the wall, cursing God. “He was very, erm, critical of religion.”

“Yes, he was.” Lemuel chuckled. “Unfortunately, those who’ve lost their way are more prone to slapping God’s hand away than accepting his love. But we aren’t the ones who should pass judgment on them.”

Hate the sin, love the sinner, Virginia remembered. It wasn’t for man to judge man, but for God to judge man. Of course, man did so anyway, because who else would carry out the word of God? Virginia liked to believe that God had forgiven her uncle and saw through his grief before he passed onto the other side. It was better than believing in the alternative.

“And you? Have you accepted Christ as your personal savior?” Lemuel asked. It was a loaded question, sure, but Virginia wasn’t shy of expressing her love of God and his Son.

“‘He who believeth in me though he was dead, yet will he live.’” She recited. 

Virginia hadn’t attended church in years, but she still knew all the sermons she sat through and read growing up. All the times her mother made her sit at the kitchen table and memorize each page of the Old and New testament weren’t for nothing. It didn’t matter if Virginia understood what she was reading, just as long as was reading it. Knowing the good book front to back gave one credit amongst their congregation, according to Virginia’s mother.

“I take it you’re a Methodist like your uncle was?” Lemuel said, not at all impressed by Virginia’s quote. Reciting the Bible didn’t indicate one’s faith. Merely that they knew how to read. 

“Well, I’m… Sort of figuring that part out myself.” She confessed. 

Truth was, Virginia was a Methodist in association only. It was the only denomination she had been familiar with her whole life. But after leaving church and keeping her faith all the more personal, she had found herself lost. That aimless wandering was what brought her to West Virginia, to this mountain where Lemuel and her uncle lived. She believed that God had sent her on this path, to accept the inheritance and shack up in her uncle’s house, away from her parents. 

Lemuel was intrigued by Virginia. “Ain’t no shame in being lost, so long as you’re open to pathways revealed to you.”

Virginia knew a veiled statement when she heard one. Lemuel, like many other preachers and priests, believed their way of worship was the correct one. She had believed the same thing when she was still a practicing Methodist. 

“May I ask what brings you to our side of the mountain?” Lemuel continued.

“My uncle left me his house in his will.” Virginia sighed. “His will stated, ‘do what you will with it. Sell it, burn it, live in it if it’s still habitable by the time of my passing.’ I’m checking it out to see which of those options are more probable.” 

“I see.” Lemuel chuckled. “He did have an interesting sense of humor from what little interaction I had with him. Now, I know we’re little more than strangers, but if I may, I believe that the Lord’s given you an opportunity to start something here in this community.”

A bold statement from a stranger, yet his shockingly accurate presumption of Virginia’s motivation for leaving Gettysburg touched her. She believed the same thing, that this opportunity was the Lord’s way of opening a door for her, urging her to find whatever she was looking for in the mountains of West Virginia.

Lemuel also had noticed the chain around Virginia’s neck, the pendant hanging from it a small, silver Jesus on the cross. She was a woman of god, she must understand the importance of God’s mysterious will. Or perhaps, he was just searching for a reason for this young woman to stay. It had been a while since a new face came to their remote town. More people had died or left than moved in, which Lemuel never resented until recently.

“I believe so too.” Virginia agreed with him. “I’m a little nervous about this whole ‘move’ though. I know absolutely nobody here.”

“Well, how about I tell you a little about myself. I'm the pastor at my parish, a small but dedicated congregation. We’re always welcome to newcomers, if you ever find yourself in need of some guidance or just want some company.”

Virginia wasn’t itching to go back to church anytime soon, but seeing that she was inside a preacher’s truck and he saved her from freezing to death… “How could I say no to my rescuer?” She said, 

“See, now you know the local preacher. Not a bad start, eh?” Lemuel smiled at her before turning his eyes back to the road.

“If the others are as kind as you, my anxiety won’t be so bad.” 

“I should warn you ahead of time, though, our way of loving Christ might come off as intimidating.” Lemuel confessed. “It might seem intense or scary, but our methods aren’t dangerous, despite what others might say.”

Virginia didn’t know what he could possibly mean. Speaking in tongues, while might seem odd, wasn’t scary. Unless they were sacrificing virgins and eating babies, they couldn’t have been that intense. She smiled politely and shrugged. Whatever their methods were, Virginia believed if their love of God was evident, it didn’t matter how they showed it. Right?

Lemuel brought Virginia to Hope Slaughter’s gas station soon enough. The place was still open, thank goodness, and an older, worn-down woman in a coat was inside, standing at the counter with a vacant expression as she flipped through a book.

“Hey Sister Slaughter.” Lemuel opened the door for Virgina, who thanked him under her breath as she stepped inside the shop. 

Hope looked up from her book and closed it, shoving it under the counter before standing up straight. She didn’t smile, she didn’t even say hello back. She wore a cross around her neck, and while Virginia assumed she was part of Lemuel’s parish, this woman didn’t seem happy to see her preacher.

“Pastor.” She replied dryly before her eyes landed on Virginia. “Who’s this you got here?”

“This here’s Virginia Godwin. Her truck’s on the side of the road just fifteen minutes up Wind Whisper.” Lemuel explained. Virginia noticed he had trouble keeping eye contact with the older woman, who’s eyes bore into his soul. 

“Couldn’t call a service yourself?” Hope asked Virginia.

“I would’ve but there was no reception.” She answered, put off by Hope’s glum attitude. Whatever beef she had with the preacher wasn’t her problem, so why was Hope gruff with her? Especially since she needed help? 

“Alright. I’ll have my husband Zeke retrieve your truck and bring it here, fill ‘er up, and get yah to wherever it is yer goin.” Hope said. “But you’ll have to shack up at this here station until it arrives.”

“Oh, that’s perfectly fine!” Virginia said, relieved that this cold woman was at least helpful. She turned to Lemuel, who had been standing beside her, keeping his head down. “Thank you again, Mr. Childs. You really saved me tonight.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss Godwin.” He smiled, the lines around his mouth and eyes deepening. “Again, you’re always welcome at our parish.” Lemuel placed a gentle hand on Virginia’s shoulder, squeezing it briefly before leaving her at the counter, waving goodbye before exiting through the front door.

Virginia was a little sad to see him go, finding his company far more warm than Hope’s. But just as promised, her truck was delivered to her, filled up, and she was finally back on the road to her uncle’s. The whole time, Virginia thought of Lemuel, his deep, hickory-smoked voice, and those hazel eyes that looked at her with the feeling of pure belief, as if he already knew she would say yes to him and show up to service.

But before Virginia left the shop, Hope had said something to her. Something ominous, darkened by the withered grunt of her thick accent, like she was a witch in an old, mountain tale. Virginia couldn’t remember exactly what it was, being she was itching to leave the gas station, but she recalled the mention of Lemuel’s name.

...

Just as Virginia suspected, the house was mostly vacant. Uncle Joshua wasn’t one to hoard or collect. It was exactly the same as it was when Virginia was there last, The floors were all carpeted, save for the tiled kitchen, which was tiny. The walls were made of wooden paneling, the one couch and armchair were made of brown velvet, and the entire place still smelled of cigarettes, despite being vacant for months. 

There was a stack of mail by the door that Virginia had to push aside to get in, most of the letters coming from banks, local shops, and even some from her own mother, Helen. Virginia didn’t know why they still communicated, given they hated each other. 

There were no plants, no paintings or picture frames on the walls, save for the single frame on the side table next to the armchair, which was of aunt Grace. There were no instruments either, which was odd because Virginia remembered her uncle being an impressive cellist and pianist. Perhaps he sold the family piano and his prized cello after Grace died.

There were two bedrooms, one was converted into what used to be Grace’s art studio, sketch pads, canvases, and supplies strewn about the room messily. The other bedroom was plain, with the one queen sized bed, two bedside tables, one with a lamp sitting atop it, the other used as a bookshelf. There was a wooden dresser against the wall furthest from the door, and a chest at the foot of the bed, a folded afgan resting on it. Virginia remembered that afgan, aunt Grace had knitted it. 

The one bathroom was grimey but bare, with only a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a comb, and a single bar of soap sitting on the sink. Uncle Joshua didn’t even have shampoo or body wash. He did look very hairy when Virginia saw him in the casket, which aligned with the fact she couldn’t find a razor.

She was grateful that the dwelling was bare enough for her to make small improvements upon it. Virginia didn’t need much, just a few potted plants, an air freshener, a radio, and maybe even a television set for the living room. 

But the first thing she did was mount the wooden cross she took from her childhood bedroom onto the wall above her late uncle’s bed. While he might’ve forbade God from his home when he was alive, Virginia was eager to welcome Him back in with open arms.

“Lord, bless this house and may its previous inhabitant find peace in your love and grace. Amen.” She whispered to herself during her prayers that night.

And in her dreams, Virginia found herself once again seeing the preacher’s face. His enigmatic smile hadn’t left her mind ever since the ride to the station. There was something about it, how the way he looked at her gave way to the most confusing feelings within Virginia. 

She dreamt that Lemuel was leading her down to a stream by the hand. When they got down to the edge of the water, he turned to her, smiled, and placed his hand over breast. His smile was as tender and kind as it was in the truck. It was as if he believed his touch was purely innocent and sweet. Virginia wanted more, but Lemuel didn’t move. 

The next morning, she decided that day was all about distraction.

A woman’s ability to turn a house into a home was revered for a reason, and she would continue that tradition. It meant having to go out into town to get some things, but Virginia welcomed the adventure. She was curious to see what this small town had to offer. And it would give her the chance to meet more locals.

There was an antique store, a market, a nursery, a second-hand store that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 90’s, a tailor, some small family-owned restaurants, an auto-repair shop, a butcher, and a barber shop. While Virginia wandered around, familiarizing herself with the town, she couldn’t help but notice how tightly-knit all the people were when conversing. It seemed everyone knew everyone and everyone knew that Virginia wasn’t one of them.

“You the new inhabitant at Old Joshua’s?” The old lady at the antique shop asked her when Virginia purchased some paintings and a basket of fake ivy to place over the fridge.

“Yeah, he was my uncle.” She told her. Guess word gets around very quickly in this tiny town.

“My condolences.” The old lady grunted. She wasn’t going to miss Old Joshua for sure. “He was… Well, I’m glad he’s resting peacefully.”

“Thank you, ‘mam.” Virginia said with a forced smile. 

If this was how every conversation in this town was going to start, she’d rather shut herself inside and follow her late uncle’s lead. She took her purchases under her arms, along with the receipt, and bid the woman goodbye before heading for her truck parked outside,

In her haste to escape the shop, Virginia had collided with a figure. “Oh, sorry!” She sputtered, dropping the fake plant onto the sidewalk.

“Oh, hello again, Miss Godwin.”

It was Lemuel. Of course it was. He bent down, picked up the fake ivy basket and smiled politely at Virginia. She awkwardly smiled back up at him, believing this moment was a test set by God to see how she would handle herself in Lemuel’s presence.

“Pastor Childs!” She cringed at herself, feeling stupid for running into him like a mindless bull. “I’m really sorry, I was just about to throw these into my truck.”

“Redecorating, I see.” Lemuel commented, walking with her to her truck. “Bet that empty house has been desperate for a woman’s touch.”

“You have no idea.” Virginia agreed, placing the collected paintings into the truck bed. “Here, I’ll take that.” Lemuel handed her the ivy basket, which she placed on the passenger seat. 

“It’s nice to see you out and about. Bet our town seems incredibly small and unimpressive compared to wherever you're from.” He said, resting his hands in his pockets. 

“Well, I never really liked overly-populated areas. Too much noise.” Virginia crossed her arms over her chest, trying to warm her hands under her arms. “Also, the mountain’s incredibly beautiful in the daylight. I could take or leave the woods at nighttime, though, it’s pretty scary then.”

“Well, I hope you don’t have a habit of wandering around in the woods at night.” Lemuel joked. 

Virginia shook her head. “Just when my truck isn’t running.”

Lemuel hummed, amused by her quip. In truth, a traditional man like he preferred it when women were driven, not driving themselves. Not that he believed women were incapable of the skill, just that they were meant to be taken care of, especially by their family. This lonely woman, without a man and without her parents in a new town… What was her mysterious past? Why did she come to their community alone?

“Have you thought about my offer?” He asked. 

Virginia, in her loneliness and need for something to warm her body, had only thought of Lemuel in terms of satisfying her needs. She didn’t like the idea of attending a service where she’ll only be reminded of her lustful dream. She was already struggling with repressing the memory at the sight of him now.

“When’s the service?” She scratched the side of her neck. 

“Tonight, just outside of town. I can write down the address for you.” Lemuel offered.

“Oh no, I can just look up the location.” Virginia said, taking her phone out of her coat pocket. 

Lemuel sighed sheepishly. “It wouldn’t be on any GPS, I can guarantee that.” 

“Oh, really?” Virginia’s brow furrowed. “This place exists, right?” 

Lemuel laughed. “It’s a small dwelling, but it is real, I can assure you, Miss Godwin. It’s just remote.”

“Okay.” Virginia wondered what wasn’t remote on this mountain.

“How’s about I drive you there myself? I can pick you up this evening.” He offered.

Virginia wasn’t one to turn down a polite offer, and she wasn’t in the position to further distance herself from the people of this town by denying their preacher’s kindness. She would accept his offer and go home to her cross that hung above her bed and pray for strength.

Lemuel kept his promise, his truck driving up the gravel driveway. Virginia had spent the rest of the day cleaning things out, rearranging furniture and scrubbing down every inch of the kitchen and bathroom. By the time the preacher arrived, she had just plopped herself down on the velvet couch, which had been vacuumed, and was resting. She didn’t even have time to change into nicer clothes. In fact, after all the grinding, Virginia didn’t feel like going to service anymore. 

“Hello, Mr. Childs.” She greeted him at the door. “Please give me a few seconds, I’m not yet dressed.”

Lemuel could see that, as she was in dirty jeans, an oversized t-shirt, and without shoes. “You didn’t forget, did you, Miss Godwin?”

“Oh, no! I lost track of the time. Please, come in. I won’t be two minutes.” Virginia opened the door to Lemuel and stepped aside, letting him enter.

He looked around, admiring how clean the space was. The floors were cleared of the dust and scattered mail, the walls were nicely decorated with scenic paintings of the mountainside, and of course, the familiar ivy basket sat atop the fridge in the small, but well-organized kitchen.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll just be in my room.” Virginia said before rushing down the hall, closing the bedroom door behind her.

Lemuel didn’t sit down. He was too curious about Virginia’s new home. And while it was small, smaller than his own house, it was comfortable. It smelled nice, seeing that she had purchased a vase of flowers and set them on the kitchen table. Lilies, fragrant and white. 

There was little to nothing in the kitchen, save for some apples, a loaf of white bread, a jar of peanut butter, and some canned corn. This couldn’t be all she had to eat, could it? Lemuel figured she had stocked up when she got here. Perhaps she didn’t have time with all the tidying up she had to do.

Virginia emerged quietly from her room, her feet light and silent on the carpeted floor. She spotted Lemuel in her kitchen, looking around but not touching anything. She liked watching him, admiring his side profile. He was a simple preacher yet there was something regal about the way he stood.

“I’m ready when you are, pastor.” Virginia spoke, breaking Lemuel’s concentration.

He wouldn’t say it, but he was pleased with how she freshened up. She wore a long deep blue skirt paired with a baby-blue blouse that covered her modestly. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back into a braid that hung down over her left shoulder, with some loose strands falling around her face, framing her cheeks.

She was young and beautiful, Lemuel couldn’t deny that. He had put to bed his feelings of attraction after his wife passed years and years ago. His eye wasn’t known to wander, focusing his heart on the Holy Ghost. But Virginia, this mysterious woman from outside the mountain, standing before him in blue the Virgin Mary, bashful in his presence, gave him that familiar sensation he was once familiar with. 

Lemuel smiled and escorted her out to his truck, opening the door for her like a gentleman. On the drive, Virginia remained silent, looking out the window while Lemuel drove. He wanted to compliment her, tell her she looked nice and that he was happy she was accompanying him to service. After the loss of multiple members within the past year, including some close to home, it felt nice to bring someone new and willing into the church.

Then, he remembered her bare kitchen. “I’d like to have you over for dinner after service, if that’s alright with you.”

Virginia was happy her face was turned away from Lemuel, for her cheeks were flushed. Dinner? She reasoned that it was merely a polite gesture. Lemuel had only been kind to her since he rescued her from the side of the road. But dinner, presumably alone with him, was so intimate. 

“It ain’t forward at all, pastor.” She said, her hands fiddling with the tips of her braid. She then ceased the child-like tic and placed them flat in her lap. What was she, a shy school girl? “Thank you for inviting me. For everything you’ve done, really.”

“Everything I’ve done?” Lemuel glanced over at her. “Now, I didn’t do what any other man wouldn’t have done, Miss Godwin.”

“You’re the only one in the community that’s been so open and so welcoming.” Virginia said. It was true, most other members she had interacted with while running her errands were rather distant, especially when they knew of her relation to the late Old Joshua. 

“Well, I know what it’s like to feel alone and in need of a kind soul.” Lemuel said. “Our church has suffered hardship. We understand what it’s like to be thought of as strange and unusual by others. And I’ll admit that history has made us hesitant to accept outsiders. But make no mistake, we’re just as devoted and loving as any other congregation.” Lemuel said, turning the truck onto a narrow dirt road that led deep into the woods.

Ahead was what looked like a shed with a neon cross above the sliding doors. Next to it was a sign that glowed “Holy Ghost Church.” Lemuel was right, it was a very remote and small dwelling. The lights were already on inside and Virginia could see some men arranging chairs.

“This is it.” Lemuel shut the engine off, turning to Virginia. “I’ll introduce yah to the boys.”

Virginia wondered if ‘the boys’ meant the gruff, burly men that came out to meet them. She recognized one of them, Hope Slaughter’s husband Zeke who said a polite “hello again” to her. The others were Hank, Aaron, and Otis, all fellow parishioners who were obviously fond of Lemuel. Zeke, however, seemed rather demure in the pastor’s presence, exhibiting the same hesitation to engage the same way Lemuel shied away from Hope Slaughter at the gas station. 

“This here’s Miss Virginia Godwin, Joshua’s niece. She’s moved into his place on Pinewood.” Lemuel told them. 

“Nice to meet y’all.” She smiled to each of them. “Your pastor was kind enough to invite me to your service. I hope that’s okay.”

“We’re always open to newcomers.” The oldest man, Hank, told her, offering his hand to her. She took it and he squeezed it between his calloused palms. “You’re very welcome, Miss Godwin.”

“We was sorry t’hear ‘bout yer uncle.” Otis said. “Was no believer, but still…”

“Thank you.” Virginia was tired of all the condolences, even if she had to accept them. 

“Well, let’s get to fixin up. Can’t have this church half-set when the others get here.” Lemuel said, gently slapping Hank’s shoulder before leading them inside.

Virginia’s eyes were instantly drawn to the crates at the other side of the church. There were red lights illuminating the crates, which had mulch inside them. Getting a closer look, Virginia then saw that these crates contained snakes!

“Woah.” She stepped back away from the sight of them. 

The other men were casual, gathering around them to observe the animal. Lemuel looked over his shoulder, seeing the look of shock on Virginia’s face. “Don’t worry, they ain’t gettin out.” He assured her. “Not until we handle them.”

“Handle them?” Virginia asked, stepping closer to Lemuel’s side as they approached the crates. The snakes were being fed live quails, their tails rattling before they struck their prey with a hiss. Virginia flinched at the sudden bite, sad to watch an animal kill another. “These are part of the service?”

Lemuel didn’t expect Virginia to immediately accept their form of worship. It was only natural for newcomers to feel fear and confusion at the sight of a dangerous animal. He and the other parishioners had handled the snakes for so long now, it was second-nature to be around them. 

“We show our devotion to the Holy Ghost through our unyielding faith. Faith that even in the presence of serpents, we are protected in his love and strength.” Lemuel explained while they watched Aaron, a man no older than thirty, lead another quail into one of the other crates. “We respect them, but we do not cower to them.”

Virginia hoped that whatever this service entailed, it wouldn’t involve her having to go near one of those things. “Snakes terrify me.” She confessed, looking away from the animals. “Forgive me, pastor, I-”

“We do NOT cower before them, Miss Godwin.” Lemuel moved in close, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder while he leaned in, lowering his voice. “Look upon these serpents and give not into fear. But feel the embrace of the Lord’s protection, for his love is greater than any evil.”

Virginia felt pulled to him as he comforted her, his lips close enough to her cheek that she could feel his breath wash over her warm skin. She wanted to curl into his side and listen to him while he preached softly, assuring her of the Lord’s will. 

Lemuel walked her over to the crates, allowing her to hold onto his arm as they went. It was natural she didn’t want to go near them. But if she wanted to understand the people of this community, she had to see how they expressed their faith. And in Lemuel’s care, she would be safe. Or so he believed.

Virginia looked over the crates and watched as the snakes consumed their prey, squeezing the quails before unhinging their jaws and devouring them bit by bit. It was violent yet peaceful, for the snakes took their precious time as they ate. They didn’t seem bothered by the presence of the others who watched over them, too distracted by their meal. 

“You will not suffer, Virginia.” Lemuel whispered, the first time he ever referred to her by her first name. “If you accept Christ as your personal savior and allow him to guide you on your path, you will be made clean again in his image.”

