#nobody’s clamoring to know more about me

[vagueiish]

wanted to be in bed hours ago bc im working 3ams this week and wanna keep up that sleep schedule but here i am, still up and on the tumlr, wondering if i should like make a carrd or other kind of more detailed about/profile thing

[pedropascallme]

Stars Above

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x f!Reader

Summary: "Perhaps sensing your discomfort, he smiled, and the thin remnants of his lips cracked open to display yellow teeth. 'You ain’t never seen a ghoul before, vaultie?'"

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) canon typical violence and lots of it, threatening language, angst, description of a panic attack, descriptions of cannibalism and dead bodies, age gap obviously (Cooper is canon 200+ years old; reader is written as early 20s), guided masturbation (f receiving), themes of voyeurism/exhibitionism, a ton of dirty talk, very mild degradation, phonetic spelling of Cooper's accent because I can, if I missed anything please let me know!!

AN: part 2 here!!

You had miscalculated just about everything about the surface.

You’d underestimated the ability people had to be cold and calculating in their cruelty. You’d underestimated the difficulty of navigating the endless Wasteland. You’d underestimated the effects radiation might have on you, leaving you fatigued and nauseous despite the Rad-X you’d been sure to pack away safely in your satchel.

Maybe you should’ve read the warning label.

What was worse, you thought, was how badly you had overestimated yourself. You were so certain you would be able to make a name for yourself—make a name for those you would meet; find kindness in the sand and friends in low places.

But you were just a small drop in the bucket, and nobody wanted a name. They wanted to survive in silence and safety.

You were out of rations, and nearly out of water. You’d sweat gallons through your vault suit, making the fabric itchy as it clung to your skin, and causing you to shiver sporadically as the setting sun invited a chill over the landscape. You dragged your feet over the sand, leaving a path behind you, and part of you wondered if you should just drop dead right there. The sand was soft, warm, and maybe dying on your own accord would be more comfortable than dying by the hand of someone who would kill you simply for the sheer rush of spilling blood.

You stopped moving, slumping down to the ground and coughing. There was a deep ache in your lungs, and heaving up dry air did little to quell the overall discomfort.

You wove your hands through the sand, letting it fall through your fingers.

Could you just go home? Had you ever really had a home?

You pushed down a wave of nausea, swallowing the bile that pushed up against your throat, Tumbledown buildings crumbled around you, and for once in your life you felt truly small. Once, when you were young, you had been sent to your room, and in a moment of frustrated panic you’d felt as though the walls were caving in on you. You’d stood on your bed, pushing up on tiny tiptoes, pressing your hands to the ceiling, refusing to let the walls squeeze you into a cube of yourself.

You smiled at the memory. You wished now more than ever that you could stand on your toes and push against the sky.

You heard something echo in the distance, and, flinching, squinted up into the horizon. Metal rooves reflected against the fading burden of the sun; another echo sounded, something like spurs on scrap, and you sighed, heart heavy in your chest.

Maybe this town would be the one to offer solace.

You stood on tired legs, making haste in the direction of the noise.

~~~

The tinny sounds had ceased long before you walked through the broken arch announcing the town. It was desolate, as if everybody had vacated the area before you’d made contact. Part of you took it personally, and you pouted rather childishly.

In the dimly lit dusk, you roamed the empty paths under flickering lights, stepping over caps and carts that had been turned over. When you came across a body, it became apparent that the clamor you had followed was the result of a gunfight.

You stepped over the body, too.

You had never stared at death before making your way to the surface, and it had come as a shock to you that it didn’t bother you more. Blood wasn’t as bright as it was in the movies, nor did killers give any heated last words before pulling the trigger. Any executions you had seen thus far were dull and hurried. You thought back to an old movie you watched once, one that ended with a cowboy executing a rowdy criminal, and you wondered if anybody bothered to monologue their slaughters the way he had.

You’d long forgotten the title of the film and the name of the actor, but you remembered finding him handsome.

You stooped on bent knees to pick up a piece of fruit that had fallen from one of the overturned carts. You sat there, gnawing at it, feeling the sour bites you took fall into your empty stomach. You made it to the core, tossing it over your shoulder and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. But you paused, remnants of the bitter juice still on your lips when your head shot up to analyze your surroundings.

Someone was watching you.

The sound of footsteps approaching were made all the more unsettling when paired with a boisterous, ugly laugh. Still on your knees, you squared your shoulders, looking up to meet the eyes of a man in bloodied garb and a gun on his hand.

“Saw you eating that,” his teeth were sharp, and his voice high, “Not good to litter, vaultie.” He stopped in front of you, hands on his hips as he scrutinized you. “Why don’t you go crawl over and pick that up.”

You didn’t move. He put his hands on his knees to lean over you, fumbling with his revolver.

“No,” you tried to sound confident, though your voice was quiet and didn’t carry far, “I don’t want to. Thank you.”

He howled, and it made you wince. “Thank you, now that’s sweet,” his gun came up to poke under your chin, “Thank you…I wasn’t asking, girl.”

You tried to find your voice again, but the barrel of the gun was pressed into your neck, and you knew he would seize on any reason to pull the trigger. You inhaled through your nose, trying to buy yourself some time.

A shadow came up behind you, wrapping you in darkness as something approached soundlessly. The man in front of you faltered, and you watched as the confidence drained from his eyes.

“Ain’t that sweet…” A drawling voice, almost saccharine, came from the source of the shadow, and you knew then that it was someone. “Find y'self a toy there, Otis?”

The man—Otis, maybe—who had previously seemed so cocky with his demands, retreated into himself slightly, straightening back up to his full height to meet the eyes of whoever stood behind you.

“You’re not welcome here, Ghoul,” he scowled, “Finders keepers.”

“Well, now, I don’ think y’really in any position to give orders.” It was only now you that wondered whether you were being fought over not out of any sympathetic, weeping heart on behalf of the person behind you, or whether this was a battle for who got to see your blood flow.

“Yeah?” Otis chuckled, “Why’s that?”

You saw the man behind you gesture with his gun in your peripheral. “You got a hole in yo’ neck.”

You watched Otis squint in confusion in the split second before a shot whirred above your head and hit him clean through the throat. He crumpled to the ground, gagging on death, before he let out a damning noise and ceased all movement.

You took deep, shaky breaths, finding the courage to stand up, to turn around and get a good look at your savior.

When you did finally came face level with the man called ‘Ghoul,’ you felt that your initial instinct in referring to a thing behind you had been more apt after all.

His skin was reddened and chapped, marred with scars that covered his face and ran down his neck. He was hairless, as far as you could tell, and his eyes were sunken deep below the ridge where his eyebrows should’ve been. He was decked out in a cowboy costume, long duster to match his Stetson, gun strapped to his hip that paired nicely with his ammo belt.

He had no nose.

Perhaps sensing your discomfort, he smiled, and the thin remnants of his lips cracked open to display yellow teeth. “You ain’t never seen a ghoul before, vaultie?”

You continued to scan his face, and after a few fleeting moments you met his eyes; you couldn’t tell what color they were, if they were hazel or brown or maybe just yellow, muted by the evening, and the shadow cast over his face by the brim of his hat.

No matter the color, you thought they were pretty all the same.

You hesitated, shaking your head.

“Well, ain’t you lucky. Now yo’meetin’ The Ghoul.” His eyes widened, menacing but amused, and you took a step back, nearly stumbling on Otis’s lifeless feet.

“Th—um. Thank you,” you ignored his grandiose introduction, “For…” You gestured behind you.

The Ghoul tipped his hat forward, “Not a problem.” He took a step back, mirroring your movements, “C’mon now. S’dark.”

You made a face, “Oh—no, I…Thank you, for, you know, for helping me out, but I don’t—I’m not really looking for—”

He whistled, and the shrill cut you off, “You really don’know a question if it hit ya in the ribs, sweetheart.” He smirked, “I wasn’t askin’.”

“But I don’t,” you started, watching as he unraveled a rope from his side and tied a knot into it, “I would rather not go with you. I’m—you caught me at a bad time, really, I’m usually just fine by myself.”

“Well…” He tightened the knot, “you keep tellin’ yourself that while we walk.” He swung the rope over his head, and you realized too late that he had been tying a lasso. It came down around your midriff, trapping your hands at your sides when he pulled.

“Hey!” You tried to fight, moving your elbows beneath the constraint and burning your skin in the process.

The Ghoul circled you, stooping down to pick up the gun that had fallen off of Otis’s person, before his face came to peek over your shoulder, cheek to cheek with you. “Hi, there.” He smirked, tugging your restrictions.