“Clean again?” Virginia breathed, eyes fixed on the coiling creature beneath them. What did Lemuel mean? Was Virginia being a Methodist really so sinful in his eyes?

Lemuel had made an incorrect assumption about Virginia. He assumed, given she was so beautiful and young, that she had not been a virgin. Most unmarried women these days were open to sexual experiences, whether they believed in the consequences or not. 

“I didn’t mean to imply-” Lemuel stepped away from Virginia, feeling foolish. “My apologies, it isn’t my place to make such presumptions.”

“It is not.” Virginia frowned at the pastor. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I am not unclean.” She lowered her voice so the other men wouldn’t hear. She got closer to the pastor, who now looked incredibly guilty. “I was raised a Christian, pastor. My methods of worship might not live up to your standards but my devotion to Christ is no lesser than yours.”

An unsoiled woman? Lemuel thought as he looked at Virginia. Her face was red, from anger or embarrassment he didn’t know. But he had overstepped the line, not just as a pastor, but as a new friend. 

“Forgive me, Miss Godwin.” Lemuel tilted his head forward, an apologetic bow. 

Virginia chose to sit close to the stage during the service, though she immediately regretted it when Lemuel called on her, asking the other parishioners to welcome her. The others said their hellos and warm welcomes, offering her kind smiles and words of encouragement. Virginia spotted Sister Slaughter a few rows back, sitting next to her husband Zeke, whose head was down. That couple always seemed to appear on edge, especially in the presence of Lemuel. What had happened between the couple and their pastor?

During the evening, Virginia would soon learn of Lemuel’s style of preaching. He was loud and passionate, just like any pastor she had seen before. He jumped up and down, riling up the congregation with his sermon, lifting his arms up to the ceiling as he shouted out “Amen!” The others responded to him well, raising up their arms, moaning and crying as their pastor continued, evoking the Holy Spirit. 

Virginia couldn’t deny she felt elevated, as if she could rise off the ground and ascend to Lemuel’s preaching. His energy was contagious, his voice genuine and proud, and his words moving. She couldn’t help but shout “Amen” back at him, her eyes closed and mouth agape. 

Then, Lemuel bent down over the crate to the side of the stage and opened it up, reaching in and picking up the snake gently. He held it up in the air as he continued to preach, his body shaking with excitement while the congregation collectively raised up their hands and praised the Holy Ghost. 

Virginia felt as if time slowed while she watched Lemuel handle the snake. He looked right into the animal’s eyes without an ounce of fear in his body. She had never seen such an act of true faith before. He was so certain that God was protecting him from the dangers of the snake. And while Virginia was skeptical before, now she was starting to believe that maybe… Maybe Lemuel was right.

[mrprettywhenhecries]

run rabbit, run [g.t]

Gator Tillman ✘ Win Lewis (OC)

✝︎ w.c. 3.7k words ✝︎ a/n. I wanted to write a few spooky oneshots for kinktober, focusing on kinks I've never written before, and this is (hopefully 🤞) the first of three. ✝︎ tags/warnings. canon x oc pairing, fem!oc, predator/prey, hair pulling, spitting degradation, spanking, rough sex, unprotected p in v sex, outdoor sex, creampie, slight gunplay (if you squint) ✝︎ credit. barbed wire divider {x}

After a disappointing corn maze, Gator proposes a more thrilling game and Win is all too willing to play.

[ masterlist • win bio ]

“Oh my God, that was so lame,” Win exclaimed, though she wore a grin on her face as she and Gator stepped out of the corn maze, the sound of screams and laughter punctuating the night air behind them.

“You can’t tell me you weren’t scared,” Gator scoffed, slinging an arm around her shoulders when he noticed her shiver and pull her thin jacket closer.  “You screamed your head off and hid behind me every time someone in a mask jumped out at us,” he pointed out, scowling as some teenagers pushed past, nearly running into him.

Win jerked her chin defiantly and shot him a sharp look.  “I’m not saying I wasn’t scared,” she huffed, “but there’s a difference between a cheap scare, like a jump scare and true terror,” she insisted, leading Gator toward the exit, the scent of popcorn and sweet roasted pecans from the food carts nearby surrounding them.

“You’re the only person I know that actually likes being scared,” Gator snorted, stopping to get Win a caramel apple for the road.

“It’s not that weird,” she huffed, climbing into the passenger seat of his truck.  “As long as you’re not in any real danger, it can be pretty exciting.”

“Guess that makes sense,” Gator mused, twisting his key in the ignition.  “I’ve heard fear can be an aphrodisiac too,” he added, glancing over at her pointedly.

“Oh, you’ve heard that, have you?” Win laughed, freeing her treat from it’s plastic wrapping and giving it a taste.

Gator tilted his head, lifting a shoulder in a half shrug, though a smirk played at the corner of his mouth.  

“It’s not like I didn’t have fun though,” Win added, laying her arm across the console to thread her fingers between Gator’s, smiling softly when he gave her hand a squeeze.  “I just wished it would’ve had more… ambience.”

Gator nodded to himself as an idea took root.

“What’re we doing here?” Win asked, sitting up straighter in her seat as Gator turned onto the lane to the ranch.

“Just gotta grab a couple things from the house real quick,” Gator answered cryptically, pulling up in front of the dark farmhouse.  “Be right back,” he assured her as he threw the truck in park and jumped out, hurrying up to the porch and disappearing inside.

A minute later, the front window on the second floor lit up and Win could see Gator’s shadow moving about his room.  It only took him a few more minutes before the light switched off and he was back out the door and striding toward the truck, carrying something in his hand.  It wasn’t until he yanked the door open that Win realized what it was.

“Is that a paintball gun?” she asked, unable to keep the incredulity from her voice, noting that he’d only grabbed one.

“Yep.”  Gator answered simply, stowing the gun in the backseat and tossing Win his heavy camo hoodie.  “Put that on,” he instructed, climbing back behind the wheel and turning the truck around. "You're gunna need it."

“Gator, what are we doing?” Win huffed, though she shrugged off her jacket to pull the sweatshirt over her head.  Gator’s scent still clung to it and she took a moment to bury her nose in the soft fabric, breathing him in.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he replied, wearing a smug grin.

He didn’t drive far, their destination only a few miles from the ranch, and Gator pulled off onto a narrow dirt path nestled between a patch of woods and a corn field, parking just out of sight of the road.

“Now are you gunna tell me what we’re doing?” Win asked, peering out the window as Gator cut the engine, excitement prickling her insides.

“Well, you said you wanted to be scared,” he answered, turning to look at her, his lips curving impishly.

“I did say that,” Win mused, wetting her lips, anticipation bubbling in her stomach.

“I thought we could play a little game,” Gator continued, arching an amused brow at her from under the brim of his cap before pushing his door open and grabbing the paintball gun.

“And what sort of game would that be?” Win asked, hurrying to follow him, thankful for his hoodie as she left the warmth of the truck cab, though the trees helped to cut the wind some.

Gator checked something on his gun before answering, stepping into Win’s space to smirk down at her.  

“I’ll be the predator... and you’ll be the prey,” he drawled, watching her through hooded eyes.  “I’ll even give you a two minute head start.”

Win swallowed, her eyes darting to the gun in his hand.  “You’re not gunna actually shoot me with that, are you?”

Gator shrugged.  “Not if you’re quick enough.”

The condescension in his voice made her squirm, annoyed at how much it turned her on.

“And what exactly are you gunna do when you catch me?” she asked, stepping closer, a challenge flashing in her stormy eyes.

Gator’s lips twitched, pleased at her choice of words.

“Guess you’ll just have to find out,” he drawled, the promise in his heavy lidded gaze sending heat pooling low in Win’s stomach.

“Ready for your head start?”

“You better give me the full two minutes,” she warned, and Gator started a timer on his watch.

“You better get going,” he exclaimed, and Win took off, sprinting for the treeline, glad for the cloudless sky and the nearly full moon hanging overhead.

Even after passing under the cover of the foliage, the night was still light enough that she could easily see the path ahead, though it occurred to her that that would only make it easier for Gator to see her as well.

“Shit,” she hissed under her breath, stopping to scan her surroundings–she needed to find some place to hide, and quick.

She could feel the seconds slipping away and though she knew it was only a glorified game of hide and seek and it was only Gator hunting her, her heart fluttered like a rabbit’s, hammering against the inside of her ribcage while her pulse thundered in her ears, the adrenaline flooding her making her feel alive.

Spotting a large bush growing next to a cluster of trees a few yards away, Win hurried toward it, dropping to her knees to crawl under its branches just as she heard Gator’s voice in the distance.

“Your two minutes are up, Winnie!  I’m comin’ for ya.”

The crunch of Gator’s boots grew louder as he approached and Win shrank back further into the bushes, holding her breath and hoping the shadows were deep enough to obscure her.  Somewhere overhead an owl cried and Gator stopped mere feet from her hiding place, his head swiveling, searching, and part of Win itched to jump from the brush and take him by surprise, turning the tables just to prove she could—but then she’d lose the satisfaction of being caught.  

And for once, she wanted to be caught.

But that didn’t mean she wanted to make it easy for him.

After what felt like an eternity, Gator finally moved on, holding his gun at the ready.  Once he was out of sight, Win slipped out from her cover, hesitating long enough to crane her head the way he’d gone before sneaking off in the opposite direction, picking her way carefully through the underbrush.

Confident she’d lost him, she let out the breath she’d been holding and began moving faster, less carefully, thinking to double back toward the truck when a loud snap–almost deafening in the silence–echoed through the woods and she froze, her blood running cold as she looked down at the broken stick beneath her foot.

“Fuck,” she grimaced, straining to listen for Gator’s footsteps over the rush of blood in her ears, foolishly hoping he’d been far enough out of earshot to have heard her blunder.

Two sharp cracks ripped through the silence, exploding bright green against the tree next to her and a startled cry burst from her lungs, jolting her into motion.  Without a second thought, she took off sprinting, realizing too late that she was being forced out of the woods and toward the cornfield.  If she turned to run along the drive between the two, his next shot surely wouldn’t miss–for all of Gator’s shortcomings, marksmanship wasn't one of them.

Breaking out of the treeline, Win leapt headlong into the corn rows as she heard Gator fire off another couple rounds.  Though the dry corn was harder to move stealthily through, it was better than no cover at all.

Angling her body to maneuver through the narrow rows, the brittle corn leaves whipped against her face, forcing her to slow and it wasn’t long before Gator could be heard behind her.

“Where are ya, Winnie?” he called, whistling for her like a dog, and she could practically hear the smug smirk playing at his lips.  “It’s no use tryin’ to hide.  You know I’m gunna find you.”

Win stopped, gasping for breath, and turned to listen for the rustle of corn as Gator stalked her, trying to get an idea of how close he was, which direction he was coming from.

“C’mon Win, we both know how much you want me to catch you.  For such a feisty bitch, you sure like it when I have you helpless.  Bet it has you drippin’ just thinkin’ about it,” he drawled, using the barrel of his gun to part the stalks as he prowled the rows, searching for her.

A harsh gasp left her lips as she caught a flash of movement to her right and Win quickly clapped a hand over her mouth and dropped, crouching low, hoping Gator would be more focused on what was ahead of him rather than scanning the ground.

“When I catch you, I’m gunna fuck you like the little whore you are, right out in the middle of the woods–”

A soft groan caught in Win’s throat at the thought, desire pulsing through her, but as much as she wanted it, she wasn’t ready to give up just yet.  After all, the chase, the mounting tension, only made it that much hotter.

Keeping an eye on the spot she’d seen movement, Win began to creep forward slowly, circling Gator’s position as she fought to avoid rustling the stalks too much, hoping his own movement would mask any sounds she made. 

“How long you plan on keeping this up for?” Gator called, stopping once more to scan the field, tilting his head to listen.

Win grimaced, her jaw clenching as her shoulder brushed against a stalk, the leaves rustling loudly in the sudden silence and Gator’s head snapped toward her.

“Gotcha.”

Giving up on stealth, Win scrambled in the dirt for purchase, pushing herself up to make a break for it, Gator right on her heels.

She could hear his breath loud in her ears, or was it her own?

For one brief moment the moon shone brightly overhead before she was back in the woods, the moonlight filtering down in patches amid the shadows.  Not daring to look back over her shoulder, she weaved through the trees, her heart pounding hard in her chest.  For a moment she thought she might outrun Gator, not quite as fast as he once was back before his football accident, until she tripped.

Catching a large root just right with the toe of her boot, time seemed to slow as she went sprawling, arms windmilling uselessly before landing hard on the ground with a grunt.

“Shit–” she hissed, hastily pushing herself to her feet, but it was too late.  

“Freeze.”

Something pressed into Win’s back between her shoulder blades and she froze, lifting her hands in surrender.

“Good girl,” Gator murmured behind her, his breath fanning across the back of her neck, sending a shiver racing down her spine.

Gator slowly circled her, a smirk tugging at lips.

“You ready to give up?  You put up a pretty good fight, but let’s face it, I’ve got you cornered, sweetheart,” he drawled, peering down his nose at her, radiating smug satisfaction as he trailed the muzzle of his gun between Win’s legs, his lips twitching as she squirmed.

There was a look in his eyes that thrilled her, that made her burn for him—her cunt aching for him to fill it.

“You gunna answer me?” he prompted and Win swallowed, slowly nodding.

“I give up.  You win,” she said, hanging her head so Gator couldn’t see the flash of defiance in her eyes.

As soon as he stepped closer, letting his guard down,—thinking he’d won—she struck, knocking the paintball gun from his hands and they struggled, tumbling to the ground.

Wrestling frantically, kicking at the dirt and leaves, the two rolled, grunting and panting, until Gator came out on top, his cap knocked from his head and his slicked back hair falling in his eyes as he pinned her by the wrists.

“Shit—“ he gasped, catching his breath as he held her still, hovering over her.  “Shoulda known you wouldn’t go down that easy,” he breathed, a pleased grin twisting his lips, turning pink from the cold.

“That’s my firecracker,” he chuckled, his heavy lidded eyes roaming her face.  “It’s so much hotter when you put up a fight,” he drawled, leaning in to kiss her deeply, his tongue demanding against hers and Win groaned as his cock throbbed against her hip, trapped beneath his cargo pants.

Gator echoed her moan as their tongues clashed and Win bit down hard on his lip, his moan turning to a hiss of pain.

“Ow, Jesus—“ he hissed, releasing one of her wrists to gingerly touch his lip, a trace of blood staining his fingertips, though a ghost of a smile curved his lips at her display of defiance.

“Now you’ve really done it,” he drawled, running his tongue along his bottom lip.

Win’s breath hitched as Gator sat up, his fingers fumbling at the button of her jeans, hastily working them down her hips along with her thin panties.  As soon as the chill air hit her bare skin, she gasped, but Gator only grinned, his gaze dropping to her exposed sex.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he groaned, admiring the way her folds glistened wetly in the moonlight, dragging two fingers between them to gather her juices before lifting his hand to show her, pulling his fingers apart to watch her slick stretch between them in silvery strands.

“You’re fuckin’ drippin’, Winnie,” he drawled, pressing his fingers to her lips till she opened her mouth to suck them clean, moaning low in her throat at the taste.  “Looks like you’re enjoying this as much as I am.”

Win could only nod in response, swirling her tongue around his digits.  Gator’s head fell back with a groan as he palmed himself with his free hand – his cock beginning to strain painfully against the stiff fabric of his pants.

“Shit, you’re like a bitch in heat,” he muttered, swallowing thickly, and Win pulled his fingers from her mouth with a soft pop.

“Jesus Gator, you gunna fuck me or just talk about it?” Win huffed, her eyes flashing impishly.  “You’re supposed to be the predator, right?  Devour me,” she breathed, pushing up to her elbows as she held his lust drenched gaze.

“Fuck, I love you,” he breathed, rocking back on his heels to roll her onto her belly and hoist her onto all fours before fumbling his cock free, hissing at the cold.  Win gasped as Gator pressed between her shoulder blades, forcing her face down against the ground, ass still in the air, and her cunt throbbed at how easily he manhandled her.

“Be a good girl for me and stay still,” Gator grunted, grabbing the fat of her ass to part her cheeks, pursing his lips and spitting against her puckered hole.  Win gave a jerk, half pushing up, Gator’s name on her lips like a warning until her gave her ass a sharp swat, the palm of his hand stinging from the impact and Win gave another jolt, gasping in surprise.

“What’d I say about staying still?” he exclaimed, grabbing her hips to pull her back into position.  “I ain’t goin’ in that hole, so calm down,” he added in assurance.

“You better fuckin’ not,” Win muttered, but lowered her head obediently.

Gator grinned, caressing the red welt he’d left on her ass cheek before pausing to spit again, biting his lip as he watched his saliva roll between her folds to mix with the sticky arousal that was already practically dripping down her thighs.

Gripping his cock at the base, he guided the tip to her entrance, groaning as he pressed into her tight wet heat, watching raptly as she sucked him in, her greedy little cunt stretching around him like it was meant to take his cock.

Win echoed Gator’s moan, pressing her forehead to the ground as she arched back against him impatiently, urging him deeper, feeling every vein and ridge as she squeezed around him.

“Oh fuck– eager little rabbit, huh?” Gator panted, thrusting sharply the rest of the way, forcing a breathy gasp from Win’s lips as he bottomed out.  “C’mon, I know you can take me better than that,” he taunted, condescension dripping from his words as he thrust sharply into her again, tightening his grasp on her hips to hold her steady as he began to pound into her, his fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to bruise.

With each swift rut, Win’s body bounced forward with the impact, the lewd rhythmic slap of skin against skin filling the air, competing only with their heavy breaths and moans.

Digging her fingers into the earth, her cheek pressed to the cold ground, Win had never felt so deliciously helpless, so like an animal ensnared by its captor, unable to fight back even had she wanted to.  With each thrust, each jolt of her body, Gator’s cock dragged against that sensitive spot inside her that made her head swim, and she moaned, his name tumbling from her lips deliriously, uncaring about the noise in their seclusion.  She barely even felt the sting of the cold against her exposed flesh.  

“Fuck, Win—“ Gator groaned, almost a whine, his pleasure swiftly building, compressing the spring in his gut til he was afraid it might snap.  Tangling his hand in a fistful of her hair, he gave a sharp tug, forcing her head up as he leaned over her, his lips close to her ear.  

“Who owns this pussy?” he hissed, his breath hot against the curve of her jaw.

“You do—!“ Win gasped, the pain in her scalp mixing with the pleasure that coursed through her, hovering just out of reach.

“Damn straight,” Gator grunted, gritting his teeth, his movements growing jerky, desperate.  “You gunna be good and cum for me?” he asked, the strain in his voice evident.

Win tried to nod before remembering his grasp on her hair and she winced.  “Fuck, yes, please—“ she begged, wetting her lips, and it was all Gator needed to hear.

Desperate to push her over the edge, he released her hair to awkwardly wrap his arm around her, slipping his hand between her legs to search for her clit as he rut into her frantically, rubbing sloppy circles against her bundle of nerves.  The effect was nearly instantaneous, the added stimulation pushing her off the ledge and into the deep end, and Win came with a keening cry, her body tensing violently.  

“Shit, Win, fuckfuckfuckkkk—!” Gator echoed, falling headlong with her into the abyss, his hips stuttering as Win clenched impossibly tighter around him, milking him dry with each deep thrust until he finally stilled, cock still twitching as her walls pulsed and fluttered around him with the after shocks of her climax.

Panting heavily, he dropped his head to her shoulder with a ragged breath, his arm around her the only thing holding her up.  Despite the cold, sweat beaded on Gator’s forehead, his shirt sticking to him beneath his coat.

Win, however, trembled beneath him and he hastily pulled out of her, watching his spend seep from her spent hole for a moment before pushing it back between her folds with his fingers and pulling her panties back up.

“Can’t lose any of that, huh?” she chuckled weakly, pulling her jeans back up while Gator hastily tucked himself back into his cargo pants, still wet with their combined fluids. "Love the thought of you filled with me," he murmured. 

Once dressed, the two of them collapsed to the ground together, Win fitting against Gator’s side as if she was molded just for him, seeking any warmth she could find and he pulled her closer, pressing his lips to her forehead. 

“So, that was pretty fun,” he chuckled, looking down at her.

“Mhmm,” she hummed, glancing up at him through her eyelashes, his body heat not quite enough to chase away the chill that had seeped into her from the ground.  “Next time I wanna hunt you though,” she teased, shivering.

Gator snorted.  “Not a chance,” he replied, shaking his head, briefly wondering where his cap had fallen, the tip of his nose and ears growing numb from the cold.

“That’s not fair,” Win huffed lightly, snuggling closer, pressing her face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

“Yeah it is,” Gator countered, frowning slightly at how she trembled in his arms.  “C’mon, let’s go back to the truck and warm up, and we can argue more about it when your teeth aren’t chattering.”

Win rolled her eyes, but nodded, letting Gator help her to her feet.  Crouching to snatch his hat and tug it back on his head, he grabbed his paintball gun from where Win had knocked it from his hands.

“Ready?” he asked, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to keep her close till they got to the truck. “Ready,” she agreed, clinging to him as they walked.  “But don’t think our discussion is over,” she warned lightly. 

“You just wanna shoot me with a paintball,” Gator snorted.

“Maybe,” Win conceded with a grin.  As much as she enjoyed being his prey, she couldn’t deny how much she liked the thought of hunting him next time.

✝︎ taglist. @super-unpredictable98 @heartbreak-sandwich @sailorskunk @thecatkingsthrone @thecreelhouse

@girlwiththerubyslippers @professionalpromqueen @buckysgrace

[ladylooch]

20 Weeks- Miles Wood

A/N: Today, we are checking in on Miles and Kailey after an angsty request for this AU from 👢 anon.

Word Count: 1.6k

Shot in the Dark series page is here.

Hey, are you on your way home? We have to leave in 15.

Babe? Can you please answer?

Okay, I’m just going to assume you’re meeting me there? I’m heading to the clinic.

Miles, I’m checking in at the clinic. Please tell me you are coming.

Kailey stares at the blue bubbles of her iMessages to her husband. The cursor blinks in the text box almost mocking her about sending him another text. She can clearly see the purple half moon that says his iPhone is on Do Not Disturb. He does this for practice- all the boys do, so their phones aren’t going off during coaching meetings or video sessions. Professionally hockey is a business after all. 

But she thought Miles had updated his settings so her notifications got through. At least he told her he had after she became pregnant and they moved to a new state where they only had each other. 

Clearly that wasn’t the case.

Kailey clicks her phone closed, stuffing it into the pocket of her thick, winter jacket. She folds her fingers together between her knees, legs bouncing as she looks towards the clinic door to the left. She scans the windows looking out at the parking lot too, not seeing his car turning in. 

I guess she will be doing their 20 week scan alone. 

A dense lump forms in her throat as she takes in the other women in the waiting room with her. They are all in various stages of pregnancy, most with partners except for her and one other woman who is waiting for a different patient to finish. The realization of everyone having someone here except for her makes it all worse.

“Kailey?” A nurse calls. Kailey hikes up her purse, glancing over her shoulder one more time to see if she can see him coming. But Miles still isn't there.

“No dad today?” The nurse asks immediately, grabbing the labels Kailey was giving at check in. Miles had been at the other two appointments.

“Uh, no.”

“Out of town?”

“Um…” Kailey trails off, pursing her lips. “He got caught up at work.” 

“No problem! I’ll let the front desk know he might be coming, so they can show him back to where we are.” Kailey nods, taking the medical cup the nurse extends for her standard sample. She waddles into the bathroom, doing what needs to be done before rejoining the nurse in the hall. After taking her weight, blood pressure and pulse, Kailey is taken to the lab to pull blood work too. Finally, she is settled into the crinkly sheet covered table with the ultrasound technician.

“Okay! Before we start, do you want to know the gender?”

“Yes, but can you write it down? We want to do it privately.”

“Of course! I’ll let you know when I’m going over that area and I’ll have you close your eyes.”

“Okay.” Kailey nods, bringing her sweater up to just below her breasts, exposing her growing bump. “I feel so much bigger than 20 weeks.” Kailey jokes as the gel is squeezed onto her stomach. Her pulse quickens, feeling anxious and excited all at the same time.

“Yeah, the care team want us to check in on the size of the baby.”

“I should not of had sex with a literal giant.” She chuckles.

“We love who we love.” 

How true that is, even when he is missing one of the biggest milestones of her pregnancy. 

The ultrasound is long and detailed. The technician clicks buttons every few seconds, taking a large amount of snapshots of the baby. Once she is done with an area, she begins to explain.

“Heart looks fabulous. No worries there.”

“The baby is measuring pretty big for your anticipated due date.”

“Spine and neck look great. No weird curves or under development happening.” 

A knock sounds on the door. The technician stands, opening and peeking out.

“Hi, dad is here!” The nurse from earlier says.

“Oh great!” She exclaims, stepping to the side.

Miles walks in, looking incredible out of breath, with wind whipped cheeks and an extremely apologetic look on his face.

“I’m so sorry. So sorry, babe.” He runs around to the opposite side of the table. He quickly shrugs his jacket off, tossing it onto the back of his chair. The metal scrapes against the tiled floor as he settles in next to her. He eagerly reaches for her hand, but Kailey doesn’t hold his hand back. Her fingers stay limp in his grasp.

“So, as I was telling mom, spine, neck, and heart look good so far.” The technician repeats. Miles squeezes Kailey’s hand as she watches the screen, avoiding his gaze. 

“That is great. We should double check the brain. They’re half me.” Miles jokes. 

The technician laughs. Kailey doesn’t. Miles chews harder on his gum, then brings her hand up to his mouth to kiss. He drops kisses here every few moments as the rest of the scan is completed. The last item is the gender, which Kailey and Miles both close their eyes for. The technician writes the word on a piece of paper, then tucks it into an envelope for safe keeping until it is time. The envelope gets tucked into Kailey’s purse by Miles. 

“Any questions? Everything looks great. The baby is measuring a little large, so we will have to keep an eye on that as you get farther along. But nothing of concern at this point.”

“I don’t have questions.” Kailey responds. 

“I’m good.” Miles confirms.

“Great! I will let you get cleaned up. You are free to go once you’re ready.” The room is quiet until the door shuts behind her.

“Baby, I am so sorry. I completely forgot the appointment was today.” Miles says as Kailey uses the paper towel to wipe off the gel.

“I’m really upset.” She states matter of factly.

“It was not intentional. I thought it was tomorrow.”

“No, it is not tomorrow because have a game. My appointment would have bled over into your pre-game routine, so being the loving wife that I am, I made the appointment purposefully on an off-day for your convenience.”

“I know. I can’t even tell you how sorry I am. I’m sure I worried you too. I dropped the ball. I’ll make it up to you.” Kailey laughs, blinking in disbelief. 

“Good luck.” Miles faces drops deadly serious.

“Babe, I am trying. This is still a whirlwind to me.”

“Are you?” She snorts. “Wow, I feel so bad for how hard my pregnancy is for you. If this is you trying, we have bigger problems than I thought.” A whirlwind to him? Like his body is the one changing every second of every day. Like he is the one who has to grapple so hard with this reality of never being the same again? He has months left to prepare. She didn’t get that choice.

Kailey swings her legs off to the side and jumps down, passing on Miles’ offer to help. She shoves her sweater back down, then walks to put her jacket back on. She tries to get the buttons closed, but it refused because of her belly. She leaves it open then grabs her belt bag, tossing it over her head. She rips open the door to the room, then turns to the right to head back to the lobby. Miles’ sneakered feet scrape the carpet which is her only indication that he is following.

“What were you even doing after practice? What was so important that you couldn’t check your phone?” She suddenly whirls around at him when they enter the parking lot.

“I… stayed on the ice longer working with Ross on a few things.” Nothing would have made it better to Kailey, but imagining her worrying about him while he was messing around on the ice with his teammate infuriates her further.

“Great! Good for you. So glad you and your buddy had fun this afternoon while I worried you were dead in a ditch.” She snaps, then rips the driver’s side door open of her car. She slides in. “I’ll see you later.”

“Are you going home?” Miles asks through the window. 

“I don’t know. I guess you’ll find out when you get there.” Then she throws the car in reverse, leaving Miles standing in the parking lot, watching her leave.

- - -

Nothing made Kailey feel better during her hours out of their apartment. Not the Passion Fruit Lemonade from Starbucks. Or the Shake Shack cheeseburger. Or the new shoes she found at DSW. She was still upset when she came home to Miles cooking dinner for them as the sun was setting behind the mountains.

“Hey.” He calls to her as she walks in. Kailey mumbles a greeting. She tosses her new shoes into their entryway closet, then shrugs off her too small jacket. “I heard you today.” Miles says as he grabs the jacket from her. He puts is on the hanger. He looks annoyingly handsome in his professional kitchen apron with pockets and nice leather straps. “I will be better than this. It’s what you two deserve.” Kailey looks at him, studying his apologetic stature. She heard him too, but she can’t help how angry she feels looking at him right now. 

“I wish you had cared enough about this appointment to show up on time.” 

“Kails, I did care.”

“How do you expect me to believe that? Especially when your actions said everything else. You literally showed up twenty minutes after it started! I was mostly done. Did you go home first and were like huh, wonder why she isn’t here? Instead of checking your phone the moment you could!? What if something happened to me, Miles?” The intense lines of his face get deeper as he frowns harder. He shakes his head slightly, having no answer for her.

“You’re gonna be someone’s dad in 4 months. But more importantly than that, right now you’re someone’s husband. I depend on you to show up when you say you will. Don’t make me learn how to do this without you because I fucking will.”

Kailey walks down the hall to their bedroom. She opens and shuts the door, then bursts into silent sobs. 

[toasttt11]

first game

October 11, 2018

Oscar walked into the Prudential Center for his first ever game in the National Hockey League. He picked out an all black suit with a white button down shirt and a burgundy tie, he has his cuff links on that his younger siblings got him.

Oscar walked in with his headphones in and ignored all the cameras around him as he walked into the locker room and headed over to his stall.

He took out his headphones and turned his phone off throwing them both into his stall and let out a breath and started to untie his tie.

Oscar pressed his lips together tightly as he looked down at his tie and noticed how many of his fingers he had broke the skin on.

It wasn’t something new for him and it’s a bad habit he has had for his whole life but he does try not to have any open wounds on his fingers before games because of the sweat from his gloves and he doesn’t want a risk at any infection.

Oscar let out a breath annoyed at himself but shook his head ignoring it for now and continued to un dress into his warm up clothes.

Oscar headed to the gym and started on the bike and started his warm ups, Miles patted Oscar’s shoulder as he joined him on the bike next to him.

Oscar finished warming up around the same time as most of the team and they decided to start a game of sewer.

Oscar let out a snicker as the ball hit Taylor right in the back making Taylor groan and dramatically fall to the floor.

After losing the ball in the roof one to many times the team headed back to the locker room and started getting ready for the game.

Oscar fiddled with his gloves trying not to pick anymore at his fingers and Nico titled his head and noticed Oscar fiddling with his gloves as they waited to go on to the ice for warm ups.

Nico noticed Oscar fiddles with his hands a lot.

Nico nudged Oscar and Oscar snapped his attention to Nico and Nico gestured for him to follow him onto the ice.

Before Oscar knew it he was skating to the center of the ice about to take the first face off of the game and his first in the NHL, he looked to his sides and saw Taylor and Nico both giving him encouraging looks.

Oscar let out a small breath and looked straight waiting for the puck to drop.

From the second the game started anyone could tell the Devils were dominating the game and within a few minutes the first goal was scored by a rookie.

Oscar Bedard got his first goal.

The game was flying by and before Oscar even realized the second period was already over and they were heading back to the locker room.

Oscar leaned his head back against his stall closing his eyes and before he knew it he was fast asleep in the stall.

Nico turned his head to the right and looked at Oscar who was next to him and found him sleeping, Nico shook his head fondly kinda surprised but not really. Nico has know Oscar for a few months now and they live together and he knows Oscar will fall asleep anywhere he just didn’t think in between periods of a game.

Nico just tossed a wad of tape over Oscar to the stall next to him hitting Jesper, Jesper turned another and saw Nico gesturing to Oscar. Jesper turned to Oscar and let out a little laugh seeing Oscar fast asleep with his head back against the stall.

Nico and Jesper shared a fond chuckle before they turned back to themselves and getting ready for the third period.

Nico saw there was a minute before they had to get back on the ice, he gently shook Oscar, “Beds. Beds.” Oscar grumbled but squinted his eyes open, “Come on its time for the third period.” Nico told him making Oscar nod and run a hand through his hair.

Oscar shook his head waking himself up and he grabbed a energy waffle and started eating it quickly and throwing on his jersey and heading out of the locker room and onto the ice for the last period of the game.

The buzzer rang through out the arena at the end of the game, The New Jersey Devils won 6-0 against the Washington Capitals on the first game of the season.

Oscar smiled as he was brought into many hugs on the ice everyone congratulating him on his first NHL game. Oscar had gotten two goals and two assists on his first ever game in the NHL.

Oscar was his regular monotone self through all the media at the end of the game before he was finally released and he quickly headed to the showers and took a quick shower and threw on his suit and hurried out of the locker room and to the family room.

Oscar walked in the room and saw many family members in there but was looking for his.

“Ozzie!” A thirteen year old Connor spoke smiling as he quickly ran to his older brother, Oscar quickly wrapped his arms around his little brother holding him against him tightly.

Fifteen year old Madi smiled and walked over to him hugging Oscar on his other side. Oscar softy smiled and wrapped one of his arms around his little sister as well.

“You played so good!” Connor looked up at Oscar in awe and giant smile in his Devils Jersey with their last name and number on the back, “You second was goal was so cool!” Connor gushed he couldn’t wait till he played with Oscar.

“Thank you buddy.” Oscar softly whispered back kissing the top of his head and leaned over kissing Madi’s head too, “Thank you for coming Mads.”

“Course Oz.” Madi sweetly smiled back.

“Oh sweetheart.” Melanie smiled and pulled her eldest into a hug once her other kids let go of him, “I’m so proud of you.” Melanie softly cooed hugging him tightly.

Oscar soflty smiled and melted into his mother’s warm embrace, he’s always had a very special relationship with his mother.

Tom clapped Oscar’s shoulder giving him a proud smile.

[spacebarbarianweird]

Hey! It's my birthday today and it's been really good but it's been kind of the first birthday I've ever properly celebrated with my chosen family and friends in a long time since a lot of trauma/ab*se, and I really hope it wouldn't be too much to ask (take as long as you need obvs) for some headcanons with a Tav that isn't going to celebrate on their birthday, but Astarion makes it special for them somehow and maybe they agree it's Tav's 'first' birthday 🥹🥹🥹👉👈

I love all your work and eagerly await your posts, they make my day 🥰🥰🥰

Hi! Hope you will like it! Now, Tiriel's birthday is also in autumn!

Birthday Gift

Summary: Tiriel has no idea when her real birthday is and she's never receieved birthday gifts. Astarion finds it outrageous.

Pairing: Astarion x OC (Tiriel)

Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, post-game, named Tav, established relationship.

Thanks @themadlu for beta-reading!

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

TW: a mention of abuse

Tiriel looks around.

Autumn.

Leaves are turning red and yellow, the winds are cold and promise winter. 

It’s beautiful, though the barbarian feels uneasy – the childhood memories. Winters are merciless in such wild places as the Sunset Mountains. Hunger, sickness, death… Sometimes her stepfather, a cruel chieftain, would order to leave certain people outside (too old, too weak) – to let them die and not waste scarce food. 

He would often pull Tiriel outside when the autumn winds were particularly harsh and say: “Look at this, pixie girl, I can just order not to give you any food and you will die like a stray cat. But I am merciful – I told your mother I’d save your pathetic half-blood life!” With these words, he would let her go and Tiriel would run to hide somewhere dark and safe.

She was lucky there were no harsh winters during her childhood. She would be the first to be deprived of food and warmth.

Only half a human. The result of an affair between her mother and an unknown elf. She still wonders why she was spared in the first place. It would have been so easy to murder a newborn girl.

They didn’t.

They kept her.

Maybe it was a superstition that elven children would become evil spirits once they died, or fear that Tiriel’s elven relatives would return. 

Those are questions without answers, Tiriel knows that.

Maybe there was a moment when her mother loved her. Maybe there was a moment when Tiriel’s stepfather really did forgive his wife. 

Tiriel doesn’t have happy memories from her childhood. It’s all too dark and miserable.

And autumns like this remind her of it.

“Hello, darling,” Astarion grins, returning to the road from the woods. His shirt is stained and he licks his lips. 

“What was it?” she asks.

“A boar. Didn’t expect I’d jump on it from the tree.”

Tiriel smiles as she wipes his face from blood and brushes his messy curls. Astarion doesn’t see himself in a mirror and, of all forms of intimacy, he especially cherishes being taken care of. Brushing his hair, cleaning his face, making sure he looks beautiful.  

Two years. Two years of her own happy memories. Where she has a person to talk to, to hold, to love. Astarion is a troubled person, but Tiriel loves him at his worst and at his best.

Astarion rubs her ear, forcing her to giggle.

“Let’s go?” he suggests. “The weather is getting worse, I want to spend the next few days somewhere warm!”

“It’s five miles to Longsaddle if I’ve read the map properly.”

Astarion takes her hand, and Tiriel feels how warm it is thanks to the boar blood. 

“Then we will meet the sunrise in a comfortable bed!” Astarion chuckles. “And in each other’s arms.”

“I doubt they have good beds there, so far from Luskan and other big cities.”

“We have low standards, you and I. As long as there is a blanket and a bed, we are fine, Besides I love using your breasts as my pillow.”

Tiriel bursts into laughter and receives a peck on the cheek.

Unfortunately, it can’t stop bad memories.

… Her siblings asked her to help them with something on a cliff. She followed them, only to be violently beaten by her older brothers. Tiriel even thought for a moment they were going to rape her, but, instead, they pushed her down to certain death.

Tiriel woke up in dirt and blood, with her arm broken in half, shivering and coughing. 

And with a cave bear ready to murder her. 

That’s when Tiriel felt rage for the first time.

It filled her veins with fire. Tiriel barely remembers what happened that night but she knows she killed that bear– and was left with facial scars. Then she came back, limping and bleeding. She thinks she fought someone, maybe one of her brothers or the chieftain and then she ran.

She ran into the mountains woods – no armor, no weapon, only rags and bare feet. 

Then she collapsed on the ground, hurt and scared in the middle of the woods, forever lost.

Tiriel remembers that moment vividly. 

A young girl who had barely hit puberty (because half-elves grow slower) woke up all alone and cried like a child. Then she got up and walked, dying of cold and hunger. 

Two days later she was found by a group of adventurers who sort of adopted her as their party child. An old halfling washed Tiriel’s hair and healed her wounds. A water genasi cooked the girl food and offered the warmest blankets. 

And the tiefling paladin asked Tiriel what her name was.

“My sweet, I thought it was me who tends to wander into dark thoughts,” Astarion squeezes. “Remembering your misfortunate youth again?”

“Yes. Just – similar. To what it was back then. The same autumn when I ran from home. The same autumn when I got my name.”

Tiriel, the little girl told the party. My name is Tiriel.

Astarion does the same thing he always does when he wants to support Tiriel.

He gives her a hug.

“Hush, Tiriel,” he murmurs. “You will never be alone again.”

Triel relaxes. That is her Astarion – a simple hug, a kiss, an embrace, and her nightmares perish.

He pulls away and Tiriel catches his most adorable smile – he doesn’t pretend, doesn’t show off, doesn’t perform. That’s real him.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

She nods. They don’t have to ask permission to do things with each other. Kisses, hugs, grabbing hands, touching intimate parts – but they still do.

Tiriel asks if she can kiss Astarion.

Astarion states he wants to kiss her.

Simple as that.

Permission and declaration.

Astarion grazes her lips. He is in his predatory mood, when Tiriel just needs to accept whatever is going to be done to her. His strong hands grab her shoulders and tug at her.

Astarion finally breaks the kiss and stares at Tiriel for a few moments.

“I am not going anywhere,” Tiriel murmurs.

“I know, Tiriel. You are mine and I am yours,” Astarion presses his forehead to hers. 

They go down the hill and find themselves on a road that connects scarce towns and settlements far from the Swords Coast. The road is more or less walkable but it soon will be washed out due to rains. Tiriel notices Astarion’s visible disgust.

“Honestly darling, we should have stayed in Baldur’s Gate and lived a life of comfort!” he chuckles.

“You would die of boredom – besides I thought you’d had enough of that place.”

“True, but there are many other comfortable places! Tiriel, you deserve to wear a nice gown made of the best fabrics and sleep in a huge master’s bed where I will ravish you till you beg me to stop.”

Tiriel turns around to see her partner better. “And then I would die of boredom. Astarion look at us – I am a nomad and you were enslaved for so long you deserve to see the world.”

“It doesn’t mean I can’t whine and complain!”

“You can whine and complain all day long, Astarion. Why even bother to be in a relationship, if you can’t do this?”

They bicker and laugh for the next hour until they see a town ahead. Despite it being close to midnight, the town doesn’t sleep and is rather festive.

“What is going on here?” Tiriel asks a passerby as they enter the town. “Some local celebration?”

“It’s our duke’s first son’s birthday,” the woman shrugs. “Not like we care about the spoilt brat but you can’t say ‘no’ to a celebration right?”

The woman disappears in the crowd and Tiriel points at the stalls.

“Astarion, look! So many sweets! Oh, and there are fireworks!”

Astarion looks distant, as if something plagued his mind.

“Love, what is it?” She asks and feels a wave of anxiety. What if it’s too much? Feasts like this used to be his hunting grounds, what if he has a painful flashback?

Two years against two centuries is almost nothing.

“Tirie,l” he finally asks. “When is yours?”

“What?”

“Birthday. I know this is a huge deal for humans and the ones who grew up with them.”

“I don’t know.”

Astarion looks at her with shock.

“You… what?”

“I don’t know when mine is, I was never told. Neither a date nor a month.”

“Oh,” Astarion didn’t expect this answer. “Well, at least you know the year, right?”

“I don’t.”

Astarion raises his index finger as if wanting to point at something, but then he shakes his head in disbelief.

“We have been together for two years and you are telling me now that you don’t… how old you are?!”

Tiriel ponders a bit.