~~~

You were used to endless roaming by now. It’s all there was to do; outrun the danger before it could find you, then do the same again when faced with a new conundrum. But the Ghoul walked fast, long strides made tuneful with the help of the spurs on his boots. There was a nice consistency, the metal almost sounded like a lilting voice, though you wished it was less frantic.

You had lost feeling in your fingers, unable to grip your belongings properly, and in a kind gesture that you hadn’t expected from him, the Ghoul hoisted your bag onto his shoulder. You were stiff and sore, and maybe the rope was keeping blood from rushing to your brain, because you couldn’t stop staring at him from behind, watching the way his gloved hand pressed into the bag—your bag—on his hip.

“Where are we going?” You piped up, breaking the silence you’d been stewing in for the past hour. You got no response, so you pushed on. “Where are you taking me?” He didn’t break his stride, pulling you along like the lost puppy you were. You pulled your body against the strain of the rope, digging your heels into the ground and stopping in your tracks. “And what’s a ghoul?”

You watched his shoulders slump as he, too, came to a halt. He let out a sigh, turning around to face you. “Nowhere,” he counted on his fingers as he began to answer your questions in order, “Wherever I go. Me.”

You shifted awkwardly on your feet. “So…you’re the only one?”

“Never said that.” He turned his back to you again. “Y’see that clearin’ there,” he pointed into the distance at a group of rocks sunken into the sand. “That’s your bed t’night.” He started walking again, and you followed suit.

The night cast long shadows over the expansive nothingness, and the air made you shiver. The wind pushed at your hair, which in turn clung to your temples with the excess sweat of the day.

“You aren’t the only one, then,” you kept talking, “Are you—is it the radiation? Or are you a…a people?”

He let out a short chuckle. “The only people left. Far’s I’m concerned.” He skirted around your question, leading you around the rocks and finding a comfortable spot that left you hidden in the darkness. He dropped the rope, tossing your bag to the side as he did so, and you grumbled about how he shouldn’t be so careless with things that weren’t his own. He ignored you, walking over with an expressionless face and deftly tugging the knot from the rope. It fell in a heap around your ankles, and you let out a thankful, happy noise. He tossed a glance your way, eyeing you almost curiously, before beginning to make a small fire at the center of your open-air hideout.

You fell to the ground, exhausted, and addled by the events of the past few hours. You closed your eyes and tilted your head back. The rock behind you may well have been a pillow, the ache in your bones finding comfort in even the most unyielding of resting places.

You opened your eyes tentatively, reluctant to see any more of the Wasteland that you had so callously thought would welcome you with open arms. When you finally blinked up, the blackness of the night blanketed you, and with it, there were stars.

Not stars like the ones on a TV screen. Not stars like the ones behind your eyes after staring into your lamp for too long. Not stars like the ones you drew on your ceiling as a child. Not stars like the ones projected in the common area during a dinner you were told was meant to authentically replicate a Fourth of July celebration.

Real stars.

Gaseous beings that reflected against the sand, lightyears away but close enough to touch, if you could just reach out and grab one; cradle it in your cupped hands and let the fire permeate your palms.

Treat it like a child. Treat it beautifully.

“What’re you lookin’ at,” the Ghoul’s rasp broke you from your existential musings.

You looked forward, finding his sunken eyes across the light of the fire that paled in comparison to the light above you. “If you…if you wanted to kill me, I’m ready now.”

You watched weathered skin stretch taut across his yellowed teeth. You knew it was, perhaps, a bit inappropriate, but for a moment you couldn’t ignore the way the word ‘beautiful’ bounced around your head when you looked at him.

“Not gonna kill ya,” he poked at the fire with a stick, “No good t’me dead.”

“Well then, what?” You lost your filter, uncaring. There were stars in the sky, there was air on your skin, and you didn’t care if you died in the middle of the barren land your ancestors would have once called home. “What good am I to you alive?” You let a laugh out, thin and strained, “Are you just keeping me around so I—so I don’t get lonely?”

He tossed the stick to the side, and the sand caught it with a pathetic thump. “How long you been in them vaults?” He leaned forward.

You made a face, searching for a tone in his gaze. “My whole life,” you scoffed. He knew that.

“’N how long you been up here for?”

You looked away, embarrassed, and tried to hide how you attempted to count the days on your fingers. “I…don’t know…” You gave up.

“You don’ know,” he stared into the fire, “Don’t know shit about lonely.” There was a beat of silence, and the whisper of the wind filled the gap in conversation. He straightened out, meeting your eyes again and smirking as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just been thrown back to a time when he would’ve come home to a freshly cooked meal and his daughter on his hip and his dog circling his feet. “Plus,” he rustled a hand in his pocket, pulling out an inhaler and taking a puff, “You’ll make good bait.”

“Good bait?” You interrogated him.

“Ya noticed how bad news seems t’follow you round here?” He stretched his arms behind his head, and you felt a sudden heat on your cheeks that you chalked up to sunburn. “Pretty thing like you pro’ly has a whole army o’folks after her. ‘N I’m guessing them folks ain’t the kind you’d like t’hang around.”

“Like you?” You raised a brow, throwing his words back at him.

“You’d like that,” he huffed. “Darlin’, I’m playin’ the oldest game there is: set a trap ‘n the critters will fall into’t.”

You mulled over what he’d said, narrowing your eyes and looking at your hands as you came to your conclusion. “You’re talking about—you’re a bounty hunter…” You looked back up at him, and he was grinning. “And you’re talking about using me as a decoy!” Your posture straightened, and you stared daggers into him.

“Guilty as charged,” he tilted his head at you.

“You can’t do that—I’m not just going to let you do that.” You fumed.

“Don’t have to,” he shrugged, jutting out his lower lip, “Can leave right now, ‘f’ya want.” His features morphed into a grim smirk, “But I don’t think a li’l vaultie like you knows a goddamn thing 'bout what’s waitin’ round the corner.”

You swallowed, trying to form a biting response, but he continued.

“But, hell, f’you wanna risk it…” he put the inhaler back into one of his pockets, “Be my guest, vaultie. Free t’go.”

You huffed, and he smiled. He was right, and you both knew it; left to your own devices, you'd be dead in that town he found you in. You settled into your fate.

“Don’t call me vaultie.” You muttered, tired of the way the seemingly derogatory title had been hurled at you since you first emerged from the safety of your life underground.

“Gonna have to tell me y’name, then,” he tilted his head, waiting. You told him your name, and he laughed. “Look’it that. Friends already.”

“You’re not my friend,” you didn’t know where the venom was coming from; somewhere between him helping you out and him sitting in front of you now, you’d decided he was attractive, charismatic, maybe not the worst company you could be stuck with. But after learning what your new role was, you felt more than a little cheated.

“Damn right I’m not.” He whistled, and you turned away from him, curling into a ball on the ground.

“’M going to sleep,” you grumbled. “Wake me up if you decide to go fishing,” you raised your head for a moment, “You’ll need your lure.”

That got you a real laugh, the first genuine sound you'd heard from him.