“Well, I know it was 1472 DR when I ran away, I was told by the party who adopted me… and I had had my first blood only two months before that. But I am a half-elf and it took me longer to grow up… So I think I was… fifteen? Maybe, sixteen… Or fourteen? Definitely not sixteen… Because my older brother was sixteen… Damn, I don't really know. Don’t bother.”

“Darling, I can’t not bother with the fact that I don’t know how old you are!”

“You say it as if I was one of those little girls who look older than they are and get their one-night stands in trouble!”

“It’s not that, Tiriel! It’s just… I don’t know… wrong!”

“It probably is.”

“It is wrong.”

“I cannot do anything about that.”

The wave of sadness drags her to the bottom of her dark thoughts.

Beatings.

Insults.

Hatred.

Pain.

All at once, since she was born.

Suddenly, she is a little girl again – a little girl thrown outside in the autumn rain, in the wind, wearing only a nightshirt. Tiriel thinks she hears her stepfather's laughter from behind a thick wooden door as a seven-year-old half-elf who cries and begs him to let her in.

Tiriel stops. Tears prickle her eyes. Her face burns, and an adult half-elven woman who fought gods and demons starts ugly crying like a child. 

She collapses on her knees not caring about the dirt, wailing and sniffing.

“Tiriel!” Astarion drops his sack and kneels beside her. “Did I do… Did I ask… Oh, hells.”

He puts his arms under her shoulders and presses her to himself, lulling and swaying side to side. He murmurs all the words of love and care he is capable of.

“Let’s take you somewhere warm,” he finally says, helping her to get up.

Despite the fest, they manage to find an inn with a free room, a cheap and simple one. Tiriel has to go inside first to invite Astarion, and then he takes everything in his hands again making sure the innkeeper brings warm blankets and prepares a bath. 

“Love,” he says. “Look at me.”

Tiriel tries not to think about how bad she looks right now with her puffy face and snot but obliges.

“That's much better, now let’s take you to the bath”

An hour later, Tiriel submerges herself into the hot water and expects Astarion to join her, but instead he goes straight to the exit.

“Astarion!” she calls him out.

“I will be back soon, just relax while I am away, all right?”

Tiriel hates being alone. Too many dark thoughts, besides, now she feels guilty. Astarion went through hell and she dares to complain?!

Her past isn’t that bad in comparison with his. She has no right to pity herself. 

Time passes slowly, and Tiriel feels restless. What if something happened? What if there was a vampire hunter? Or something else…

When she finally decides to get out of the bath, Tiriel hears familiar footsteps.

“Close your eyes, little love.”

Tiriel obeys and then feels something soft and plush in her arms.

“Open” Astarion places his chin on her shoulder.

A plushie-owlbear.

Soft and cute, it’s a toy appropriate for a little girl to cuddle with. 

A toy she never had.

“Well,” Astarion explains. “Since you don’t know when your birthday is, it can be… today. 17 of Uktar. Happy birthday, love,” he kisses her cheek. “And I suppose we should decide how old you are.”

“Thirty-eight,” Tiriel says, doing mental math. “Let it be thirty-eight”

“Happy thirty-eight birthday, my lovely, darling girl.”

Tiriel feels like crying again. It’s just a toy, a plushie, a thing for a baby. But she was never treated as a child, she was never given toys or dolls. And this gift… is the best she could have received.

“Do you like it?” he asks carefully.

“Yes… I do love it! Thank you! Did you steal it?”

“I won it from the toymaker. Played cards with her.”

Astarion sits on the edge of the bathtub and Tiriel wraps her hands around his waist tugging him into water. He lets out a laugh.

“Darling, you know how long it will take to fully dry?”

“Eternity! And we will spend this eternity in the inn warm and safe,” Tiriel says. “Astarion, please! I don’t want to go back on the road now, so many bad memories!”

He sits in front of her fully in the water. “Ok my sweet, what else do you want for your birthday? Maybe I could return the favor and let you ride me in some place from your traumatic memories? I’ve seen a rather terrible-looking dirt of mud.”

Tiriel thinks for a while and then says. “I don't mind riding you, but maybe in the bedroom?”

“Whatever you say, darling!”

**

It’s sunlight outside, and Astarion feels the tugging feeling in his undead chest. He misses sunlight, that's true. 

Tiriel is asleep in his arms. They actually didn’t make it to the bedroom and had the first round in the bathtub, and now Astarion needs to repair his shirt and find missing buttons from a doublet. 

It causes him anxiety, but he shrugs it away.

He can lose all the buttons and rip all his clothes, and the only reaction he will receive will be Tiriel’s jokes.

Tiriel hugs him from behind, placing her cheek on his mutilated back. The plushie is pressed between their bodies as his warrior-love has decided to sleep with it. 

He actually didn’t expect her to like the toy. Initially, he was panicking and looking for something appropriate for Tiriel. A ring? A bracelet? Maybe a weapon? Maybe just something sweet? 

Everything he was putting his eyes on was off. Jewelry Tiriel would never wear, a weapon she wouldn’t fight with. 

And then he saw the toys. An owlbear plushie for a woman who is always treated like a brave hero. Who didn’t have a proper childhood? 

The first birthday gift for someone who has never had a birthday.

And Tiriel loved it so much she pressed it to her chest the moment they stopped ‘celebrating’. She wanted to give it a proper name, and they spent at least a few minutes discussing their ideas before they settled on Big Eye.

“Tiriel,” Astarion mutters knowing she is asleep and won’t wake up. “I love you. You will never be alone, I promise. I will be with you unless you grow tired of me, and I am sure you won’t. Thank you for … finding me. Saving. Helping.”

Suddenly he feels her wet lips on his scars.

“I will never grow tired of you,” Tiriel promises.

--

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[peachessndreamss]

Private Bennett's Lover - Part 2

Summery : Tom Bennett and Mrs Randall can't seem to keep away from each other, despite the risks.

Characters : Tom Bennett x Married!Female OC Mrs Randall

Warnings : Canon typical language

Word count : 8K

A/N : Getting this edited and ready took way longer than I planned so I am sorry about that.

Series Masterlist l peachessndreamss Masterlist l peachessndreamss ask box

Rain had started the evening before and truly set in overnight, the entire sky was blanketed in dark clouds making the morning feel more like the dead of night, the rain that lashed down in sheets was icy cold and bounced up everywhere it hit the earth. 

Tom watched the torrent pouring down as he heard the words he’d dreaded most. Even on warm and bright days the assault course was daunting, a 6 mile course over uneven and changeable terrain, dotted with obstacles which made crossing No Mans Land look like a summer stroll in the park, but on a day with heavy rain and brutal cold winds it was a horrifying prospect. 

The only small candle Tom could hold onto as he changed into his physical gear was that Mrs Randall might be in her drawing room when they ran past, she might notice him. Tom had struggled to keep thoughts of her from his mind. Whenever he found himself idle, which was more often than not, Tom couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing, if she was thinking of him and when he might see her again. 

Tom was buffeted out of the barracks and into the weather alongside his fellow Privates, all of them desperate to get this over with and get back inside. Within minutes of being exposed to the rain Tom’s clothes were soaked and sticking to his skin, his breath was forming clouds in front of his face and his vision was inhibited by the driving rain. 

Despite the cold Tom was sweating as he threw himself up the wooden wall, his fingers gripping onto the wet wood and sticky mud as he hauled his body upward, his white t-shirt dragging through the filth.  As he jumped down the other side into a pool of ankle deep filthy water he brushed the back of his hand over his forehead, unable to tell if he was wiping away sweat or rain from his face. 

After a few seconds to catch his breath Tom set off again, moving around the outer wall of The Big House and finally coming to the place he was certain the drawing room overlooked, this was mostly just a stretch of leaf strewn woodland path, but there were hidden hazards like deep puddles and coils of barbed wire hidden by overgrowth. Tom slowed his run significantly and turned his attention from the path ahead of him to the upper windows of the house above the perimeter wall. The windows of the house were glowing with light but through the rain Tom wasn’t able to make out if anyone might have been looking down from them. 

While distracted Tom moved too far from the centre of the path and his foot caught a concealed coil of wire, the wire wrapped around his foot and pulled the limb from right under him. Tom crashed down to the path, his hands slipping on the wet leaves and his face slamming into the ground, bright white lights burst behind his eyes and his mouth was suddenly filled with the earthy taste of mud and the coppery tang of blood. 

He cried out in pain, shock and humiliation as the sounds of laughter rang out from behind him, the thunder of running feet shook the earth and rattled Tom’s head as he scrambled to get back on his feet, his hands slipping from under his weight as he tried to push himself up. 

Tom felt a strong hand grip the back of his t-shirt and yank him up. Tom clumsily found his feet as he blinked rapidly, trying to get his vision to settle. 

“Get moving Bennett,” the Lieutenant Commander shouted in Tom's face before shoving him forward, Tom stumbled again but with a shake of his head managed to set off, his pace slower as his head throbbed but at least in a straight line. 

Tom felt his forehead grow warm and he brushed his palm over the skin, seeing it come away dirtier with mud and bright red blood. He touched his fingers to the space above his eye, feeling a hot, slick sensation and seeing the tips of his icy white finger tips crimson. 

“Fuck,” he spat but he didn’t dare slow his pace again or stop to feel the wound any further, he knew he’d only get shouted at again and probably punished. He allowed himself one more glance at The Big House, now hoping against all hope that Mrs Randall hadn’t seen him fall. 

For the rest of the week Tom nursed his damaged ego and fussed over the nasty gash above his eye. After a few days of fairly good natured teasing Tom’s fellow seamen had all but forgotten the incident and were on to the next thing. 

As the next Saturday rolled around and Tom found himself making the walk up to The Big House, he couldn’t even bring himself to care about missing another weekend in the village, another opportunity to drink in the pub and chat up the barmaid. 

Even the cut above his eye and the yellow and purple bruise around it couldn’t take the spring out of his step as he made his way across the green lawns, made lush by the rain and now the sunshine that warmed his body. 

Bill gave him little more than a tertiary look before telling Tom he would be working in the garages that day, on the east side of the house. 

His shoulder slumped slightly as he made his way around the side of the house and toward the out buildings where the stables had been converted into a large garage, the shadow of the house left him feeling cold and his mood dower, he felt it was unlikely he'd run into Mrs Randall in the while he cleaned her husbands car. 

The converted stables were dark, cold and smelt damp, even with the doors open wide, providing a teasing view of the glorious sunshine that was tantalisingly close but utterly out of reach. 

Tom found a bucket and sponge in what once would have been a manger but was now being used for storage. The Vice Admirals black Bentley was parked half in and half out of the stable block giving Tom full access to the vehicle. The lower half of it was caked in the red mud of the county, most of it had dried but a cursory rub of it with a dry sponge told Tom he would need to soak the muck off, making this job far more taxing than the week before. 

He filled the bucket with icy water from an outside tap before throwing the sponge in, splashing the cold water back on himself, it soaked through the fabric of his trousers and instantly chilled his skin. He cursed to himself before lifting the bucket off the ground and carrying toward the back of the car, setting it down near the back wheel. 

Tom picked up the soaked sponge and squeezed the excess water out before slapping it on the top of the vehicle and starting to rub in large circles. The water ran down the curves of the car in rivulets, some of them snaking up Tom's wrist and down his forearms. As the water reached the crook of Tom’s elbow he decided it was going to be a miserable day. 

He was tipping out his 4th bucket of dirty water when he spotted Mrs Randall.  She was making her way around the side of the house, her stride quick and purposeful, the sun shining on her face and a small smile turning up the corners of her lips. 

Tom straightened up, finding it impossible to take his eyes off her and she walked toward him. He was struck by the thought that she was so different every time he saw her, as if every time they’d met he'd meet a new woman and find something new to like about her. 

“Private Bennett,” she greeted with a smile as she strode straight past him and into the darkness of the garage. 

“Mrs Randall,” Tom replied with a smile, turning on his heel and following her inside, not bothering to re-fill the bucket. 

“Back for more punishment?” she teased as she rubbed the side of her boot on a boot brush fixed to the back wall of the stable. 

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” Tom replied with a grin as he lent against the car, pleased that he’d managed to clean at least the top half before she turned up. 

“Speaking of which,” Tom added, inclining his head toward her, “Have you been riding?” 

“Walking,” she replied, “I enjoy walking and the grounds here are quite extensive.” 

Tom nodded, his idea of “going for a walk” had always been to the local pub or to a dance in the hall in town, he’d never had much of an opportunity to go walking for the pleasure of it. 

“And what do you do on these walks?” Tom asked. 

“Think mostly,” she replied with a shrug, moving to rest on the edge of a workbench that ran around the edge of the room,  “I find it’s when I do my best thinking actually, and just about the one time I’m ever really on my own,”. 

“Wha’ about out here?” he asked, his eyes flicking to the open expanse of ground in front of the stables that was completely deserted as far as the eye could see, “I’d ‘ave thought we’re quite alone out here,”. 

“Hmm,” she considered for a few seconds before pushing off from the workbench she’d been leaning on and moving toward him, “Quite alone,”. 

Coming to stand in front of him, Mrs Randall reached up and touched her fingertips to the cut on his forehead. A shiver ran down Tom's spine at the warmth of her hands and the gentleness of her touch. 

“What happened?” she asked softly. 

“Made a tit of myself on the assault course,” Tom replied with a shrug, his bravado faltering when her touch lingered far longer than it needed too. 

“Wasn’t paying attention you see." 

“What had you so distracted, Tom?” she asked, her soft voice above a whisper and her touch now a caress. 

“I was looking for you, I wanted you to see me” he replied softly before reaching up and taking hold of her hand at the wrist.  

Her skin was warm to the touch and Tom felt a tingle in his fingers as he brought her hand away from his forehead and to his lips. He took a slow breath as he brought her palm toward his mouth, catching the spicy, warm scent of her perfume before pressing his lips to the centre of her palm in a gentle kiss. He saw her breath stall in her throat and her eyes widen as his lips lingered for just a moment before releasing her hand. 

She let her hand and arm drop like a dead weight back to her side, her whole body suddenly vibrating like a taut string someone had plucked. Her palm burned where his lips touched her as if his lips left a brand on her skin and her stomach fluttered as if full of butterflies. 

“I do see you Tom."

She took a small step forward, positioning one of her feet between his and bringing their bodies far closer together than polite society would allow. Mrs Randall brought her hand up to his face, slipping her fingers into his hair, the tendrils silky to the touch. She lifted herself up, half terrified and half thrilled to press her lips to his in a soft kiss. While Tom had been stunned into inaction for a few seconds it didn’t take long for him to come back to his senses, wrapping his icy hand around her and pulling her body hard against his. 

Surprised by his sudden movement she drew her face back from his but Tom moved his other hand up her body and brought it to rest on her cheek, using it to hold her as he brought his lips back to hers. His kiss lacked her gentleness, his mouth claimed hers with a fiery need that spread through her body, making the skin on the back of her neck prickle and the tips of her fingers and toes go numb. 

Tom’s tongue slipped along her bottom lip and groaned as the taste of her filled his mouth. He felt his head spin, like he’d had a few too many pints and stood up too quickly, she was the most intoxicating woman he’d ever kissed and he tightened his hold on her as she pressed herself harder against him, feeling how her soft body moulded to his own. 

Mrs Randall gave a small whimper and Tom could have believed they were the only two people left alive, until the grating, carrying voice of the Vice Admiral reached their ears. 

“...saw her coming back from her walk, heading toward the stables I think,” he was saying, his voice reaching them on the gentle breeze that blew across the lawns. 

With a look of horror she wrenched herself out of Tom’s embrace, immediately missing the feel of his body and the fire of his kisses. She looked around her frantically, wondering if there was any possible alibi she could give for being alone with him. She looked back at his face and found his blue gaze blazing and his mouth open as he breathed deeply. She touched her fingertips to her lips before taking an unsteady step backward. 

“I-I-I” she stammered, but found she didn’t have the words for any of the thoughts and emotions currently raging through her. 

“Go on,” he said, motioning toward the open doors, the more distance they could put between them the better. 

He watched as she turned and took a few unsteady steps before reaching down to grab the bucket and sponge off the floor beside his feet, the bucket was empty but the sponge was still wet enough to make a reasonable look of being in the middle of his task if the Vice Admiral decided to stick his head in the stables. 

Turning his attention back to the car he could only hear the sound of her steps changing from the cobbles of the stables to the crunch of gravel outside and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief knowing that there was no reason for the Vice Admiral to expect they had been together. 

“Ah here she is!” The Vice Admirals' private school accent grated on Tom as he rubbed the sponge halfheartedly over an already clean part of the roof. 

He kept his head down and face turned away from the open doors so not to be seen or be noticed. 

“Were you looking for me, darling?” Tom heard Mrs Randall reply, the falsely cheery sound in her voice that Tom could tell was entirely fake. 

Their voices drifted away to an indistinguishable sound carried by the breeze as the two of them walked away from the stables and back around the side of the house, leaving Tom alone in the cold, dank and dark. 

He dropped the sponge back in the bucket and stood stock still, staring at his own reflection in the car window. He touched his fingertips to his mouth. Had she just kissed him? Did he pull her body into his own and slip his tongue along her lips? Was anything from the past 20 minutes real? The spinning feeling in Tom’s head was back and he placed a steadying hand on the car. 

Of all the reckless, dangerous, illegal and just plain stupid things Tom had ever done in his life, kissing the Vice Admirals wife was surely the most reckless, dangerous and stupid of all, and despite that, the corners of Tom’s mouth tipped up in a smile. She’d kissed him first, she wanted him just as much as he wanted her, and Tom was confident their kiss wouldn’t be just a one time thing. She’d be back for more. 

With that thought burning in his chest like a candle Tom didn’t feel so cold anymore and somehow the stables were less dark than a moment ago. With a newly found spring in his step Tom picked up the bucket and went to refill it. 

More than an hour later, Mrs Randall watched Tom return to the barracks across the east lawn, the sky had remained clear and the afternoon was warm and bright. Tom had taken his jacket off and slung it over his shoulder, he walked with a confident swagger and appeared to be whistling to himself.

She saw him look toward the house, his eyes scanning the bottom floor windows, instinctively she took a step backward further into the shadowed interior of the room, not wanting to be caught watching him. The memory of their kiss consumed her thoughts, in some way she thought she could still feel the press of his body against hers 

The sharp knock on her study door brought Mrs Randall out of her thoughts and she called for them to enter, moving toward the desk and sitting in the large leather chair that creaked as she sat. The Housekeeper entered, her black uniform absolutely immaculate and a small slip of paper clutched in her hand.  

“This is everything left in the wine cellar,” she said, placing the list on the table, “one more party and we'll be dry,” she added, a note of disapproval in her voice. 

Mrs Randall knew the Vice Admirals parties had taken a toll on the Royal Navy’s cellars, but she’d not realised they were quite so close to running out. She looked over the list, her brows furrowing. 

“Thank you,” Mrs Randall replied, “I’ll speak to Vice Admiral Randall about making some orders, but this will do for now,”. 

“And the menu for Saturday?” The housekeeper asked, taking the small slip of paper back off the desk and tucking it into one of the many pockets of her dress. 

“Oh the usual please,” she replied, finding her mind was already wandering. 

“Very good Mrs Randall,”. 

The housekeeper turned and left the room with barely a sound, only the snap of the door closing confirmed Mrs Randal was alone again. 

Glancing back out the window, Tom was long gone and he'd likely be back at the barracks by now. She sighed softly and folded her arms around her middle, her hands grasping the opposite elbow. When she thought about Tom the fluttering feeling returned to her stomach, her cheeks flushed with heat and she couldn’t help but smile to herself. 

In her year and a half of marriage, those stolen moments in the stables were the first time she had felt desirable. With Tom, there had been no question that someone had wanted her, and wanted her as more than just a pretty thing to parade around and host dinner parties. Kissing Tom had been a moment of madness, and every second of it from stepping up to him to ripping herself from his arms made her feel alive. 

The small clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour and she sighed deeply, sitting up straight at her desk she pulled the small stack of envelopes toward her, flipping the top one over and opening it with a flick of her thumb. 

Back in the barracks Tom was lounging on his bed, cigarette between his lips as his shipmates started to return from the village in ones and twos, most of them clearly a little worse for wear after an afternoon in the pub. One of the more sober men caught sight of Tom and grinned at him. 

“Did ya have fun at Big House?” he asked sarcastically, “Cleanin’ up after the Vice Arsehole?” 

Tom rolled his eyes in the direction of the sailor before fixing him with a dark glare. He took his cigarette from between his lips and tapped the ash off into an empty tin can at his side. 

“Better t’be up there than catchin the clap from some 2 bob whore,” Tom replied coldly. 

The man who’d spoken to him flushed with embarrassment and Tom got a vicious thrill of satisfaction to see the man's cheeks colour and his mouth flap open like a fish out of water. 

“Fuck off Bennett,” he spat before throwing himself onto his own bed and glaring at the ceiling. 

“Ah come on mate,” Tom taunted, turning on his side to look over at his fellow sailor, “VD can ‘appen to the best of us, but givin’ it to your poor wife must have really stung." 

Tom only had half a second to get off the bed and on his feet before the other man was on him, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him against the wall. His head bounced off the concrete wall, the impact making lights burst in front of his eyes and his ears ring but he still laughed. 

“I didn’t give anything to my wife,” the private spat, his face turning an uncomfortable shade of red. 