And you liked it, despite the ire you felt towards him now. 

~~~

You woke up under the blazing sun with sand in your hair. You blinked hard, trying to remember where you were, how you got there, and what had happened to your bag.

Your questions were answered when a shadow engulfed you from above, and you looked up to face the Ghoul.

He had his hat off, letting you gather more evidence to support your belief that he was completely hairless. He stayed quiet, looming over you and watching you groan under the misfortune of wakefulness.

You grunted at him, pushing yourself up to stand, shaking the sand from your body as you did. “You didn’t wake me up last night.”

“You complainin’?” He knit his naked brow.

“No…just, I figured you might want me to keep watch,” you dug sand from your ear, “You trying to tell me that you’re fine just going without sleep?”

“Succeedin’, by the sound of it,” he smirked, and you pursed your lips. “You can stay up as late as ya want next time, darlin’. Don’ let me stop ya.”

“I won’t.” You snatched your bag from his hand and turned to find a way out of the maze of rocks you’d slept in.

He grinned. “Lead on, then.”

And you did, spending several days on a loop; walk, rest, walk, sleep, wake up, pick a direction, repeat. He shared rations and water, he let you sleep when he could’ve forced you to take watch, but he was quiet. It was as if he was so used to life as a predator that he couldn’t even toy with the idea of letting his guard down when there was nobody but you around for miles upon miles. And it wasn't as if you were any threat to him.

It drove you crazy. The benefit that came with having someone like him, skilled and sharp, was greatly dampened by the lack of any real socialization.

You were grateful, at the very least, that it had only taken him a night to decide you no longer needed to be constrained; you liked being able to carry your own things, and, even more, being able to use your own hands. Your arms still felt raw, fading rope burn wounds licking shallowly at your skin under your sleeves, but at least you were free to stretch them now.

The Ghoul stayed several steps behind you when you walked, always keeping his distance but watching closely as you struggled to pretend to know where you were going.

Now, you wiped sweat from your forehead, stopping momentarily to let a cool breeze whip at your face.

“Hell are you doin’ now?” The Ghoul’s dry voice was carried to you by the wind. It was the first thing he’d said to you, unprompted, in two days.

“Feels good,” you sighed, turning to him with your eyes closed and holding your arms out beside you, “The wind. It’s nice.”

“Won’t be in a second.” You opened your eyes to green clouds in the distance behind him. “Because that,” he motioned back at the clouds with his head, “s’a radstorm. And you,” he tipped his hat at you, grazing the brim with his fingers, “Ain’t gonna do too well out in it.”

As if on cue, a bolt of lightning shot down, followed by a loud clap, emphasizing the Ghoul’s words.

“Better have some Rad-X in that bag, sweetheart,” his lips were parted, and you noticed that, although his teeth were yellowed by years of chewing on god knows what, they were remarkably straight. “Oughta get ya under cover.”

You’d heard about radstorms, and assumed, in your naivete, that you’d be able to make it through one without any problems. But the speed at which the disagreeably green clouds approached, and the tone of voice used by your companion, made you feel as though this, too, was something you’d been wrong about.

Maybe you went pale, looking as nauseous as you felt, but then there was a guiding hand on your waist. You jumped, unprepared for any contact and ready to gripe about it, before following the man’s gaze beyond a small sand hill.

“C’mon,” his eyes stayed trained on a ramshackle house just a short distance away, “Can wait it out.”

You nodded, falling over your own feet when he began walking at a brisk pace. The hand he’d placed on the small of your back worked as leverage to get you to hurry up and match his stride.

You closed the door just as the wind started to pick up.

“Woo,” the Ghoul raised his arms above his head, stretching. “S’a nice place we got here.”

You looked around the building; some remaining wallpaper clung to the walls for dear life, there was a couch that looked to be more sand than cushion, and a single table, overturned, in the corner.

“Is it?” You questioned.

“Ya wanna go check outside, see f’ya prefer that?” He challenged, and you backed down, scowling at him.

“How long will the storm last?” You trailed your eyes over the cabin, trying to see if there was anything worth looking at.

There wasn’t.

“An hour,” the Ghoul situated himself on the sofa, “A day. Maybe two.” He took off his hat, fanning himself with it.

“So…we’re stuck here?” You finally let your eyes wander over to him, finding yourself oddly enamored by the way his high, hollow cheekbones framed his face.

“You got somewhere you wanna be?” He stretched his arms over the back of the couch, leaning back and spreading his legs. You blamed the pulse that went through you on radiation, turning away to rummage through your pack for Rad-X.

“Just not much to do.” You swallowed the pill, kicking at a pile of sand that had found its way onto the wooden floor.

“Welcome to the surface, darlin’,” he gestured vaguely, and you rolled your eyes, trying to hide the smile that etched itself onto your lips.

“Doesn’t help that you don’t talk.” You tried to fill the silence that you knew was imminent.

“Talkin’ now,” he shot back, moving his hips from the couch to get properly settled, and you knew you couldn’t blame radiation for the way you squeezed your thighs together.

“Yeah, but,” you acquiesced to your urge to join him on the old sofa, “I’ve known you for less than a week, and even I can tell it’s a rarity.”

“Maybe I just don’t like you,” he smirked, putting his hat back on, and you frowned at him.

“Then you wouldn’t be keeping me around for company.”

“Bait,” he corrected you.

“Call it what you want,” you let your head fall back onto the couch, “Still choosing to keep me around.” You waited anxiously to see if he would point out that it was you who had taken the opportunity to stick with him, after his vague threat of what loomed in the wastes made you back down from your plan to run that first night.

You closed your eyes, listening to the storm batter the house outside. He took the moment to look at you, analyzing your features. He took in the positive glow that reflected off of you, yet to be rubbed off by the experiences you were sure to have.

Maybe he’d be able to buy you some time. Maybe that glow wouldn’t fade.

“Sure,” he nodded, “Whatever y’wanna tell yourself.”

You nudged his knee with yours. It was an adolescent approach, something you would’ve done during classes; playing footsie with the boy you thought was cute, with his hair slicked back and his vault suit pressed and tidy. Something done for attention, in the hopes that maybe he’d take even the smallest of hints and return the childish gesture of affection.

The Ghoul was not pressed and tidy. But, and you were slowly admitting it to yourself, he was cute.

You couldn’t see yourself ever admitting it to him.

“You never answered my question yesterday,” you realized now was as good a time as any to quiz him, stuck with you while the storm raged. “What’s a ghoul?”

“Yes, I did,” he had let his eyes close, too, “I am.”

“That’s not a good answer.” You tsked, “I wanna know—I want the real answer,” you moved to sit on your knees, “Give me the real answer.”

He opened his eyes, scanning you up and down. “Yer damn good bait, sweetheart,” he nodded, giving in and facing you. You thought maybe he was paying you a compliment, but you swallowed the urge to ask him what he meant. “I don’t know what to tell ya other than I am a ghoul.”

“Why?” You pressed.

“Why’d’ya think?” He countered, “Case you didn’t notice, we ain’t in one o’your underground lairs. Radiation’s gonna get us all, and when it does,” he leaned forward, “Y’gonna look just like me.”

You swallowed, unsure if this was a threat or a warning. You looked down at his gloved hands, then back up at him. “Does it hurt?”

His expression was blank. You continued.

“Your—is it your skin?” You tried to clarify, “Does it hurt?”

His expression gradually changed to one of confusion as he processed your words; nobody had ever asked him something as simple as that. “Don’t hurt. f’I get shot…stings for a sec, but…y’get used to it.”

“So, you can’t really feel it?”

“Oh,” he let out a low chuckle, “I can feel it. Where it counts.”

You stuck out your tongue, and heat crept over the back of your neck. “Don’t be crude.”

“Ain’t try’na be,” he smiled, “You’re the one whose mind’s wanderin’.”

“So it just feels like skin?” You changed the subject, “Or is it more like muscle…or scar tissue?” Without thinking, you raised your hand and extended it forward, curiosity getting the best of you. He caught your wrist in his hand, the leather on his fingers pressing softly into your bone. You gasped, and he looked at you, cautious, fingers shifting on your skin. As if in slow motion, he raised your hand to his face, and you stretched out two fingers to ever so gently graze down his cheek.

His breath caught in his throat, startled by the intimacy of having someone touch him just to touch him. To feel him.

Similarly, you’d stopped breathing all together.

His skin was ridged and rough, but the small grooves between the scarred flesh were smooth, almost downy. You didn’t look him in the eyes, though you could sense his as they bore into you. You chose to examine the rest of his face instead, the bumps and scars and jagged edges that your hand ghosted over. Finally, you gave in, looking into his eyes for only a brief moment.

He had eyelashes. Small lashes, barely noticeable beneath his hat and the sunken hollows of his eyes, but they were definitely there. He looked pretty, this small part of him capturing some kind of hidden essence of humanity underneath his daunting character. The tiny detail had caught you off guard more than the act of being allowed to touch him had, and your fingers faltered, stuttering against his skin.

You let your hand go limp in his grip, and he let you retract it.

“So?” He questioned after a beat.

“What?”

“What’d’t feel like?”

“Oh,” you remembered what had led you to the opportunity to touch him in the first place, “Scar tissue.” You landed on, easier to say that than trying to explain that you thought his skin was as comfortable as velvet to drag your fingers across.

He lifted a brow, nodding in approval.

“How come you don’t have a nose?” More questions bubbled from your throat before you could stop them, eager to force the tension in the atmosphere to dissipate.

“God almighty, y’ask a lot of fuckin’ questions,” he wiped a hand down his face, “Decades of radiation ain’t forgivin’ on cartilage.”

“Decades?” You narrowed your eyes playfully.

“Don’t you go askin’ more, now,” he chided, “Ain’t polite to ask someone their age, they not teach you that down there?”

You dropped it for now. “You still have ears. Those are cartilage.”

“Not part of the original model.” He smirked, and when he saw you tilt your head, confused, he took a deep breath and continued, “Sometimes, darlin’, ya gotta use what ya find.”

Your eyes went wide, “They’re—you stole body parts?” Your eyes narrowed again, “You’re lying.”

He didn’t answer verbally, just shot a devious smile your way.

“How come I can’t see your brain?” You bounced to your next question.

“Would ya like to?” He shot back, and you cringed. “Didn’t think so.”

“But how come—”

“Jesus Christ,” he dipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out his inhaler and taking two short puffs, “Can I get a word in, here?”

You let your next question die in your mouth, shelving it for later. You nodded.

“Why’d you come up here?” The Ghoul’s voice took a softer edge, and you couldn’t tell if he was mocking you or if he had some genuine interest in your case.

Either way, you thought it was improper, and you shook your head, barely enough for it to be noticeable. You’d been trying to ask the obvious questions, things you were certain he was asked all the time, that he’d have answers for at the ready. You hadn’t asked about his life, how he got out here or why he dressed like a goddamn gunslinger. You could’ve, but you were trying to be at least a little bit polite.

“That’s not fair.” You said simply.

“Alright, how come you got a nose,” he smirked, letting his words hang in the air before they dropped at his feet when he saw the way your demeanor had changed on a dime. “Now, look—I didn’t mean to make y'upset, sweetheart—”

“I, uh…” You took a long breath, gearing up for the challenge of communicating a logical answer. “…Do you ever sit somewhere so nice for so long, and then after a while you start thinking that it’s too good to be true?” You looked up at him, and the tears in your eyes were evident, “Like, maybe you sat on something, or the whole time there was a snake in the grass right next to you...or something?”

The Ghoul watched your face intently, hardly nodding.

“And even though the snake didn’t lunge at you, or, you know, you got to enjoy the peace and quiet before getting up and noticing you sat on something, it’s like, you’re flooded with these what ifs about what would’ve happened if you’d been sitting just a second longer…” You were looking at him, but you weren’t, really; your eyes went right through him, and you pictured a time when you thought nothing could ever go wrong. “Or if you’d never sat there at all.” You blinked, shaking your head, and you wiped a tear that had dared to breach over your lash line. “I had to get up, right? Outfit was stained…and I could see the snake getting ready to…make quick work of me.”

You cradled your chin in your hands, trying to control your breathing so you wouldn’t have to subject yourself to the embarrassment of crying in front of someone that likely wouldn’t care.

Your explanation echoed in the Ghoul’s mind. He thought about his divorce, that dumb fucking suit he’d been conned into wearing without really knowing what it meant.

A snake and a stain. He understood.

“Ain’t no snakes up here,” he tried his hand at reassuring you, “Can’t promise y’won’t get dirty, though.”

“I know,” you sniffed, “Got blood on me already.” You knew it was stupid to complain about, but you didn’t even know whose blood it was.

“There’ll be more,” he sighed, “But you’ll care less.”

You let yourself laugh softly. “Yeah,” you wiped your eyes, “Yeah. I hope you’re right.”

“I tend to be.” He smirked, back to his carefree, cocky demeanor. You rolled your eyes weakly, laughing quietly, and you found yourself leaning against him. His shoulder was stiff beneath your head, like he wasn’t sure how to hold himself in the situation that you’d put him in. You turned your head slightly, nosing his neck, and he didn’t stop you, though he stayed rigid.

You let yourself breathe him in; arid and smoky, the leather of his clothes mingling with the scent of sun that clung to his skin. There was something else, a note of iron buried under the warmer scents, the cold bouquet of dry blood. Having death flood your nose like that, you recognized, probably should’ve been alarming, perhaps even petrifying. But it wasn’t—not on him.

You liked it.

You sat back up, your face close to his, and if he had a nose, you were sure it would be touching your own. He didn’t look upset as his eyes darted over your face, which felt reassuring, even though you already knew you hadn’t really done anything wrong.

“Y’hear that?” He muttered.

“What?” You turned your head, trying to listen for whatever he was hearing.

“Storm stopped,” he cracked a small smile at you, and you breathed a sigh of relief. He stood up, making his way over the floor. “C’mon, darlin’,” he gestured to the door, “See if we can catch ourselves a rainbow.”

You let out a real, honest to god laugh. It gave you a hint of whiplash, how the Ghoul had managed to save your life, make you hate him, and then make you want to kiss him in such rapid succession over the course of only a few days.

You found yourself suddenly aloof to the idea that he was threatening to use you as a lure for unsuspecting bounties. He was keeping you around, keeping you safe, and you liked him just fine.

Maybe even a little more than that.

~~~

How far, at this point, had you walked? Miles of ground in front of you, miles of ground behind you. It felt like you’d gone nowhere, despite the thousands of steps you’d taken over the course of the week. You were going nowhere, you reminded yourself; aimlessly trekking across the Wasteland and finding what there was to find, looking at what there was to look at.

The Ghoul didn’t seem to have a job at the moment. He’d made it clear that he was employed—if you could call being a bounty hunter a regular nine-to-five—but he hadn’t made any moves to imply that he was searching for anybody, or anything, unless you were to count the vials and chems he ransacked from every hole and hovel he came across.

He continued to surprise and delight, and occasionally disgust, you. You’d seen him eat the raw flesh of dead and desiccated creatures—some that looked human—off the sand. (“Remember what I said, ‘bout usin’ whatcha find?” “That’s disgusting, you don’t know what kind of germs could be crawling around there.” “Think someone that looks like me’s worried ‘bout germs, sweetheart?”) You’d seen him draw a weapon faster than you could take a breath; you’d seen him kill a man without blinking.

But you were wowed by him all the same, the rasp of his voice and the way he whistled through his teeth, the life behind his eyes that teemed with stories of a past you hadn’t been able to shake out of him yet. You hadn’t touched him, had barely closed the often yard-wide gap between the two of you that had become the unspoken norm, since the day the radstorm hit.

Maybe it was for the best. What would your family say about him? They'd be disgusted, horrified by the mere thought of him.

That just made you want him more.

“Can we stop soon?” You withdrew yourself from your thoughts, tired of the way your muscles tensed with every step. The Ghoul didn’t respond, side-eyeing you from beneath his hat. “I’m tired. My legs hurt.” He smirked, and you thought you heard him huff a laugh, but the distance between you was too vast to pick up on the smaller sounds. “Don’t laugh at me, I can’t help you if I can’t move.”

That got his attention. “Y'think you’re helpin’ me?” He smiled. 

“Not burdening you…” You argued about what he’d left unsaid.

“Not doin’ much work, either.” He grunted, and you shot him a dirty look. “Keep on walkin’, darlin’.”

“I don’t want to.” You stomped your foot, regressing into the same shielded, spoiled vault-dweller you knew he thought you were.