Tom raised his eyebrows and smirked. 

“So, did you ge’it from her then? I heard times were hard back home but…” Tom’s voice trailed off as he glanced around the room and found grinning faces of other sailors. 

“You fucking bastard,” the other man spat as he pulled Tom away from the wall and slammed him back into it. 

The blow should have winded Tom but he’d been ready for it and just laughed again. 

“There’s a war on mate, nothing wrong with your good wife getting a job to help support the family, although most men might mind about their Missus going on the game." 

Tom only had a few seconds to duck as the other man let go of his collar, pulled back a balled fist and thrust it forward, crashing with surprising force into the spot Tom’s face had been just a second before. The man’s fist connected with the concrete wall with a sickening crunch, he howled in pain, snatching his fist back and cradling it against his stomach. Tom watched, his face unimpressed as the other man staggered backward. 

“You fucking bastard, you fucking fuck,” he spat as he turned and staggered along the line of beds toward the door. 

Tom shook his head and scoffed in disgust before taking a cigarette from the pack on his pillow and lighting it as he sat down on his bed. He glanced around the room, finding every other pair of eyes in the room watching him carefully. 

“Good time in town?” he asked no one in particular. 

There were a few murmurs from around the room but no one else attempted to engage Tom in further conversation. Tom smirked and shook his head before lying his head back on his pillow, letting out a curl of smoke between his lips. 

On Thursday morning Tom became aware there would be another party at The Big House that Saturday night. Saturday, during the day, would also be the last time he was expected up there to perform some menial task or another. He hoped his final task wouldn’t be to fix the window he was planning to use to get to the party. 

Saturday morning dawned grey and wet, looking out toward the sea from the ballroom it was almost impossible to tell where the grey sky ended and the grey sea began. Behind her she heard the floorboard creek and a small cough. She turned and saw Tom stepping into the room from a side door. 

“What have they had you doing today Tom?” she asked with a shy smile as he stepped further into the room, letting the door click shut behind him. 

“Polishing silverware,” he replied. 

“Oh, he’s having another bash tonight,” she said with a sigh, feeling faintly embarrassed that Tom had been polishing the knives and fork’s they’d use that night. 

“I’d guessed as much,” Tom shrugged, not wanting to let on that he was already well aware, “the kitchen was in a frenzy,”. 

“Yes,” she agreed, a fleeting look of embarrassment crossed her cheeks, “all seems a bit silly with everything else going on,”. 

Tom’s eyebrows quirked upward and he raised and dropped one shoulder. 

“Is just how the world works, someone’s dancin’ and someone’s dying,”. 

“God Tom,” she sighed, pressing her fingers to her mouth, “you must hate me,” she added, looking away from him and down toward the floor, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. 

“I don’t ‘ate you,” Tom said, his voice softening, “I don't think I could if I wanted’t”. 

She lifted her eyes back to his face and felt the heat of his gaze wash over her, making the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. Her eyes were drawn to his mouth, she remembered in vivid detail how his lips had felt against hers, how she’d tasted him on her tongue and felt her entire body awaken, as if he’d breathed life into her. 

Seized by a bone deep ache to feel his mouth on hers again she glanced over her shoulder, the doorway she’d entered the room through was ajar and the slice of corridor beyond was empty. 

“Come with me,” she said softly, taking a few steps toward him before passing him and walking toward a seemingly solid wall in the far corner of the room. 

Tom’s brows furrowed with confusion, but he stepped after her, their steps making the old floor of the ballroom crack and pop. When she reached the far wall Tom watched with fascination as she pushed gently against a seam that was unnoticeable unless you were an inch away from it and a small portion of the wall swung inward and she stepped through. 

Tom followed, ducking his head so not to bump it on the low lintel of the hidden doorway. The space beyond the wall was cold and dark, the walls were bare stone and lights were bare bulbs that glowed dimly. Behind Tom the secret door swung shut. 

The Old House was built with a maze of seemingly endless corridors and passageways that ran around the rooms and parallel to the main thoroughfares of the house. These hidden places meant the staff could move through the house quickly and unseen. 

She only took a few steps away from the door before she stopped and spun on her heel, knowing most of the staff would currently be focused in the kitchen there was next  to no chance of the two of them being found. 

Tom hadn’t been expecting her to stop so suddenly and he barely stopped himself before crashing into her.

“Whoa, watch yourself,” he said, steading himself and finding her so close to him he could have counted her eyelashes. 

In the close and dark space he breathed deeply, his nose catching the dank smell of the corridor, the spicy burn of her perfume and something else undefinable that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

Without hesitation Mrs Randall lifted her arms and slipped them around his neck before bringing her lips up to meet his. She moaned softly as she felt the warm caress of his hands at her waist and his strong grip and he drew her toward him, pressing the length of her body against his. As their lips moved against one another, his left hand slipped up her back and grasped at the back of her head, feeling the soft tendrils of hair beneath his fingers as he gently angled her head to the side. 

She broke away from his lips for a second, her eyes opening and meeting his. Even in the semi-darkness Tom couldn’t mistake the passion in her eyes, he felt stripped by her gaze, like he was the first man she’d ever looked at like this. That thought made his stomach twist and his heart squeeze in his chest, it was thrilling and frightening, and Tom never wanted her to stop looking at him like that.  

He brought his mouth back to hers, this time his tongue flicked along the seam of her lips before slipping between them and taking a taste of her. 

Mrs Randall’s hands slipped from the back of his neck round to the front of his shirt, gripping at the material and trying to pull him closer toward her, wanting to feel the press of him all over her body. Tom tightening his arm on her waist and she was shocked and aroused when she felt the hardness of the muscle between his thighs as it pressed against her stomach. 

With practised ease, Tom manoeuvred the two of them around and pressed her back against the cold stone wall. The sudden icy contact made her gasp but Tom pushed himself closer to her, sharing the heat of his body with her. 

“Jesus Tom,” she breathed, breaking her lips from his and breathing heavily. 

He chuckled softly as he used his left hand to take hold of her right wrist, pulling her fist off his shirt and pinning her arm to the wall behind her, their hands at face height. He kissed along her jaw and up to the lobe of her ear, biting down softly on the flesh and hearing her quiet moan filling the small space. 

Tom used his other hand to loosen the first few buttons on her silk blouse, the soft and flowy fabric slipped easily against her and exposed the delicate skin of her chest. 

Tom’s breath caught in his throat as he eyed the soft tops of her breasts where they heaved with her breathing. He moved his mouth back along her jaw to give her an innocent peck at the corner of her mouth before dropping his head lower and kissing the swell of her breast. 

He released his hold on her right hand, feeling it drop down beside her body, his left hand then travelled to cup the breast his mouth currently wasn’t working over. His kisses were hot and wet but her skin was burning on his lips. He experimented with a soft bite at the height of her breast and he was rewarded with another breathy moan and a roll of her hips. 

She moved her hands to grasp at his back, her nails clawing at the rough fabric of his work shirt, the scent of the soap he used for his hair filled her nose as her mouth and chin brushed against the crown of his head. 

“Oh God Tom,” she moaned.

To her own ears her voice had sounded like a strangers, breathy and needy. She grabbed at his hair, threading her fingers into the soft strands and yanking his head up away from her breasts and crashing her mouth back into his. Pushing her tongue into his mouth without a second thought as she ground her body against his, feeling a thrill from the slow, undulating movement and the friction between them. 

Tom squeezed at her breast as he pressed forward with his hips, there was no way she could be unaware of the effect she was having on him. He broke away from her lips and breathed her name, letting his hand slide up her chest to her neck where he pressed his thumb against the hollow at the base of her throat. 

“What are you doing to me?” she whispered against his lips, “You’re making me mad." 

Tom laughed softly before kissing along her jaw, his breathing heavy and his blood pumping noisily in his ears as he fought to regain control of himself. 

“Nothin’ mad about this,” he said softly, “Nothin’ mad about how badly I want you." 

“Jesus,” she whispered, her eyes closed as he kissed from below her ear up across her cheek to the tip of her nose. 

“We can’t do this." 

“Why not?” Tom replied, his voice still soft as he kissed softly up her nose to her forehead. 

“I- I’m…I’m married,” she said, stumbling over her words as she struggled to think straight. 

Tom brought his mouth back to hers and any further arguments died on her lips as his tongue slipped between them and everything else in the world ceased to exist. 

From somewhere in a distant room a clock chimed the hour and broke whatever spell had settled over Tom and Mrs Randall, the two of them drew apart, both breathing heavily, faces flushed and lips wet. 

“I have to go,” she breathed before bringing her hands to the front of her blouse and attempting to do the buttons up with shaking fingers. 

Tom’s own hands were steady, as he reached forward and took charge, buttoning up the final two tiny pearl buttons and smoothing his fingers over the collar. The silky fabric looked rumpled and creased but there wasn’t anything else to be done about it. Just like there was nothing to be done about her bee stung lips or the pink flush on her chest and neck. Tom was certain she’d never looked more beautiful. 

“I’ll come back tonight,” he said as he ran his hand over his own head, getting control over his hair. 

“Tom no, it’s not safe,” she replied, her eyes moving between his eyes and his lips. 

“I don’t care,” he said with a shrug. 

She opened her mouth to argue but he cut her off with a kiss, just a quick, soft peck on the lips before straightening up and smiling. 

“I’ll see you later,” he said before taking the few steps back toward the hidden door and slipped through it. 

She could just hear his tread as he crossed the ballroom over the thundering of her heart and the thumping of the blood in her ears. She stayed put, the icy stone at her back suddenly much more uncomfortable without Tom’s warmth to counteract it. She placed a trembling hand over her racing heart and pressed her eyes closed. 

Whatever there was between her and Tom was madness, a risk to both of them in so many ways it should have been unthinkable but despite the risks she knew she would see him again and she would kiss him again, he’d hold her again and she’d taste his hot skin. The risks paled in comparison to the way he made her body feel. 

Once Mrs Randal felt she’d regained her composure she carried on along the staff corridor and up a tightly twisting flight of stairs to the 1st floor of the house before following another concealed corridor right into her own dressing room via another concealed door. 

Her gown for the party that night was hanging on the front of the wardrobe, the beaded bodice and skirt caught the last rays of weak sunlight that filtered through the west facing windows casting rainbows all over the pale yellow walls. 

“Mrs Randall?” a voice came from her bedroom where there was a maid laying a fire ready for the night, “can I draw you a bath?” her maid asked as Mrs Randall stepped into the main bedroom. 

The maid's eyes narrowed at the appearance of the lady of the house, her flushed cheeks and bright lips combined with the dishevelled look of her blouse and hair had the maid wondering what she could have been getting up to on a Saturday afternoon that left her looking like the village girls after they’d gone for a roll in the hay with the sailors. 

“Please,” Mrs Randall replied, her voice distant, “as hot as you can make it." 

The maid nodded and went to draw the bath. In the meantime Mrs Randall sat on the edge of the bed, wringing her hands in her lap, her mind unable to think of anything other than Tom Bennett and his addictive kisses. 

Once the bath was ready she undressed, leaving her blouse and skirt in a pile by the door that the maid attended to while  Mrs Randall sunk under the scalding hot water up to her neck. The maid passed her a bar of magnolia scented soap and left a large linen towel on the back of a chair for when she was finished. 

She stayed in the water far longer than normal, lathering the sudsy bar of soap between her hands over and over and once steaming water had turned cold she finally lifted herself out and stepped onto the waiting mat and wrapped herself in the towel. In the mirror over the small sink she noticed her cheeks were no longer flushed and her lips looked less swollen. 

After drying herself and dressing in her underwear Mrs Randal stepped through from her bathroom into the dressing room. 

The maid was waiting for her, looking bored, she’d been sitting on the seat at the dressing table, her feet swinging back and forth as she absent mindedly fiddled with the silver handle of the hairbrush. She shot to her feet when Mrs Randall entered the room. 

“Sorry,” the maid muttered, her eyes on the floor. 

“Don’t be sorry,” she replied, “I’ve been a rather long time."

“I’m very sorry Mrs Randall” the maid started as she carried a silk shift toward her, “But there are no more stockin’s, your last pair laddered and there’s no ration for them until next month." 

Mrs Randall just nodded as she slipped the shift over her head and let it fall down her body in cool, silky waves, a lace trim finishing about mid-calf. 

“Nothing to be done about that, I’m sure no one will notice." she replied. 

“I can draw a line on the back of your leg, I’ve seen it magazines, makes it look like you’ve got your stockings on even if you ain’t,” the maid offered, looking pleased with her suggestion. 

“What a clever idea, we can use brown eyeliner, that’ll do the trick." Mrs Randal agreed, smiling at the girl who seemed to flush with pride. 

An hour later she was standing with the Vice Admiral in the entrance hall of The Big House,  wearing a diamond tiara but no stockings and greeting guests as they arrived. 14 guests that evening, navy men and rich industry moguls with their wives who’d come to rub shoulders, discuss deals and drink someone else's wine. 

“A vision as always,” someone greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks and she laughed politely. 

The party ate their evening meal in the formal dining room before moving into the ballroom for dancing, drinking, gaming and cigar smoking for the men. Ever the hostess she made several rounds of the guests, checking if they needed more to drink, an after dinner snack or anything at all she could help with. 

By 11 pm her feet ached from standing in her heels and her cheeks ached from smiling and laughing. No one at the party would have ever known how she could think of nothing but Tom and the possibility he could be hiding around a corner, waiting for her. 

Mrs Randall excused herself from a circle of women who were discussing the trouble getting hold of fresh seafood in London and made her way out of the ballroom, turning to the right and around the corner where there was a small flight of stairs that would take her directly up to her rooms. The stairs were out of sight to anyone who wasn’t directly facing them. They were deeply carpeted like much of the house and a dark wooden bannister ran up one side. 

Sitting about 6 steps up was Tom Bennett, he lounged back on his elbows, his long legs stretched out in front of him and a smug smirk on his face.

“Jesus Tom,” she hissed, her hand flying to her chest, stopping in her tracks at the shock of seeing him sitting so brazenly in her house, “anyone could see you!”.

“No one has yet,” Tom shrugged, bringing one of his hands up to his mouth to run his thumb over his bottom lip. 

“And if they did it would be just about the last thing you'd ever do,” She hissed walking towards him, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the ballroom to make sure they were still alone. 

Tom laughed, looking like a man without a single worry on his shoulders. 

“Tom you really can't be here,” she said, her voice quiet as she reached the bottom of the flight of stairs. 

Having Tom in the house, while it was full of guests, suddenly brought the terrible risk they were both taking into sharp focus. If anyone saw the two of them there would be a series of very awkward questions, followed by nasty accusations and rumours running wild and while she might end up a social pariah he would lose his job and who knows what else. 

She took a few tentative steps up the stairs, stopping when she'd reached about the same place his knees were. The staircase was relatively narrow so Tom’s body was blocking her from moving much further. 

“Tom please, I need to get up the stairs." she said softly. 

“You could just,” he paused for a second to smirk up at her, “Step over me, Mrs Randall," 

She narrowed her eyes at him for a second before taking a further step up, bringing her feet level with his hips. She lifted her right leg, making to step across his body but in a single quick movement he had grabbed hold of her at the ankle, his warm fingers wrapping around the bare skin. She stumbled slightly, catching hold of the bannister for balance. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart started to thunder, heat spreading up her leg from the place Tom touched her. 

Never taking his eyes from hers, he ran his hand up the curve of her calf and back down to the delicate bone of her ankle. 

“No stockings,” he mused as he sat up and pressed a single kiss on the ankle bone. 

“There’s a war on,” she whispered, her voice shaky, “stockings are a luxury." 

Tom scoffed before turning his eyes to her ankle and how his hand looked holding it, he smirked and pressed a second kiss to the inside of her ankle. 

“You've got diamonds but a pair of nylons are out of the question?” 

His fingers traced up and down the curve of her calf again, his fingertips brushing the back of her knee. 

“Please Tom,” she pleaded softly, acutely aware that the risk of getting caught went up with every passing second. 

He looked up at her, his bright blue eyes looking dark and stormy. His fingers moved back down to grasp her ankle before he released her. She stumbled again as she tried to place both feet together and hold onto her balance. Tom stood in a smooth, swift movement with one of his arms slipping easily around her waist and steadying her.

Standing on the step above her Tom gazed down at her, studying the curves of her face and the colour of her eyes. 

“Please what?” 

“Go, before you're caught." 

“I’ll go, but you’ll be seein’ me again,” Tom replied before pressing his mouth to hers in a single bruising kiss. 

He loosened his hold on her waist and slipped down the stairs as quiet as a ghost, she watched him go, her whole body aching to be held by him again. After a few minutes to calm her thundering heart she returned to the party, trying to forget the feeling of his lips on her skin and hoping his warm hands hadn’t smudged the eyeliner running up the back of her leg. 

Tom was able to slip back into his barracks without being caught, he sank into his bed and closed his eyes with a smile on his lips. Despite the long day he felt as awake and energised as he ever had before, he knew he’d struggle to get a wink of sleep that night but somehow he didn’t mind that when he had every moment of that day to relive, every touch, moan, sigh and kiss was his to revisit and relive in detail. 

Sunday morning dawned bright, the Vice Admiral had started his day by attending the weekly Holy Communion held in the barracks chapel while she’d had coffee and toast in bed. 

After breakfast Mrs Randall had moved to the library and was sitting in a large wingback chair looking out across the lawns and down towards the waters edge, a small paperback sitting forgotten in her lap. Even from several miles away the smell of the salt water carried on the wind when it blew in the right direction and this morning she'd thrown the library windows open, blowing out the stale smell of cigar smoke and bringing in the salty tang of the sea air. She even occasionally heard the calls of the seagulls as they circled overhead. 

There was a polite knock on the open library door. 

“Yes?” she called. 

“Mrs Randall, the Vice Admiral would like to see you in his office,” the butler announced primly. 

“Summoned like a common sailor,” she muttered to herself as she stood and followed the man out of the library and toward his office. 

The butler knocked and opened the door on her behalf. The office beyond the door was brightly lit from the sun streaming through the window. A fog of cigar smoke hung heavily in the air, the desk was strewn with maps, letters and lists. On the top of all the others was a letter with the royal coat of arms at the top, followed by a short note, written in a small, tidy hand. 

“Ah darling,” he greeted, not looking up from the map spread in front of him.

“You wanted to see me." 

“Yes,” he replied, finally looking up at her. 

As their eyes met she felt nothing, no tingle of attraction, no spark of desire. She might have been looking at a stranger as much as she was her husband, the man she'd promised to love, honour and obey. His own eyes showed nothing more than friendly recognition, she was merely someone who lived in his house and nothing more. 

“I've been summoned to High Command,” he said, indicating the letter on the desk. 

“It’ll be two weeks of conferences, planning and marching orders I expect, dreadfully boring stuff,” he added. 

“Will you be shipping out afterwards?” She asked, her thoughts more focused on the men in the barracks just down the hill rather than the one sitting in front of her. 

“Oh possibly,” he replied with a shrug, “or there’s talk of a posting for me overseas, there in need of a man in India to run the Royal Navy posts over there and I heard last night I was top of the list,” he added, his body seemingly puffing up with pride. 

Mrs Randall nodded, still standing on the edge of the rug like a Private brought in for a reprimand. 

“That was all,” he said after a beat of silence, “and I'll be off tonight,” he turned his attention back to the map. 

She opened her mouth to speak but found there was nothing to say. She didn’t want to thank him for summoning her here and announcing his plans to her like she was a member of the staff, she didn’t want to know anymore about where he was going and she couldn’t think of a single pleasant thing to say before leaving. So she left in silence, closing the door behind her with a satisfying click. 

With little else to do she headed for the boot room, changing into a pair of hardy leather boots before striding out across the lawns towards the woodlands that made the eastern edge of the property. 

Once in the shadow of the trees she finally felt able to breathe clearly, the air here was fresh but held onto the scents of rotting leaves and stagnant water. The ground beneath her boots was soft with leaf mulch and scattered with broken twigs and other debris. In the trees birds trilled and chirped at each other, flitting from branch to branch, knocking loose leaves toward the ground. 

She'd not slept a wink the night before, her mind completely possessed by thoughts of Tom and his promise that she'd see him again. She'd fantasised about hearing the floorboards outside her door creak before her door was pushed open and he sought her out. But the morning had come and her room grew bright with the rising sun leaving her with a headache and sore eyes. 

The Vice Admiral would be gone for two weeks, and after those two weeks they might be packing up their lives and moving halfway around the world but with Tom time seemed different, he made minutes of stolen conversation feel like hours, he made an hour of stolen kisses feel like days, two weeks of him might just feel like a lifetime. News of the Vice Admiral’s trip to London would make its way round the barracks quickly enough and with a thrill she found herself believing last night's fantasies might become her reality.