“Then how ya gonna get over there’?” He nodded forward, and you followed the direction of his gesture, squinting to see a large, semi-burnt down storefront. “C’mon, sweetheart.” He kept walking, picking up his pace and forcing you to speed up after him. “Y’wanna break, or what?”

The building was in alright condition, as far as the other spaces you’d seen; the windows were broken, the glass finding its way to the ground and becoming sand after what must have been centuries of effort. Someone had started a fire, and ash flaked off the brick. You forced yourself on tired limbs to close the distance between yourself and shelter.

“Go on,” the Ghoul leaned against the doorframe of the store’s entrance, “Check it out.”

“You’re not coming?” You whispered. You knew he wasn’t. This, too, had become common: you were sent in—bait—and he followed behind you at a distance to keep an eye out on who- or whatever might jump out.

He stayed quiet, showing his teeth, and you pouted at him, making your way deeper into the old store.

There was no electricity, but the sun seeped through the cracks in the walls as it began to dip in the sky, creating an almost cozy ambiance. It was huge, the ceilings were high and the store itself must have once housed a near infinite amount of material goods.

You’d be lucky now if you could find a corner that hadn’t already been raided.

Everything was bathed in grays and blues, and you couldn’t tell if it was just the way your eyes adjusted to the dim light, or if the building had been standing for so long that the color had drained out into the desert. Either way, it was eerie, and your finger trembled on the trigger of the rusted pistol the Ghoul had given you as a means of self-preservation. You didn’t really know how to use it, but it was the principle of the thing, you figured.

You maneuvered your way around spent bullet casings and glass, trying to stay silent despite the echo of your footsteps. You heard spurs behind you, the Ghoul following your trail at a safe distance. There was a clamoring, something further into the building down a dark hall that sounded like machinery groaning. You jumped, and the gun in your hand slipped from your grip, sliding across the floor with a harsh skid.

You froze, wincing, and listening for any sign that you’d been heard. The sound of the Ghoul’s steps behind you had also stopped, and you knew then that you’d fucked up—if he was listening, waiting the way you were, then there was cause for alarm. With your heart beating in your ears, you bent forward, fingers creeping across the floor until you managed to get a grip on the tarnished metal of the gun. Standing with a sigh, you worked on regulating your breathing, trying to ease the way your heart beat in your ears.

And then you heard the snap of glass shattering, the rhythm of voices without any real words besides grunts and snarls. You jumped, and your back hit a wall with an unceremonious thump before you fell to your knees.

The sources of the noise approached, surrounding you and leaving you with no route out. You looked straight ahead at withered limbs, clothing torn around ankles and skin peeling off of bone.

And when you looked up, it was him.

Except it wasn’t, not really; the Ghoul was only one man, and before you stood four. All similarly scarred, with broken teeth and missing noses, but there was no individuality—no light in their eyes to tip you off as to who they may have been, once upon a time. The sounds they made were inhuman, screeches that seemed torn from their lungs, maybe due to pain, maybe due to joy, you couldn’t tell. And as they circled you, you didn’t want to find out.

You fumbled with your pistol, unsure of whether the safety was on or off. Your aim was unsteady, and the darting movements of the figures that crowded you made it even more difficult to find a proper target. You winced, aiming at a leg and pulling the trigger.

There was a bang, but it didn’t come from your weapon.

“Gotta do all th’fuckin’ work,” you heard the Ghoul, snide and confident even despite the gravity of the situation. He shot to kill, quick to find weakness, and chuckling when they fell in heaps atop their own feet.

You watched him kick at a corpse. The noise subsided as he holstered his weapon, but you had covered your ears and were unwilling to remove your hands.

“Hell was that?” The Ghoul was standing in front of you now, his voice muffled through your palms. You stared past him at the bodies on the ground, at one point daring to let your eyes dart from the deceased to the man who killed them and back; the similarities were glaring, and it made bile rise to the back of your mouth, fighting your throat’s constriction as you choked down tears.

And suddenly you were sobbing, pulse beating hard against your skin and sweat collecting on your back. You felt sick, you felt scared—maybe even betrayed. You were panicking, unable to breathe or speak or think, only aware of the fact that you were utterly terrified.

“Well, now—hey,” You’d uncovered your ears, wrapping your arms around your knees and squeezing them to your chest, letting the Ghoul’s voice travel to you with more ease.

“Y—” you felt like you were hyperventilating, “You.” Trying to voice your concerns proved difficult in this state.

The Ghoul watched on, the muscle in his jaw tightening as he debated what to do.

He didn’t like you like this. He liked you feisty and stubborn, chatty and glowing. In the dark light of the building, splattered with feral blood and choking on your own breath, you were far from what he’d gotten used to. It startled him a little, not the image of you crying—he’d seen you cry before, and he'd seen far worse from others—but the knowledge that, to an extent, it was his fault.

And he could blame his response on the part of him that still felt shame, something that morphed into a nagging urge to defend himself against accusations of being a downright monster. But he knew, deep down somewhere, that it was because of the part of him that still felt compassion; empathy, even fondness, for you.

That’s why he sat next to you, sliding his back down against the wall while you spluttered and coughed through tears.

He eased the old pistol away from you, pushing it into a crack in the wall and cursing himself for letting you have it in the first place. You’d be better off without it; he’d do all he could to keep you protected.

“Not me, darlin’,” he kept his voice low, “Ferals. Of which I am not one…” Yet, he could’ve mentioned, but even he could choose denial.

“They look—had your face.” You heaved, rocking back slightly.

“You really think I’m that ugly?” He laughed, but you remained despondent, painted with a thousand-yard stare. He took on a different approach. “Listen, now. C’mon, sweetheart, look.” He draped a hand over your shoulder, and despite the loose, open-ended nature of the touch, you felt significantly more grounded. “’Member how I said this face’ll be everybody’s someday?”

You nodded, remembering his jab at your question during the radstorm. Your heartbeat wailed against your skull.

“’N then, someday…” He hadn’t experienced difficulty in picking his word choice like this since trying to answer Janey’s question about where babies came from. “Someday it all turns to shit. You turn into a—a nameless drop in the bucket.” He said, frankly. “But it’s, uh…it’s preventable, to an extent.”

“You don’t have a name.” You stared at him, skin blotchy and eyes swollen. It broke his heart a little. “You already don’t have a name.”

“Happens to the best ‘f us.” He tamped down the stutter in his chest, finding a way to circumvent your unspoken question. "All ghouls, eventually...go a little feral."

“All ghouls turn feral…” You repeated the moral of his story, and he nodded.

He fished a vial from him pocket, holding it out to you. “Long as I got these, I’ll be jus’ peachy.”

You let him drop the vial in your hand, looking at the off-color liquid inside of it and squeezing it in your palm. “I don’t want…” You let go of the glass, holding it back out to him. “I don’t want it to happen to you.”

“Makes two of us,” he put the vial back into his pocket, sighing. “But I got plenty o’these, ‘n there’s always more t'be found.”

You stayed quiet, letting your limbs finally relax and spreading your legs out in front of you. There was a long pause that you spent calming your heart rate, letting your lungs relax.

“I like you the way you are.” You whispered, and it was those words that finally made him own his feelings; the way you are. Not the way you were, not who you could’ve been or who you were meant to be. You appreciated him as he was, and it was the first time in more than two centuries that he had felt any sense of warmth from another living thing. It was the first time in just as long that he’d felt like a man and not a monstrosity.

It was why he didn’t fight it when you wrapped yourself around him, arms tugging him down into a tight hug. He scoffed at the display of what he assumed—hoped—was affection, but he let his arms circle your body.

Your face pressed into his neck, firmer than the brief moment you’d shared on the couch, and you breathed him in now just as you had then; the heat and the tin of his skin, the leather of his duster, and the iron of his ammo belt that dug into your front. He was softer now, malleable to your touch, unlike the stiff, unmoving man he’d been when you leaned up against him all those weeks ago.

He rested his chin on the crown of your head, taking a long, deep breath. “’N I like you much more when you ain’t blubberin’ like a goddamn newborn.”

You giggled, knowing that it was the closest he'd get to telling you that he cared, even a little bit.

“The stars,” you mumbled against him, and he pulled back, trying to look down at your face.

“What’s’at?”

“That first night, outside. You asked me what I was looking at,” you explained, “And I told you that you could kill me if you wanted, instead of just answering you. But I was looking at the stars…” You sighed, settling back against the wall.

He scoffed. “Jus’ stars.”

“No.” You argued, “Not just stars. They’re everything.” You tilted your head at him, and he accepted with a shrug.

He let his head loll back, removing his hat and scanning the surroundings. He caught a glimpse of something in his peripheral, a wide crack in the upper part of the wall that let the night seep in. He elbowed you, nodding his chin in the direction of the hole that opened the building to the sky.

“Look‘t that.” He smiled at the way you lit up next to him, and he followed your gaze to appreciate the view in silence with you.

Comfortable next to him, centimeters replacing the usual feet between you, you saw life in the stars the same way you saw life behind his eyes. And he didn’t understand your excitement, until he looked hard enough and saw the same shimmer in the sky that he saw in you.

“Cooper.” He mumbled, still looking at the stars. You turned to him, lips parted in preparation to ask what he was talking about. “My name. I got one—Cooper.”

You smiled, an inexplicable sense of tranquility washing over you as the new knowledge settled in your brain. “Cooper.” You said, testing the weight of the letters on your tongue.

“Don’t go usin’ it up. Make me regret tellin’ ya,” he smirked, trying to hide his satisfaction upon hearing you say his name behind a veneer of callousness. “Got a reputation t’keep.”