[themareverine]

BED OF BONES

─ Logan Howlett x fem!OC

synopsis: When he promised her something different, she didn't think it would be this. Alaskan stars, scraping to survive, trying to feel. Anonymous faces in a forgotten frontier. It isn't much, it's barely living—but really all she needs to live is him.

warnings: comic adaptation, pre-established relationship from my Mare & the Wolverine series, angst, survival aesthetics, mentions of hunting, dead carcasses, extreme minimalism, blood, mentions of Logan's time at Weapon X, implied sexual content.

a/n: after listening to the podcast drama Wolverine: The Long Night and its sequel, Wolverine: The Lost Trail, i'm kinda obsessed with Richard Armitage's take on Logan. tortured, angsty, deeply raw and emotional—sign me right up for that. there's a scene that describes Logan's living conditions when he makes his home in nowhere Alaska, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Conditions beyond the four walls of the high-woods cabin would be not far removed from that of frozen hell, if laid out parallel to the everyday eye. Void of sunlight at dinner hours. Harsh wind howls, clawing the boards of the condemning thing so bravely titled architecture—even at this altitude, as the crow flies from the water.

Mountain landscape is wild, unforgiving—snow manages to hurricane in sideways, somehow, snaking between trees and low brush, rock. Drives a hard blanket of heavy wet to the once-lush forest floor. Thick trees Goliath tall in an unmovable, chaotic troop. Lowlight, and you would never see the slatwood slapped together with tar and faith—evergreen fronds sentinel away the world, strong walls taunting the world beyond the reach of woods. 

When the sun breaks the horizon over the water, the world will be still. Canvas of untouched snow, pure like a virgin, will breathe life into the forest again. Creatures will cull from their caves and beds, will roam freely the fresh from God—breathe air normally unthinkable to mortals. Mountain stone, miles away in the untouched Yukon, will reach jagged fingers to heaven, as if they themselves in their might will rip God from heaven. Kissed with snow even at a distance, they impose harsh laws of the wilderness—survive or die. Life, or death. 

There are no lines to walk in Alaska when it comes to the games of living and dying. They are the masters, humanity but an unwise player at the table of chance. Fools before the slaughter. Life, here, is fickle—left up to the false gods of chance and fate. Day and night. Sun and moon, life falls on the blade of time. 

Time, and most often attributed by headlines and big-city newscasters, luck—either kind. Four-leaf, or devil-may-cry. The fortunate see the colors of sunrise, breathtaking and pure, over crystalline waters whitecapped with rage and promise. The not-so, well—

—they become quickly acquainted with that throne the mountains try to steal from God. 

For those who try to die and don’t—for them—it’s another thing altogether. An Eden, the holy-of-holies away from the battle of living, the war of the being seen. Paradise lost to the knowing. A forgotten frontier, cursed and barren in the hands of men ill understood of the way the wolf walks, the hunger of prey scratching at ice in spring. Fruitless and forbidden, existing on maps as No Man’s Lands and undesired terrains— spinning in the hearts of those who cry someday and never again. 

A simple life with little reward beyond morning, Alaskan wilderness reeks of chore and survival. Mundane and petulant. Concepts now lost in the age of machines, swipe right, thumb left; technology’s far-reaching lust of instantaneous gratification. Such things scream louder than the cry of fresh air and escapism, of ample and simple. 

Man is blind to the fruit of the earth, lost to concrete. And concrete always wins—the machines. They always win. 

“Where are you, Logan?” 

Pacing the threadbare boards of the cabin—minding the one every fifth step, it wobbles with the threat of breaking—has yielded no different answer to the question Mare Howlett has asked four other times, checking the sky outside as if the night will change as the hours do. Fire snaps from the hearth on the west wall, blasting heat throughout the small, single-room space like an oven. Sweat has started accumulating between her shoulders, the river of her spine. 

It’s after one. In the morning, at least. It’s hard to judge the night by the black veil of the sky, but, she’s learned over the years. Watching the moon, forces of habit—the amount of hours spent not sleeping in the darkest midnight would make God laugh. It had become life, just another part of heartbeats and pulses, blood and living—sleep was, most of the time, a luxury. Expensive, if you knew it. Dangerous. 

Palms slick with worked-up perspiration, two more paces has her in a staring contest with the door. Her eyes flick to the slide-board lock—-it’s knocked back, any wind could force it open. And that makes the corner of her mouth lift with amusement, the thought of the wind—he would be furious. 

Time and countless time again in the six months they’d been squatting here on Alaskan rock he’d checked this very lock. Like it was his religion, and in a way, it is. Staying alive is a form of religion to those not guaranteed daylight again, Logan had always told her that. Full time job stayin’ this side of the dirt, honey—just to see the next sunrise. I’ll get you to the morning, sweetheart, don’t you worry.

If staying alive was religion, they wrote books. 

Logan may as well be a priest. 

Back teeth gnaw at the mesh of her cheek, canines pinching the chap of her bottom lip nearly to the point of blood—any second she expected the sting of copper on her tongue. Rocking forward on her toes only to fall back to her heels, her arms cross at her chest, leathers of her jacket groaning with the effort. Eyeballing the door may as well be willing it to vomit what she knows it doesn’t have, so she turns on the ball of her foot—thick wool from her sock catches on the callous of her heel. Doesn’t care, hasn’t ever cared. These were the same pair of socks she’d been wearing since Christmas—last year. 

Low hunger gnaws at her guts like a wolf biting at the marrow of bones, sucking every last drop only to burn again tomorrow. It’s only been a four hours since he’d taken north, but it may as well be eternity—even God had created oceans in less time, had knit man together out of dust. Perfect, savory meat boils in delicious broth in the thick pot at the hearth, simmering like it has for hours even before the sun had fallen. Bread, laborious bread warms on another of the hearth’s rocks, golden. Glistening. Practically the food of gods. 

And butter—she hadn’t had butter in weeks. It taunts her from its little throne, a pewter dish sat not a stone’s throw from that very hearth, far away to keep soft but not destroy. Logan had surprised her with convenience groceries two weeks ago, coming up the mountain from the water—even the growl of the truck had felt heavier. She’d heard the thunk of something in the bed as he’d pulled up to the door, heightened senses triggered by the crunch of snow, the little squeak of extra weight on the shocks. 

“Figured some food we didn’t have’ta kill would make your day,” not that fresh game had been an issue—Logan was an excellent hunter. It came with the territory—with the Wolverine. Venison, rabbit, goose—they hadn’t starved, by any stretch of imagination. Field dressing just didn’t top her list of favorite activities, even as a wife. 

He’d almost smiled when she’d popped up from her place before the fire, dropping the rucksack off his shoulder to his feet. Presenting it as if it would cleanse him of sin, “Would you believe they had butter. And honey,” her smile couldn’t have been any brighter, giggling like a child at the feet of Christmas as she’d curled her arms around his thick neck, chilled with the bite of night and dusted with snow and cigar smoke. His nose had brushed into her hair, hand at the back of her neck as he’d pulled her close. “‘Sweet’n you up a little, hm?” She hadn’t expected him to have the jar on his person, but he’d plucked it from his pocket with gusto, like a proud child. 

“Excuse me?” her nose had crinkled, shoving his hand down in favor of running her nails along the line of his jaw, through his beard. Mutton chops. Features that belonged to her. “You saying I ain’t sweet?”

How he’d laughed—“Darlin’. If you were any sweeter, my teeth would rot outta my head.”

Nevermind such a thing being the opposite of possible—-they’d found creative ways to use the precious commodities of honey and sugar. She’d never seen him be so greedy. Quick work fo the goodies aside, the rest of the haul she’d squirreled away in the corner, among their provisions—provisions not so playworthy. Due for water, which is what had sent Logan north, away from her. Two kliks to the stream, the hunting grounds. He’d check her traps and trails—pastimes for him, duties for her when he was away earning greenbacks on the water. 

Even here in the woods, away from the living, money was a god. 

It never took him this long—an hour, maybe. Logan was nothing if efficient, especially on nights like tonight when the weather challenged even the unkillable. Not that he actively worried, being unkillable, but for her sake he made tracks and kept them quickly. He was on the water so often, every second he was here she kept him here—memories of simpler days chiseled her into a desperate little thing. Reduced to the ashes of wanting him close, of fighting to keep his body. How had she ever not wanted him around, survived distance? Opposite schedules? Grueling nine-to-fives, endless missions that always seemed over before they began. 

Cursing memories hadn’t ever been something she’d imagined herself doing, but, she did. Multiple times an hour. If being mutant—if being unkillable—meant holding onto every memory, in vivid and living color, God must’ve really stretched His hand the day He had given Logan breath. Some days never seemed to end, trapped in this prison of  cabin in the hell of the woods, alone with her own thoughts. Memories of the living, of the dead. They cut deep like adamantium, unforgiving thieves.

A bed of bones, the place of nightmares coming to life like Lazarus from the grave. 

Walking on the tips of her toes, hands fiddling with the buttons of her flannel, the snap of the fire almost oversings the unmistakable crunch of snow beyond the walls. Heart kicking heavy behind her ribs, pain flares in her chest—and for a moment, she thinks maybe it has touched bone, but quickly disregards it when blood hurricanes through her skull. Pupils blown wide with thrill, heat floodgates down her spine, sending lightning energy through every nerve in her body—-she all but leaps like a cat. 

Flesh between her knuckles split, mutation coming full force without even thought. Habit, like breathing—-takes little thought. Hardly removed from sucking air into her lungs, it’s muscle memory. A slight trigger of muscle, a flick of the wrist—she’d gutted men with less effort. And it doesn’t even take suspicion, being afraid, not like before. Once, maybe—but now it’s daily motion. The nine-to-five. 

The little thrill of clotting blood has her glancing at her weapons, her bones. It marveled her still, how beautiful and precise they were. How, somehow, they looked like her—how bones could look as if they belonged somewhere. Considering them for all of a few second has the porch step moaning like a lover, creaking in the way it had since they’d paid the deposit. Floorboards vibrate with weight, tremble with the weight of presence, and before she can even think to maybe, by chance, consider it isn’t Logan—-it kicks open, bounces on the hinge as it hits the wall, light from the fire bleeding out into the open maw of midnight beyond their haven. 

Fractions of seconds and he’s still lingering in shadows, Logan stepping through the front door. Thick snow clings to his boots like a bad habit, which he knocks off on the frame. Cheeks blazed with color, if he were anyone but the Wolverine he’d surely be aching with dangerous cold, but, he isn’t—barely kissed by the weather. Merely flirting with the idea of conditions. Facial hair frosted and eyelashes blinking away remnants of snow, he looks more Hallmark than he does Survivor—Logan has always thrived, though. Any celebrity pales in comparison, even in the blood and guts of survival. 

He doesn’t miss the weapons drawn at either of her sides, elephants in rooms of their own power. Brow triggered up in surprise, his eyes flick up to hers. Not upset, but the cant of his head suggests amusement. 

“Jumpin’ at shadows, pretty?” 

Tension that’s been hanging like a lead ball in the center of her breastbone releases, and like barbed wire it releases down her spine, cutting away stress hormones and adrenaline. Loosens the knot between her shoulder blades that kicks like a mule. Snikt. And as soon as the claws come, they leave. 

“Shadows are better company than suspicion.” Disregarding his jibe that teases the edges of her resolve, she approaches, holding open the door with a foot. He finishes knocking off his boots at the door, “It’s been hours, Logan. I was beginning to worry.” 

He chuckles, and it’s like honey whiskey—low and warm, setting her blood on fire like it’s gasoline. “Always worryin’,” his lips press into a thin line, “when you stop, hell’ll be as frozen as my ass.” It’s untruthful, but, the point lands—his brows lift at the muscle in her jaw ticking with the strain to not smile. Soft eyes flick over her features carefully, wrinkles drawn around their corners with a lift of a barely-there, quicksilver smirk.

After a few seconds beneath his gaze, she shifts—ignores the something, whether it’s heat suddenly kicking around the cradle of her pelvis, or the pang of hunger in her gut, she isn’t sure which. He fights a smile, she can see the muscle in his jaw tick. Watches the swell of his tongue tracing his front teeth as he watches, studies—concentrates. When his eyes lift from their stalking of her abdomen, he takes a more serious tone. 

“Hungry?” 

He’s able to hear her gut sounds, she knows that. Being an endless abyss is, well—there’s nothing like it. A lifetime before her mutation, she’d eaten like a bird. Now food is a culture, a thing which to obtain, treasure. Worship. Either of them were always hungry—insatiable creatures always prowling, snatching when well within reach. Bears before hibernation and after, equal amounts of desperate and always empty. Fact which prompts the growing supply of kill buried in the shed beyond the cabin, hanging carcasses and squirreled-away skins. Normal, since her mutation—hunger came with rapid-fire metabolism, with regeneration. Logan had been consuming food like a cretin since before she knew him, certainly. 

She lies. “Not really.” Hell fed on such lies. And Logan knew it.  

Audacity to call her on her bull had always been one of Logan’s strongest suits in their relationship, even before the vows binding them together in the sight of God and Canadian law—he doesn’t hesitate to call her BS. “Well, that would be somethin’, wouldn’t it?” His lips dust hers in a chaste kiss before he’s leaning back outside the door, reaching for full water canisters. Already dusted with frost and sloshing with the slush of chilled, partially-frozen snow. 

Passing one to her, “Too bad I don’t believe you.” The back of his knuckles are warm, somehow, skimming along the line of her jaw. Logan runs hot, always had—part of that regeneration that won’t say die. 

The question hadn’t been so much a genuine investigation as Logan’s roundabout way of admitting he was on the hunt for something for his gut, a practice only time would perfect to know. Years together had shown his hand—she knew him pretty well. Wolverines, after all, were sheltered. Hideaway creatures by habit, preferably unseen and unknown outside of their own order. At their genesis, she hadn’t been—had been privileged, really, with what he’d let her see. 

Now, she’s one of him. Two of a kind, two of a breed—two where there, once this side of heaven, had only been one. God had willed it. Genetics executed.  Two Wolverines, running in the same lines, stalking the same moon—she didn’t, wouldn’t, wear the name, but it was the same class, different act. 

Biting the inside of her cheek, she gestures with her head towards the fire, their feast awaiting. It’s one in the witching hour, but who couldn’t eat?  “Stew and bread, on the hearth—knew you’d be hungry.” And she does, like so many other things. 

Lips tipping up, he chortles. Pleased. The housewife in her keens. “Y’know me pretty well.” 

Keening into his lingering touch, his appreciative hum is deep. Echoes off the adamantium in his chest, a low thing that rises her womb from the frozen wastelands—he’s tired. His deep eyes hold hers, unwilling to let go—dangling on some precipice, the edge of glory. And she can see the shadows fall in like soldiers, demons. Frothing, uncaged phantoms that lap up the blood of his living, his being. Wolves that pick him from between their teeth—had, for centuries. For nearly two centuries, he’s been mummified in unknowns, in could’ves, should’ves, maybes. Such memories, such living, came calling when the sun was low and sleep was little more than a dream.  

Taking the canister from her, Logan rests the pair in the corner, beside the standing bath bucket and towel. Limp accommodations compared to a lifetime ago, in mansions and gardens. What she wouldn’t give for a deep, lava-hot bath in a swirling tub of bubbles and bought water, champagne and silk. Faraway dreams, certainly, but beautiful ones—-sugarplum, delicious. Kicking the door closed, she drops the sliding lock, moving to the fire to roust the stew. 

Checking the bread with the back of her fingers, which has swollen to a delectable, Betty Crocker-gold, she lifts the lid of the thick pot with the hem of her flannel. Thick broth bubbles with heat, the swirl of meat and carrots all but mouthwatering. Eyes moving to consider him, he stretches his hands while glancing out the window. Thumbs rubbing hard, deep circles into the heel of his palm— shrugging out of his heavy jacket, brushes off the remnants of hell outside. 

Laying it out before the fire, he sheds his best and outer flannel. Squats to begin unlacing his boots in nothing but jeans and that faded, almost-stand-in-the-corner t-shirt they’d nabbed from a boutique in NOLA, dodging agents and suspicious eyes. It needs washing, she should take it to that north stream and beat the living hell of it on the rocks, but—another day. Better time. She’s too enthralled with the idea of his boots being sat in the corner, empty, to worry about laundry. 

It lifts her brow. Logan doesn’t ever not wear those God-heavy things, even inside. It’s one of the habits of an all-soldier mindset, that little piece of go, go, go that never leaves the living who have crawled beyond blood, through bone. Actually, in the last year—since X, since…since the labs—she’s maybe seen Logan’s actual feet a handful of times. Even in bed, when he so gorgeously steals her breath. Makes a prayer out of her name. Reminds her to whom she belongs—they’re there. Tangled up in bed, hard against the soft heat of her feet, their tomorrows. Always on, symbols of a living weapon. 

She should be more careful, Learn by example, pretty. But freedom is rapturous, too good to spoil with adrenaline and survivor’s guilt, cold fear. Tastes sweet—forbidden fruit.  

Kicking them off with a groan, Logan sheds thick woolen socks. Lays them before the fire beside his outer layers, like sacrifices. And they are, in a way—and, nose even scenting the savory pull of stew and warm, carby bread on the hearth, the entire room fills with his scent. Cigars and snow. Cold and pine. His freshwater kiss still lingers on her lips—the scent of the stream clings to his clothes, even before crackling flame. She can feel him move even in the depth of her bones, which practically sing with every breath he draws—how he stands in front of the hearth, fire kicking shadows over his features. 

Everything about him is like living color. Heightened senses, hunger. King returned to his castle, he takes up the air like it’s a throne. Turning from the fire, Logan drops one of the cut oak stumps before the fire. Makeshift furniture for a keeps-out-the-wind home, she swears to Christ she can hear the shift of adamantium in his skeleton as he lowers onto it. Watching her intently, he nods to the pot. Elbows on his thighs as thick, calloused fingers scratch through his facial hair. 

His back arches in a catlike stretch, a small smile trying to play on his lips. “Smells like jackrabbit,” that roundabout way, smells good, “what else you got in there, pretty?” Pretty. Even now, years later—it raises pink to the apples of her cheeks. Fondly, Mare remembers the first time Logan had ever graced her with such title, title he’d been using for years—even in the blood and sinew, even in the waist-high sludge of the stay-alive. 

Pretty, not aesthetically— in soul. 

Turning, she retrieves the bread from the stone hearth and tosses it his direction. He catches it like a pro. “Carrots, the last of the potatoes. A hit of whiskey,” his brow raises suspiciously as she smiles, “I’ll have to get some staples from the store next time you leave me with the truck.”

She stands to retrieve the hollowed gourd bowls, balancing them in her palm before stooping to dip them into the stew. Handing one of them over, she receives the half loaf he’s split for her. 

Sinking to the floor, cross-legged, it takes seconds before the bread is gone. Warm, in the pit of her gut. Logan is practically licking his bowl, “I was thinking we could get some rope—I’d like a washline,” she shrugs a shoulder, nodding towards the door, “and we could use some lumber. Couple of the boards are rottin’ out—I’d rather not heat dirt.” 

He knows. Nods, “I’ll make it happen,” and it won’t be difficult—Logan makes good money working the rigs. Cash, no questions—no fed papers or taxes, identification is laughable. Half the men on the crew are probably anything but Jim, Jack, and Johns, but she prefers it that way—even if Logan refuses to use another name. 

Money is good—and money spends anywhere, just as easy as anything. And it’s low man’s work, but Logan doesn’t care, simple work means clean breaks when the time comes. Less complicated, less messy. One thing they could never get enough of is cash, and if the work is honest—well. Can’t ask for more’thn that, darlin’. 

Get around Benjamins, Logan called it. Cash moved, and one could go anywhere for the right price. 

Precisely why she’d been trying to drive through his thick skull her want of a job. Not anything long-hour or even long-term—this makeshift home was her first responsibility, her priority. But, if she could work in town, off the mountain and with people, she could keep an eye on the happenings. Scout out the bodies, the gossip—something Logan couldn’t do for days out on the water. She’d already been approached for some work in the bar, and contacts at the local watering hole weren’t a bad thing. Network was everything, the grapevine was even faster than Google. 

And God never said discounted booze was an unwelcome thing, either. But Logan had been adamant she stay on the mountain—selfish reasons. Out of sight, out of mind. Beyond the press of curiosity.

He, after all, worked the water in a town primarily built on the foundations of fishing. One woman in Burns for every five men, and it didn’t take Hank McCoy genius to do the math. Two weeks—ten days for her to beg the truck off of him, and he’d done so with such reluctance that she’d had to practically fuck logic between his ears. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t care, got a high off controlling her. Logan hadn’t ever superimposed harsh rules in their union, just expectations and thrills. Satisfactions and proud-ofs, she knew the things that stoked his trust and kept him coming home. Logan was a simple man, and he didn’t need much from her—he wanted, but never towed the line. Wanted her to thrive, to love, and that was a fine line to draw in the sands of marital relations—especially from a man who knew little to nothing about lasting love. 

In simpler days, he asked very few questions. He’d cut out his heart and hand it over, if the situation were right—hedged bets on her, even in the early days of her mutation rearing its ugly mug. Cared very little about outside opinion, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Watertight confidence and grave-tight faith —in her. In other people, well, that was another shitshow. 

Logan didn’t trust anyone even farther than he would be able to toss them off his claws.  

After a few heartbeats of quiet, she stands. Sets aside good-enough dishes, blows out a long breath between her lips. Rising on her toes, she about-faces on the ball of her heel to face him. “Logan—” stops short when she notices his attention is welded to her in an unshakable way that implies the study of fine artwork. Some soft, dreamlike look on his face—wrinkles around his eyes deepen, smile growing a little more lopsided, a little more white. Her brow furrows, head canting to the side. Never unappreciative of his attention, she managed a little chuckle, “—pfft. Staring much?” She fingers one of her curls behind her ear, which has fallen from her half-loosened bandana. 

Dismissing her with a little shift of his shoulder, he lifts a hand and crooks a finger for her to come. “You gonna blame me?” Can’t argue with logic that knocks the wind from her bones, sends her knees together like some kind of schoolchild. “C’mere, darlin’.” Leaning forward, his elbows find his thighs —she can’t do otherwise. 

Foot over foot, she crosses to him in a handful of steps. She lifts fingers to card through his hair, his big hands anchored on her hips. Strong thumbs rub gentle circles as he shuffles her a little closer, leans to nuzzle his nose beneath her breast, against her ribs. Breath heavy against the apex of her heart, her nails gently rake through his mutton chops, one of his hands moving behind her thigh, nudging her to lower to his lap. 

“You gonna let me ask you something?” 

He hums, nodding once. “Depends what you wanna ask, honey.” Ask me later. Much, much later. It’s there unspoken, in the depth of his eyes and the half-cocked smile that deepens the wrinkles at his eyes. 

Familiar territory—he’s due on the water in two days. Never knows how long he’ll be gone, it’s always a heartbeat too long. Hours may as well be days, days small eternities in the eyes of heaven. Being alone is a burden, high in the air, among the silent evergreens and giants of mountain shadows. Logan left her too often for a man who promised never to—promised life. And this may not be much of a life, but it was theirs together—and all her living really needed was Logan, anyway. 

Dropping her full weight to his lap, the boards beneath his oak stump creak a little, surprised. Resting her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs trace his defined collarbones lazily, the muscle of his arms and familiar veins alive with his moving, breathing blood. His palm presses hard around the back of her neck, thumb tracing over her steady pulse—other fingers dip into the soft curve of her hip. A flick of his wrist tips her pelvis forward, against his. Hardly feeling her weight, her hand presses against his abs, feeling their definition. Engaged, riveting. Almost trembling. 

And suddenly the room is barely contained, a dreamstate of everything and nothing at once. Logan’s fingers, working buttons on her shirt steadily, like a pro. Flesh seeking flesh, fingertips brushing against breastbone. Deep breaths, the steady pulse in his chest is strong, alive—possessive, hers. He eats every one of the shallow breaths she manages between biting the corner of her lip and the tip of her tongue. 

Keening, drunk on the dark of his eyes, how the fire moves in and out of them like dreams—the methodical way he fingers aside the front of the flannel hanging open on her frame. And it’s so intimate, at its finest— heart-to-heart, bone to bone. Logan’s bed had never been anything but this, close. Open, unified. Everything he’d ever wanted, all he’d ever asked—-share, honey. Share me. And she does, willingly, gives what he asks, even unto the half of her soul. 

His head tips back just enough to manage a half-cocked smirk at her as her fingers curl into his shirt, skips through the hair on his arms. He pulls the bandanna from her hair, lets it fall from his fingers. Chuckles at the way her cheeks flame, hair wilding away every direction as his fingers pick, play with it like it’s a plaything, amusing. Her eyes fall to the floor, but two strong fingers on her chin pull her attention back. 

Saying nothing but managing a low hum, he kisses her. Deeply. Almost hurts how good he feels—how she can taste the water of the stream somehow, still, in his mouth. Push and pull, give and take—Logan pulls a whimper from somewhere along her spine, guides her arms around his neck. She obliges, folding against his chest—-chest to chest, she can feel familiar muscles in her musculature itching. Burning between her knuckles, begging. Starving, craving. 

Kissing her hard and rough, heat curls low in places only God had designed. “Hold tight,” before his hands slip under her ass, lifting her as if she’s nothing with little more than a huff and a flex of muscle and heat—and she isn’t nothing, but that’s aside for a mutation that enhances everything all at once. 

Kicking the stump aside, it rolls noisily until it thunks against the wall, her legs firming up around his waist. She smiles, touching her forehead against his. Nose nuzzling the end of his, his heavy feet carry her the God-knows how many steps to the corner—-their corner. And before she can even haul in another full breath, her toes kiss the thick spread of hide as he lowers her to her feet—deer, bison. Elk, bear, wolf. Prizes from six months of survival, success. Need for blankets doesn’t exist when you have the whole of the woods to suffice, and Logan had learned how to cure hides years ago.

The warmest, safest bed she’d ever slept in. 

Big hands practically shove the flannel off her frame, toss it somewhere in the abyss of existence beyond the positively filthy way he suckles a thick mark to the flesh of her neck. Greedy, like a man just fat on hot stew and bread—his fingers curl over the waistband of her jeans, old Wranglers she’d been making due for over a year. A tighter fit than before—she’s gained weight. Fresh diet and good air, peace made her fat. And while Logan may be the chiseled sun to her Icharus, she’d never been lean, never been built right—he hadn’t ever cared. Still didn’t, his low moan in her evidence enough. 

Taking his face between her hands, she softly presses her lips against his. Nips at his bottom lip, takes her time—slowly manages to her knees. His fingers in her hair tips her head back enough to look her in the eye, an amused glint lighting up the flick of a smile on his mouth. Closing her eyes, her fingers curl into the denim clinging to his thighs, breathing in a heady whiff of him as her nose gently bumps the front of his belt buckle. 

Forehead brushing the hair on his abdomen, she feels him shed the t-shirt she still needs to take to the stream. It takes herculean will to not lose track of her surroundings—the makeshift cabin in the deep woods, the fire that seems to roar a stone’s throw from their nest. Food that’s low and warm in her belly, the small shed with hanging meat for tomorrow’s another-stew. Washing that needs done, wood that needs split—there’s a dozen things that need doing, but that’s the way of this life. This life he’d given her, fought for her. Logan had waged war against the coming future for this—this moment, this iteration of them far beyond the reach of Weapon X, the faraway memory of the X-Men. Of the secret they bury, deep in bones and marrow. In the depths of the living. 

It wasn’t what they’d originally thought, not even close. A lifetime away, but it’s enough. He’s enough. God, and peace—-Alaska. Logan. 

Taking her chin between his fingers, Logan crouches. Kisses her, sweetly—like in the early days, when this, this life would’ve been laughable. The stuff of nightmares. He reaches for the thick splay of bison hide, her favorite—draws it over her shoulders. His eyes land heavy in hers, searching, scouting and tracing the lines of the moment. She’s able to read it in his eyes—-he doesn’t want to leave. Will never want to leave, but the Wolverine has lived a life of doesn’t-wants. If it means her happiness, he’d stay. A thousand times and again, he’d forsake the world and weld himself here. 

But going means safety. And that, she knows, he’d fight any long war for. 

His brow pulls into a deep line, uncertain of the look on her face. “You ok, darlin’?” He tips her chin up a little, eyes shifting before his palm moves to cradle her cheek. The pad of his thumb traces the plush of her lips, until her hand at the buckle of his belt gently pushes him to the mess of deer and elk and bones they call theirs.  

Drawing the bison skin tighter around her shoulders, she swings a leg over the cradle of his hips. Looks down on his quirked brow with a quicksilver smile of a thing she can’t quite put a finger on. And, with a brush of her fingers through the curl of hair on his chest, she shrugs a shoulder. 

“I’m fine now,” lowering to kiss the corner of his mouth, she hums as his finger traces up her spine, down again. Callouses rough against her warm skin. “You’re here, and I’m just fine.” 

And that, really, is the truth of God. 

tags: @fandomxo00 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

Based on the podcast─

[heyyypuddin]

Withering Petal ( Armando x OC) Bad Boys chapter 2

Chapter 2

Everything was going great. For the first time in a while, Amora was having a smooth day. She finished working on a side project for a client that she did not like at all because he was an absolute asshole to her every chance he got, but said client is paying her to where she's set her financially well for about a year, and she won't have to deal with him until the next year. Her giant black schnauzer, Bowser, didn't act up today when she took him to his trainer. Even her own training sessions at her Muay Thair lessons went well, and lastly, it helped that she didn't have any nightmares, which always gave her relief.

Amora stood up from her office seat, stretched her body, and went to walk over to the full-length gold-framed mirror she had tucked in the corner. Taking a quick look at herself, she took in the sight of her brown smooth skin cladded only in a red lacy nightgown with her jet-black hair coiled down her back. She took a closer look in the mirror at her hair and grabbed the rattail comb she kept on her desk to fix the middle part since it looked a little crooked. A sigh escaped her full lips as she finished fixing her hair, scowling at her reflection. 

“I need to call Yana for a touch-up,” she thought. She steps back from the mirror and gives herself one final look before calling for Bowser and walking to the staircase that's to the left of her upstairs loft.

She heard his collar jiggle and the pitter-patter of his paws coming from her bedroom as she waited for him so they could go downstairs for his last walk before it got dark. Her fur baby rounded the corner, looking like a void of black fur, coming at her with full speed. She felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips before she gave him the stern command, “Sawaru.” 

Immediately he sat, but only for about 30 seconds before he got up on his feet, placing his paws on her upper bare thighs, trying to get some affection. She rolled her dark eyes, but the full-blown smile gave away her true feelings, and she couldn't help but start giving him love. 

“You’re such a cutie; awe, yes, you are. Who's a good boy? You areeee” After a minute of showering him some love, she took him downstairs and put on her outside slippers, grabbing his doggy pop bags and the gun she kept behind the black entrance table, making sure it was properly loaded, like usual since she’s never had to use it. 

“At least I don't have to use it yet,” she thought bitterly, and she was outside the door, letting Bowser speed past her into her own private land. She wasn't worried about anyone seeing her since she was the only house in her area for at least half a mile. She moved to the railing she had on her porch and looked around her surroundings, appreciating the beauty of nature in front of her. The sun was setting, coloring the sky pretty pink and orange-looking, and the gleams of the sun were hitting beautifully on the small woods to the right of her house. 

She scanned the trees to make sure she saw nothing hiding in the tree lines. A slight paranoia broke into her mind as she was stuck scanning the trees until bowser bark cut through her mind. Immediately she tensed and gripped her gun, snapping her head to where the bark came from, but relaxed once she saw he was only chasing after a bird flying around his lead. She sighed and rubbed her forehead with her freshly done French-tip almond nails. 

“Come on, Amor, get out of your head; everything is fine, and we’re safe,” she said out loud. She took two deep breaths to battle the rising panic she felt edging slowly over her body. 

Bowser barked again, and she looked his way, seeing that he was about to use the bathroom. She gripped the doggy bag and sped away to clean up after him and bring him inside since the last of the sunset had gone away and what was left in the sky was only a blanket of stars.

Taking one last look at the tree line, she hurried inside and set her alarm system, making sure everything was locked as it needed to be. The front and back doors, all the windows upstairs and downstairs, and the kitchen and living room were locked. When she was done doing everything, she placed her gun back on the table, turned on the two lamps she had in the living room, sat on her big black couch, and grabbed the blanket and the book she was reading earlier, thinking she was going to have a peaceful night. But she only got 10 minutes into the book until she heard her robotic alarm system go off. 

“Motion sensor activated, right side of house”

Immediately, she jumped up, ran to the library wall she had on the right of her couch, and grabbed the shotgun that was in the secret compartment. She quickly ran to the front door, Bowser right at her feet trailing along. 

"Alat," she told him, and he went into his protective stance. In front of her, she opened the front door, taking a deep breath before holding up the shotgun that was shaking in her hands and quickly walking to the right side, where she saw the monitor lights shine. She quickly scanned the area and saw nothing out of the ordinary until Bowser started growling as they got closer to the lights. 

Amora froze as she saw it—or him. It was a man leaning over in all black, blood dried up over his tan skin, with weapons attached to his body. She saw that he was gripping his right side and had a hand up that was blocking the light. But that hand, too, had blood pouring down it. She saw him look in her direction, but as he did, he fell to his knees and landed face forward in the grass, unmoving. 

She let out a shaky breath and stepped closer to get a better look at the intruder. She picked up a rock that was near her and threw it at the stranger's head, seeing it bounce off his curly hair, but he was still unmoving. 

“Kansatsu Suru,” she commanded, and Bowser ran over to the stranger, sniffing and shoving him. He whined and looked at her, but still, the stranger did not move. 

She walked up to the man, looked around the area, making sure she saw nothing else, and looked down at the man before kneeling to grab his arm to drag him to the house. 

Authors Note: and that’s chapter twooo. I hope you enjoyed. Hopefully it’s not too slow and not too fast.

I almost forgot here are translation for whenever she’s speaking to Bowser

Japanese - I am not fluent in Japanese, but I did try researching these words to make sure I’m using them correctly.

Sawaru- sit

Alat- Alert

Kansatsu Suru- Observe

[littlest-w01f]

Cures

Eris Vanserra x Celeste (Lucien x Oc's mini-series coming soon)

For @erisweekofficial

Eris week 2024 Masterlist

Day 3: Healing

Summary: After Eris was beaten bloody by his father, left abandoned in a shed, a witch finds him, she is more than willing to aid him

Cw: Wounds, blood

The sun had set hours ago, Eris was strung up in an abandoned shed miles outside any civilisation, crying was no use, and screaming for help wasn't one either, the cuts on his chest had slowly started to heal, the whip marks were cauterised, causing nothing but pain.

Eris hung limply from the chains, his head drooping forward as he struggled to remain conscious through the agony that wracked his body. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the musty odor of the decaying shed. Each labored breath sent fresh waves of pain radiating from his wounds.

Outside, the night pressed in, silent and uncaring. No saviour would come. He was utterly alone with his tormentor. A faint rustling came from the shadows at the back of the shed, his father returning. Eris tensed, dreading what new torments awaited him.

Heavy footsteps approached, hurried. "Oh, Mother," A soft voice, not his father. "What happened to you? Poor thing..." The voice tutted as gentle hands got him out of the chains.

When the female came into view, Eris' breathing got caught in his throat, her eyes were like pink diamonds, having little feline slits in them, hair to match, and her face was round, soft and innocent, contrasting her sharp eyes, concern etched over her features.

The young female, barely older than Eris himself, looked upon him with a mixture of shock, pity, and a hint of fear. Her large, gemstone-like eyes took in every detail of his battered form - the dried blood caked around gashes on his torso, the swollen bruises discolouring his skin, the vacant stare in his eyes. She let out a small gasp, covering her mouth with a delicate hand.

"Oh gods, what heartless creature did this to you?" She whispered, her voice trembling slightly. She glanced towards the door, she made up her mind, gently scooping him up into her arms as if he were a fragile doll.

Her touch, though gentle, sent jolts of agony coursing through his abused body. Yet there was something comforting about her warmth, her concern, it was a stark contrast to the cold brutality of his father.

"Who… who are you?" Eris managed to croak out, his voice raw from screaming. His eyelids fluttered as he tried to focus on her, each movement causing more pain. He winced, biting down on his lower lip to stifle a groan.

"You may call me Celeste," She spoke softly, "Who left you here? Not many Fae visit this part of the woods."

Celeste's name rolled off his tongue like a soothing balm, a stark contrast to the hellish reality of his situation. He could barely believe that such a kind soul existed amidst the cruelty of his world.

"My... Father... He brought me here," Eris murmured, his words slurred from pain and exhaustion. "He said I deserved punishment." He swallowed hard, his throat feeling raw and dry. "Why are you here? This place is dangerous…"

His gaze drifted to the door again, half expecting his father to burst in at any moment, only to find Celeste instead. It was confusing, overwhelming, yet somehow reassuring.

"I'm a witch," She admits casually, waving her hand to produce a bunch of different plants and salves.

Eris watched in awe as Celeste waved her hand, conjuring up veritable herbs and ointments. Witchcraft was often spoken of in hushed tones, seen as a threat to the established order. To see it before him now, used to ease his suffering, filled him with hope.

"Witchcraft is outlawed in Autumn..." He began weakly, his voice trailing off as he stared at the array of healing items. "But I don't care right now. Please, help me."

"Yeah, because we can just outlaw faeries." Celeste snorted, reaching for a paste to put on his cuts.

Celeste's flippant remark brought a wry smile to Eris' lips despite the agony. There was a spark of defiance in her tone, a refusal to be cowed by the oppressive forces that ruled their lands.

As she applied the cooling paste to his wounds, Eris felt a sense of peace wash over him. For the first time since being dragged into this nightmare, he allowed himself to relax, trusting in Celeste's ministrations.

"What's that?" He asked, pointing to a particularly vibrant dark purple herb. "It smells wonderful."

Celeste glanced up, her pink diamond eyes sparkling with amusement. "That's Nightshade Bloom. It has remarkable healing properties. Among other things... My friend from the Night Court got them for me."

"Nightshade? Isn't that poisonous?" Eris asked, intrigued despite his weakened state. He knew the basics of herbalism in Prythian from his studies, but this was beyond anything he'd encountered.

Celeste chuckled softly, her fingers deftly crushing the petals into a fine powder. "Poison and medicine are two sides of the same coin. It's all in how you use it." She mixed the Nightshade with a clear gel, forming a thick paste that glimmered in the dim light.

Carefully, she applied the mixture to Eris' worst wounds, humming a lilting tune under her breath. The pain receded, replaced by a warm tingling sensation that spread through his body. Eris found himself relaxing into her touch, lulled by the melody. "There now, when it dries, it means you've healed."

Eris watched, mesmerized, as Celeste worked her magic. With each application of the paste, he felt his body responding, the pain ebbing away, replaced by a strange sensation of renewal. Despite himself, he found his eyelids growing heavy, the rhythmic hum of her song lulling him into a state of peaceful numbness.

"I've never met a witch before," He admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're… very different from what I imagined."

Celeste hummed as she moved behind him, taking care of his back, "What did you imagine witches look like?"

Eris sighed softly, the question drawing him further into a meditative trance. "An old crones, ugly and wicked," He confessed. "With pointed hats and brooms. But you… You're beautiful, kind."

A wave of warmth washed over him as Celeste touched his injured back, sending tendrils of pleasure weaving through his sore muscles. His eyes fluttered closed, his mind adrift on a sea of comfort and relief.

"And your magic… it's so gentle, so caring," he continued, his voice little more than a whisper. "Nothing like the wild storms or sudden lightning that people fear."

"Well, I could cause sudden lightening if that's what you prefer to see." Celeste joked. "Or flood this little shed."

Eris laughed weakly, the sound rough and ragged from disuse. There was something endearing about Celeste's brash humor, a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere of his predicament.

"That might startle me," He teased back, attempting to lighten the mood despite the discomfort still plaguing his body. "Although, I think I prefer your gentler magic."

His eyes remained shut, the sensation of the Nightshade working its wonders on his back too pleasant to risk opening them. The rhythmic cadence of her movements lulled him into a relaxed state, his worries drifting away like leaves on the wind. "Thank you, love."

"Of course, just don't tell anyone about this..." Celeste whispered softly.

"I won't..." When Eris opened his eyes, the mysterious which was gone, leaving him alone in the shed.

{General Taglist - @nox-ceur @lilah-asteria @paleidiot @dee-writes-smut @adalia-jaycee @anarchiii @alwayshave-faith @velarisnightsky444 @minnieoo}

{Eris Taglist- @fxckmiup @slut4acotar @secret-third-thing @shadowsingers-mate @fieldofdaisiies @st4r-girl-official}

[swiss-mrs]

PORTALS (I)

Eddie Munson x Reader/OC - Intro

This AU takes inspiration from The Witcher Series and DND, but prior knowledge of The Witcher or DND is not needed.

AU "Warnings": Violence, Angst, Adventure, Gore, Supernatural Elements, Adult Themes and Language. No Use of Y/N

Reader/Unnamed Character Description: Medium-Long Hair, No Mentions of Race, Ethnicity, Age, Etc.

(WC 5,038)

‘Fuck, this sucks!’ Eddie thinks to himself as he blows hot breath into his hands. ‘Of fucking course I lose my keys right now.’

Round 4 of pacing through the woods and still no luck. Eddie ducks down to try and get a better view of something metallic looking under a bush. “Oh thank God. AH-” He stumbles forward and braces himself, squeezing his eyes shut, preparing to eat dirt, yet it doesn’t happen. He wheezes as his back hits the ground with a dull thud, 'fucking tree.' He tries catching his breath, opening his eyes to see the moonlit treetops above him. ‘The fuck?’ He furrows his brows, lifting his back off the ground, adjusting into a sitting position. He stares at his legs in front of him. “What the fuck?” He repeats out loud.

Eddie looks around the ground beneath him. ‘How did I…’ He moves his left hand feeling the mulchy ground before hitting something hard. His features relax a bit as he turns toward the glistening item, reflecting a warm glow. “Sweet.” A little smile forms on his lips as he grabs his keys and begins to lift himself up, but he is quick to furrow his brows again. Eddie then finally looks up to take in his surroundings. Doing a quick 360, he now notices he can no longer see his van nor the parking lot just beyond the tree line. In fact, it seems the trees just go on forever. “What the fuck?” He questions again, a bit more panicked.

Eddie faces the source of warm glow. ‘A campfire? There’s no way I didn’t notice that before. I couldn't have wandered THAT far.’ His mind starts running a million miles an hour for an explanation of his current state, retracing events over and over. ‘Maybe I should just go over and see if those guys can help…’ Though he can’t see anything past the fire and there doesn’t appear to be anyone huddled around it, he feels a natural instinct to head towards it. Just before his foot touches the ground to take a step, he’s back to laid out and wheezing.

He hit the ground a lot harder this time, and his body is quick to try and regain air, but it can’t. Eddie starts coughing and gasping so much that he barely has the chance to notice the sting of cool metal against his neck.

“You better have a good reason for me not to kill you where you lay.” a voice calls out, low and threatening yet incredibly calm for the situation at hand. Eddie's eyes shoot open as his coughing fit dies down. He stares up in shock at the kneeling figure on his chest.

“What the-” His mind goes blank as he takes in the silhouette above him. It’s hard to see every detail as they are covered head to toe with various layers and the brightest light source is behind them.

They are hooded and masked with an entrancing, mystical glow emitting from their eyes and a few trendless of hair flowing from beneath the hood. Even with one knee jabbed into his chest and a sword against his neck, Eddie couldn’t help but be completely awe struck. This stranger was right out of his character journal but better.

“You mustn't test my patience now.” The figure stated, knee driving deeper, blade nearly drawing blood.

“waH- WAIT! WAIT!” Eddie stammers, putting his palms up in surrender. The figure's glowing eyes narrowed, urging him to continue. “Please! I- I swear I’m not here to bring harm! I’m just lost!” He shouts out in a panic. The figure’s head cocks to the side. Eddie can’t see clearly, but he swears he sees an eyebrow raise. “Please… Take this really awesome looking sword away from my jugular and just let me explain.” Eddie tries to reason with the stranger. They stare at each other for a few seconds before the stranger gets up, standing next to Eddie’s laying figure, sword unwavering.

“Up.” the voice cuts through the air as if speaking directly into Eddie’s mind. He moves as quickly as he can with caution, not wanting to spook the sword’s wielder into chopping his head clean off. He slowly lifts his hands in the air again to show no harm.

“Okay, okay.” He breathes out quickly as his mind tries to explain himself. The stranger’s face gets slightly more illuminated as they now stand. Eddie can see them eyeing him up and down, their gaze now holding a hint of confusion. Eddie takes a deep breath, “My name is Eddie. I lost my keys after coming out here to take a piss and right as I found them I tripped and now I have this super badass looking warrior standing in front of me with a blade to my neck.” He rambles. “ I have no idea how I managed to get this far from my van, and, though really cool and really scary, I am really confused as to what is happening right now.” He answers truthfully. The hooded figure only continues to stand still, staring into his soul. “I swear on my life, I am just really lost… Please.” He begs, hoping his story is enough.

“Where are you from, Eddie?” The shift in their voice as they say his name is almost taunting, untrusting.

“Hawkins. Hawkins, Indiana.” He answers quickly.

“Hm.” It is short, testing. A second later, the sharp coolness on Eddie’s neck disappears, and he relaxes. The blade flickers by the stranger’s side. “Eddie of Hawkins.” All tension floods back into his body, awaiting for the next sentence. “It is quite obvious you are not from here, but I fear you may be more lost than you know.” The masked swordsman turns their back on Eddie, walking back towards the fire. “I advise you to go back to… Hawkins.” The words unfamiliar to their tongue. “You do not belong here.” Eddie stands there with his hands hanging in the air, dumbfounded.

‘Ouch…’ He’d hate to admit it, but for some reason, that stung. He breathed a sigh, resting his arms back at his sides. He watches as the figure gets farther, sitting on a log next to the fire. Eddie stares for a moment, then glances behind him to look at the never ending woods, then looks back to the figure next to the fire. He takes a few steps back, turning to head the opposite direction of the fire.

He doesn’t know it, but the figure's eyes find him again, watching as he stumbles further into the night. The figure shakes their head as they continue to tend to the fire.

》》》

“Fucking Christ.” Eddie mumbles to himself. He’s been walking in no particular direction for what feels like a good 20 minutes. ‘There is no way I managed to get THIS far from the lot.’ He sighs, wrapping his arms tighter around him and his jacket. ‘I should have just asked for directions. Maybe even ask if I could stay by the fire with them until morning.’ Eddie shakes his head at his own foolishness. “Stupid.” Another seemingly 10 minutes pass and he hears the sound of rushing water. ‘Maybe it’s a river. I’m pretty sure following a river is a good idea to lead somewhere.’

Eddie changes direction a little, leading him to a wide body of shallow water. If it weren't for the circumstances, he would’ve loved to just sit and admire the way the moonlight shone like glitter atop the water. As he looked around Eddie noticed another light emitting from the other side of the river. He is quick to spot a fallen tree that looks to be his best option to get to the other side of the water without soaking his feet. Eddie uses a couple rocks to help hop his way over to the tree. Walking across the tree, he starts to get a sinking feeling in his stomach. ‘What the fuck was up with that masked person back there? A sword?’

Eddie hops off the makeshift bridge and to the ground, continuing his trek toward the fire. The closer he gets, he notices what looks to be several people laying on the floor next to the fire. He sighs in relief, ‘Maybe a group of campers will be of more help.’

Just as he is about to announce his presence, something catches his foot, causing him to trip forward. This time, landing as gravity intended, on his face. “Really?” he says out loud in frustration. He spits at the dirt stuck to his lips and turns as he sits up looking down at what tripped him this time.

His eyes nearly jump out of his head. ‘No way.’ He scoots back a bit further, scrambling away. ‘Is that a LEG?!' He feels the need to scream as his breath picks up. He turns towards the campsite and now realizes a crucial fact he did not notice from afar. The bodies that littered the ground around him were just that, bodies. Mangled bodies. Dead people.

Eddie scrambles to get farther away from the gruesome scene in front of him. “AHH!” He yells out. “What the shit fuck!?” His panicked eyes scan around him. The bodies, rather body parts, that litter the forest floor are all torn as if jagged claws or teeth ripped them apart. He can't bare the sight yet he can't tear his eyes away from the scene. He scrambles to his feet and begins to slowly walk backwards, back toward the river. Crack. Eddie stills, ceasing his movements, holding his breath. 'That wasn't me. Is whatever did this still here? Shit, I really shouldn't have made so much noise.' Crack. Eddie can feel his heart pounding in his ears. Snap. What he'd originally thought was the sound of twigs, now sounds an awful lot like the breaking of bones. God, how he wished he didn't have to be so familiar with that sound.

Crack. Eddie's head whips to his left, trying to find the source of the noise. There he sees two piercing white dots looming in the dark. Eddie remains frozen in place, holding the gaze of whatever this is. His heart quickens impossibly faster as the floating dots start to menacingly raise higher and higher. "f-fuck." his trembling voice coming out as a whisper. He stumbles back further, his brain screaming for his body to run. This thing in front of him stands at least 8 feet tall. As it stands to its full height, it lets out a piercing, high-pitched screech, rattling Eddie's skull.

"fuuUUUUAHHHHH!" He yells out as he turns and starts running back toward the river. "Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!" He repeats his entire run. He can hear the rapid footsteps of the creature behind him, quickly catching up to him. 'I'm not gonna make it!' He has no idea why he urges himself back to the way he came. There is no out running this thing. Maybe he's just instinctually trying to reach that masked being he encountered before? They had weapons at least, but they were a good 30 minute walk away. He wasn't even sure if they were still there. Who was he kidding? There was no way he'd even reach them in time even if they were still where he left them. He could see the tree he came across on, but would he even have time to climb back on it and make it across?

"GET DOWN!" a voice booms. Eddie quickly dives toward the fallen tree and into the shallow water, hoping to at least use the wood as a barrier between him and that thing.

The horrid, inhuman shriek of the monster blares once again, a more human-sounding yell interrupting it, challenging it. The sounds of a struggle could be heard, but Eddie was too preoccupied with trying to catch his breath. All he can hear is the sounds of water sloshing, monster shrieks, and the occasional huff from presumably the one fighting off the beast. Everything in him wants to run, but he fights the urge.

Eddie makes his way to his knees, kneeling behind the tree and lifting his head just enough to catch a glimpse of the battle happening. He doesn't catch much as not a second after he lifts his head above the tree does he catch a familiar assailant flit from the ground to a large rock just on the edge of the riverbed to the creature's spiked back, a black smoke-like substance following each move. Their movements were so swift and fast, Eddie could have sworn they just teleported.

The monster shrieks again in panicked defiance, the assailant driving their sword down into the back of the creature's neck, cutting the noise short. The fighter swings down from the creature's back, around its right shoulder, passing its front and landing a few feet away from the tree hiding Eddie. The fighter lands with a splash at the same time as the creature's head falls into the water behind them, the rest of its body falling suit.

Eddie stares in absolute awe. 'Holy Christ...' The fighter stands from their slightly crouched landing. As they lift their head, Eddie notices their mask has slipped, revealing their face 'Woah.' He couldn't help but stare, tracing each feature of their face with his eyes. He waited for them to look up, finding himself longing to see those glowing eyes again.

"You can come out now, Eddie of Hawkins." Eddie's breath hitches. He stands slowly, glancing from the figure to the decapitated creature behind them. "Come." Their voice demands as they begin to walk toward the monster's head, picking the cursed thing up, wrapping it in a dark cloth, and continuing out of the water to the side they originally came from. Eddie is quick to follow, stumbling along the tree's length and to the river's edge, jogging up to meet the familiar stranger once out of the water. He stays a couple of paces behind, a little weary of the covered, massive head in front of him. "I thought I told you to go back to Hawkins." Eddie is a little at a loss for words. "I told you. You don't belong here."

'Again, ouch.'

"It is quite obvious you are not of this world."

Eddie sighs in response. 'You got that right'

"You lack the self preservation even a doe or babe would have. Your choice of robes seem to work against your already evident lack of skill… and you smell-"

"Excuse me!" He interrupts, quickly lifting his jacket to his nose, sniffing himself. "First off all, Ouch. I get it. I'm no teleporting warrior, but where I'm from, things like that," he points at the bag accusingly, "are not common." He pauses, "Second of all, I told you. I have no idea how I ended up here, and... I have no clue how to get back…" He finishes, his tone dropping a bit as he realizes how truly lost he is. As he and his strange companion fall into a thoughtful silence, his mind begins to run.

'What if I never find my way back? How does time even run here? What if I do get back and everything is different? What about Wayne? Will I ever see him again? God he will be so worried. I told him I'd make a point to call him every payphone I passed. He's going to go mental. What if there is no way back? What am I going to do? How are you going to get out of this one, Eddie? You're all by yourself this time.' Eddie is so lost in these thoughts, he doesn't even realize the previous fire he first met this stranger was coming into view. The warmth from the blazing fire was what brought him back to reality, or this reality.

He watches as the stranger walks to the other side of the fire, opposite of him, crouches down, and stuffs the clothed head into a large leather bag before tying it off. The hooded stranger stands, leaving the bag on the floor. "Sit," They say, gesturing to the log they were seated on earlier that night. "if you want." Eddie blankly follows instruction and takes a seat next to the fire on the edge of the log. A loud huff causes Eddie to nearly jump out of his skin. He whips around to find a huge horse a few feet behind him. He sighs, relieved it isn't another monster. A small, airy chuckle breaks the silence. "Do you not have draughts in Hawkins?" The stranger teases.

"Draught?" he asks in confusion.

"This is Rogue." The stranger says tenderly, gently stroking the animal's massive head.

"We call them horses." He replies, only to be followed with another short, breathy laugh from his savior. 

"Yes, that is what they're called. A draught is a working horse. A big horse, in lamest terms." The stranger breaks down. Eddie's face heats up a bit.

'Nice, now not only are you as skilled as fucking Bambi, you're also a dumbass.'

"Rogue is my most trustworthy friend. He's the best guy around." The stranger smirks, Rogue huffing and nodding his head up and down as if to agree with the statement. Eddie grins, amused at the horse's actions. "One moment." The stranger says abruptly, catching Eddie off guard a little. They make their way to the other side of Rogue and start rummaging in a sack. As they come around to the front side of Rogue, Eddie notices them carrying a stack of fabrics. "Here." They walk towards Eddie, placing the stack on the log next to him. "You are soaked to the bone after diving into that river. You'll find the weather is not very kind this time of year." Eddie shivers just as the sentence ends, as if on queue. "I would apologize if they are too small, but by the looks of it, you do not mind tighter garments." Eddie scoffs at the comment, a small smile playing at his lips.

"Just keep 'em comin'." He replies, earning an amused but confused head tilt from the stranger next to him. "Thank you." He stated gratefully, picking them up as he stands. 

"Not to worry, this hunt ended a bit sooner than expected, so I won't be needing the change of clothes. I should be the one expressing gratitude." the stranger takes a seat on a tree stump adjacent to the log. Eddie's nods, not wanting to ask any further questions until he was out of his wet clothes. He stands awkwardly for a second, trying to decide where to change. "Just on the other side of Rogue is a hanging cloth. You can change behind there." the stranger says as if reading his mind.

"Got it." Eddie nods, walking around the log and around the front of Rogue, nodding to him as if to give a Hello, Rogue softly huffing back in response. Eddie makes his way behind the hanging cloth and begins stripping off his sneakers and soaked pants with some difficulty. Feeling incredibly exposed, he hurriedly shuffles through the pile of clothes and slides on the new pair of pants. They fit about the same as the jeans he'd previously wore, but they were more comfortable and had more give than the stiff jean material.

Next was his shirt. The shirt the stranger gave him was a bit looser than the band t-shirt he came here with. It had longer sleeves with lacing at the neck. He mentally compared it to a pirate shirt but in black.

'Metal.' he thought to himself. He never owned something so fantasy-esque. He never felt so in character. He smiled to himself a little, imagining how cool he would look in his own variation of his saviors attire. 'Now is not the time, dipshit. Get back to the fire before you freeze your nuts off.' he interrupts his own mental tangent. 'You're right. Of course I am. Wait why the fuck am I talking to myself.' He shakes his head at his inner dialog, and makes his way back to the fire.

As he rounds Rogue to get back to the log, Eddie notices the stranger has taken off their boots and placed them just out of the fire's reach. They also moved the log a bit closer to the fire as well. They look up at Eddie as he walks toward them. "Lay your clothes there, so they can dry by morn." They state, pointing to the log with the stick they held. Eddie did as he was told, placing his shoes next to the strangers and laying his shirt and pants over the log. Just as he was going to lay his jacket down, his heart sunk.

“Shit.” The stranger looks up at a frantic Eddie as he rummages through his jacket pockets. On one side, he finds his van keys and wallet. As his hand pats the left side of his jacket, he sighs in relief feeling a hard box in the pocket. He fishes the contraption out of the pocket, throwing the jacket over the log haphazardly, next to his other clothes. His hooded companion glances between him and the unrecognizable item in his hands. “Please don’t be broken.” He begs the thing. It is relatively dry, so he has some hope. He presses a button on the side of it, putting it up to his ear. He lets out another sigh of relief as the stranger looks at him quizzically.

“What in the realms is that?” they say, grabbing Eddie’s attention.

“Music.” He answers matter-of-factly. The strangers face scrunches further.

“I am not sure our worlds have the same meaning for music.” Eddie grins, dropping his hand from his face.

“Here.” He goes over to the stranger, kneeling on the ground next to them. “This is called a walkman.” He holds up the small box. “Inside of it is a tape.” He pops the door open, causing the stranger to jump back a bit. This causes Eddie to chuckle. The stranger shifts their hard gaze to him, causing him to end his laughing short, covering it up with a cough. He tilts the box towards them a little to expose the tape inside. “The music is held inside the tape. You can change them out with different tapes for different songs.” He pops it back closed. “When you press these buttons, you can play, pause, fast forward, or rewind the music. These things attached to it are headphones.” He explains, stretching out the wire to unravel it. He places the headphones over his curls to demonstrate how you wear them. “This is where the music comes out from.” He takes the headphones off his head then clicks play. A muffled noise can be heard coming from the devices. He brings the headphones a little closer to his savior's face. The stranger leans in a little, hearing what sounds like a man singing and strange muffled whines they’ve never heard before. Their brows are drawn together.

“What kind of music is that?” They say, not quite understanding the instruments that can be heard.

“Rock music. This is a mixtape I made. This one in particular is one of the best bands ever. Black Sabbath. This song is from their Paranoid album. It came out over a decade ago, but I can’t seem to get tired of it. I have an original vinyl. It’s one of my greatest possessions. I actually swiped it from a record store when I was 11 as a birthday gift for myself. Cherished it ever since.” He rambles on, the stranger staring at him as if he’d grown an extra head. He notices the stare and stops talking. He pauses to take a breath. “Sorry… I know probably nothing I just said made any sense to you… I get a little passionate about music, and it’s exciting to introduce someone to my favorite bands.”

“Are you a bard of some kind?” They ask, curious about Eddie’s life in the land of Hawkins. Eddie chuckles, lighting up a bit.

“I guess you could say that. I’ve studied the art of guitar my whole life.” He says dramatically, lifting his head proudly, slipping into his DND fantasy character persona a little. The stranger looks at him curiously.

“Guitar?”

“Yeah, Uh, simplified, it's like a wooden box, with strings, that you strum to make music.” He stumbles to describe a guitar, holding his hands up to mimic himself strumming a guitar. 

“A lute?” Eddie snaps, pointing at the stranger, slightly startling them, but he doesn’t notice, too wrapped up in his explanation.

“Yeah! It’s like a lute, but mine uses, uh, like controlled lightning; we call it electricity. It is used to amplify the sound, and it also changes the sound a bit.” He rambles again, “But, yeah, it’s very similar.” The stranger nods, trying to wrap their head around the description.

“It is like a magical lute…” they reply. Eddie smiles a bit wider, liking their interpretation.

“Yeah, you could say that.” The stranger nods again, going back to tending the fire. Eddie stays there, kneeling on one knee, taking in each feature of his savior’s face, admiring how the soft light of the flickering flames dances across their skin. He notices their eyes are no longer glowing from within. They have now softened to their natural hue, reflecting the light from the flames.

“Do I have something on my face?” the stranger asks seriously, yet not changing their position at all, still poking the fire with the twig in their gloved hand. Eddie is knocked out of his trance. His eyes widen in embarrassment as he jumps to face the fire.

“No, no. I was just, um,” trying to find his words, he pauses then lets out a light, awkward laugh, “Are you some kind of monster hunter or…?” He switches topics. The stranger shortly laughs through their nose, amused by the question.

“Yes, something like that.” they respond vaguely. Eddie waits eagerly, waiting for his savior to expand on the concept. “You should rest.” the stranger cuts short. Eddie’s shoulders fall slightly. He was ready to get a full lore dump, akin to what his little sheep would do in Hellfire when they’d introduce a new character, but he had to remind himself that this, in fact, was not a roleplay. It was real. This is a real person with very real skills and a very real backstory.

‘Come on, dude. Chill out. You can’t really expect them to divulge into their whole backstory, right now. There is no telling how long you are going to be here. We got time… I think…’ Eddie sighs deeply, his eyes flutter at the dreaded thought.

The stranger stands, bringing Eddie out of his own head. He follows suit, standing slowly. He watches as the stranger goes over to Rogue and unlatches a buckle to release a thick roll. Eddie’s eyes follow as they make their way to the opposite of the fire as the log that held his clothes and starts to unravel the roll into a makeshift bed.

It’s about 3 inches thick with a sturdy linen exterior. They then go back to Rogue and lift off a large fur pelt, walking back around to the bedroll and laying the pelt out.

“Here.” The warrior states shortly, making their way back to the stump to sit and continue tending to the fire. Eddie stays standing in his place.

“Wait, that was for me? Where are you going to sleep?” He protests, eyeing his hooded companion.

“I will not sleep. I will keep watch. As you may now know, these woods,” they gesture to the bag that held the decapitated head, “are not very safe… though, a little safer now that I've rid it of its Alghoul problem.” They poked the fire a few times. “Hence, I prepared for a restless evening. I will be fine. Now rest.” They continued, shutting down any opposition before it started.

Eddie stared down at them, tempted to argue, but when a pair of stern eyes connected with his, a slight glow building from within, he instead made his way to the bed, sitting upright, facing the fire. The warrior side eyes him as he chooses to sit up instead of lay down. They shake their head a little as their gaze returns to the fire.

Eddie’s gaze stays fixed on the flames. A chill runs down his spine, just now feeling the effects of the cold night air licking the back of his dampened shirt.

Realizing the wetness of his hair was causing the issue, he takes the black scrunchie that was around his wrist, hidden under his sleeves, and pulls his hair up, tying it in a lazy bun to get it off his back. He then moves to grab the heavy pelt behind him, wrapping it around his shoulders. As he settles back into his cross-legged position, the silence, though comfortable, only allows room for his mind to wander.

Eddie's thoughts were filled with dread at first, so much so he didn't notice the soft humming coming from the stranger seated beside him. As soon as their humming started though, Eddie could feel his breathing slow, and subconsciously, he began to relax.

His mind began to silence, as if the voices in his head were getting farther away and eventually locked in another room, muffled. His eyelids began to fall and his body became more slumped. A couple seconds after his eyes completely shut, he could hear the faint sound of dirt shuffling just barely noticeable underneath the wood crackling fire. The humming began to get closer with each shuffle. He then felt the faint touch of two hands pushing on his shoulders, forcing him to lay. Drifting in and out of sleep, he feels his head hit the linen beneath him. The humming becomes more and more distant as his senses begin to leave him, slipping into a deep sleep accompanied by an angelic voice and the crackling of firewood.

-🦇-

I have no idea where I'm taking this but I just like this AU 😫 forgive me

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