You breathed deep, not quite a yawn but more than a sigh. “I know, Cooper.” You rested your head on his shoulder, not to test the waters or attempt a romantic gesture; it was just pleasant to experience something quiet, personal, like this. “I know.”

~~~

“Christ, you sleep like a fuckin’ rock.” His voice was the first thing you registered when you opened your bleary eyes. Your neck was stiff, your cheeks felt crusty with the residue of dry tears, and the floor was crooked. You’d fallen asleep on him, perched just under his shoulder, and he’d let you. “Snore, too.”

“Yeah, well,” you sat up, rolling your neck and wincing at the cracks that sounded from your joints as you stretched, “Sleep comes easy when I have my guard dog watching out for me.”

He scoffed, a small smile forming on his lips. “Don’ expect me to bark for ya, sweetheart.”

“All you do is bark.” You rolled your eyes, beginning to find the motivation to stand.

“S’not true,” there was a glint in his eye that you couldn’t read into fully, “Could bite ‘f’I wanted.”

You’d seen him land a shot without so much as glancing at his target. He was telling the truth.

You sighed, finally standing. You folded yourself over your front, touching your toes and trying to loosen the knots in your back. “Well, Coop,” you straightened, “Can I call you Coop?” You second guessed your courage, unsure of whether or not he’d take kindly to you shortening the name he’d only just entrusted you with.

“You my fuckin’ publicist?” He quirked a brow up at you, recalling the dozens of conversations he’d had that had begun just like this.

“I should be,” you straightened out, rolling your shoulders and shooting him a grin. “You could use one.”

He scowled at you. “Y’gotta question or what?”

“What now?” You shook out your limbs lazily.

“What now?” He echoed your words. He stayed on the floor, legs in front of him crossed at his ankles. “What’ya mean, darlin’?”

You didn’t really know what you meant; usually it was him calling the shots, but he seemed to be waiting for some kind of prompt. “You know, I mean…what should we…do…today?” You spoke slowly.

“Today?” He laughed, “Today…sweetheart, today’s come ‘n gone.”

You knit your brow, confused, and he pointed in the direction of the crack in the ceiling. It was still dark—dark again if you understood him correctly.

“You let me sleep all day?” The notion made you feel a bit frantic for some reason, having grown accustomed to sleeping for barely four hours at a time over the past few weeks. His constant need of movement made it hard to rest easy.

“You needed it,” he shrugged, picking at a spot on his duster.

And you had needed it, but the idea that he had let you doze for what was, as far as you could tell, close to a full twenty-four hours was more than a little puzzling; that he had let you sleep on him for the duration is what really threw you for a loop. Maybe the fact that you knew him by name made him nervous. Maybe it made him nervous enough to let you make decisions for the both of you now, for fear of the fallout.

Or, and much less likely, you thought, but much more appealing: maybe he just wanted to let you rest. Because you needed it. And he didn’t mind acting as a placeholder for a pillow.

The butterflies in your stomach made haste upwards in your body and settled in your heart.

“I did.” You deflated a little. Regardless of any reason behind why this had happened, you still felt guilty about making him lose the span of an entire day that could have been spent wandering in whatever direction called to him. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “Ain’t got a reason to be.”

“I made you—”

“Didn’t make me do a goddamn thing, sweetheart.” He ground his teeth together, jaw swaying back and forth.

“We could be somewhere else by now.” You tried to argue, squaring your shoulders.

“Got nowhere to be.”

His words were spoken with a sense of finality, and you knew when to back down.

“I been thinkin’,” he piped up again when you got quiet. He finally made the move to stand; he winced as he bent his knees, his body having grown accustomed to staying in the same position for so long.

“About?” You watched him stretch.

“You still wanna wear that?” He waved his chin at your figure, forcing you to examine the tattered sleeves of your vault suit that were caked in dirt and debris—and more than likely a few pints of blood from various donors. “Just—seems like more of a hindrance than anything.”

“It’s fine.” You sneered at him, unsure of why you decided to get defensive. It was a creature comfort, of sorts, and while it certainly got the wrong kind of attention out in the open, getting rid of it felt like stripping yourself of the only identity you’d ever really had.

And he knew that, which is why he had voiced his thought. Not only was it something people would use—and they had used it—against you, but it was obstructing your ability to move on completely. He felt a sense of responsibility in ensuring that you managed to maintain a level of dignity in your soul searching.

“It’s hangin’ off o'you in shreds.” He continued, and you shifted on your feet. You couldn’t deny that any emotional connection to your outfit was outweighed by discomfort of the holes and tears it had collected. You bit your cheek, looking down at the floor and back at him in silent acknowledgement of his point. “Y’gotta change o’clothes in that bag?” He grinned, and you frowned.

“No...” There was no use now in coming up with any snark retorts. He licked his top teeth, staring at you “So, what?” You tried to find his point, “You want me to strip down and wander around naked?” If he asked you to, it was more than likely that you would obey without a second thought. By now, you knew better than to feel disgust for confessing things of this nature to yourself. But even so, you knew this admission was probably not a good reflection of the unrelentingly self-contained attitude you tried to show him.

Not to mention that nobody had ever so much as seen you without a shirt on, let alone the whole nine yards.

He bit back any response that might expose the interest he had in your suggestion, though he raked his gaze up and down over your body, smirking, before sucking his teeth and shaking his head. “We’re in a fuckin’ store.” His eyes finally met yours, and you stared back at him blankly. “Full ‘f clothes.” He continued, and you understood.

“There’s nothing left,” you spread your arms out for emphasis, gesturing to the run-down remains of gutted shops.

“Ooh, I bet ya there is.” He turned on his heels, taking long strides that had you jogging to catch up with him as he made his way down a corridor and towards a defunct escalator.

The sound of his boots against the tile floor echoed across the building, and even despite your long period of rest, you felt sluggish and unprotected; your back was an easy target, and with every click of his heel you found yourself turning your head, peering back into nothing, just in case.

“Nobody here,” Cooper noticed the constant swivel of your neck, “Relax.”

“How do you know?” You tried to cement your gaze forward.

“Would’a heard.”

“That’s—you can’t expect to hear people coming in this building, it’s huge.”

“Can hear you,” he gave you a pointed look, and you quieted yourself. “Here we go.” He nodded to a heap at the far end of the open space you’d found yourselves in. You squinted at the pile, and you could make out individual shapes and parts.

Bodies. Stacked atop one another as they wasted away into soggy organic matter. You began to make out whole people, some fresh enough that they could still leave an identifiable fingerprint.

“Cooper,” you froze, shoulders rigid and eyes wide in fear and disgust, “I don’t—”

“C’mon now, sweetheart,” he walked right up to the collection of putrefying bodies, bending down to peel a strand of flesh from a bloated arm that flopped out of the mass. “Clothes for you, meal for me.” He smirked, rolling the loose skin in his fingers before putting it in his mouth.

You sucked your lips into your teeth; the primal actions he often displayed made you feel pure in a way you wanted to rinse yourself of, shower in the wild side.

But only if he was the one scrubbing.

You shook your head. “This is the best you could do?”

“Tailor’s outta town,” he sneered, “Could’a just said thank you.”

“I—no, I respect the…attempt…” You dug your toe into the worn floor.

“But…” Cooper tilted his forehead at you, picking skin from his teeth with his tongue.

“But this is gross. Come on, even you know this is gross.”  You crossed your arms, peering up at him beneath knit brows.

“Use what’cha find.” He said simply, reiterating his mantra. You huffed, letting him have the final word.

You rounded the pile of bodies, looking out from behind Cooper as he sorted through the gore to find a suitable mark for his next move. He let out a triumphant noise when he turned over a man who was yet to begin the latter process of autolysis, providing the ability to smoothly undress him.

“This feels wrong.” You grit out when Cooper had removed the corpse’s overshirt. “This goes against—this is unethical.”

“You wanna change o’clothes or not?” Cooper rolled his eyes, and you piped down.

Despite your protests, spoken and cringed, you continued to watch as the body was stripped of its earthly possessions. Shirt, shoes—lucky bastard even had socks. Cooper tossed them all your way, throwing the clothes over his shoulder and at your chest. When he reached to undo the man’s belt, you felt your chest tighten; it wasn’t discomfort, per se, but it wasn’t anything pleasant, either. Something about seeing someone naked for the first time in this context made you feel melancholic. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, both in the sense that you felt that you were invading the privacy of the dead, but also in the more selfish sense that you felt it would be ruining something for you.

You turned around, trying to find something else to stare at instead of following the Ghoul’s hands as they roamed over the corpse for any hidden gems. He didn’t notice your movement, holding the jeans he’d unfastened from the dead man behind his shoulder to pass on to you.

“What the hell’re you doin’?” He turned to face the back of your head after a minute of shaking the denim at you. “Don’ tell me you decided t’get squeamish now, darlin’.”

You turned around to swipe the pants from his hands. “Not squeamish,” you started walking away, scouting out an area that would offer some seclusion, “You’re just being gross.”

“Me?” He feigned shock.

You stopped walking, turning to face him, rolling the skin of your cheeks between your teeth. “Come on…smells bad.”

Cooper waved you off, unsheathing a dagger and butchering a nearly unidentifiable limb off of a corpse. He flopped the meat over his shoulder, putting the dagger back into the sleeve it had been pulled from. After fiddling for a few more moments with the bodies, discovering two more vials of his precious chem in threadbare pockets, he held the carved appendage out to you; he swayed it as if it were part of his own arm, urging you forward. You scoffed, turning to walk away, staying several steps ahead of him.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

~~~

You had to hand it to him, Cooper knew how to scavenge; the clothes he’d taken off the body were only slightly too big on you. It was nothing rolling the cuffs up and tearing off some excess fabric couldn’t fix. You felt less constricted—free to move about without the limitations, both physical and mental, of your ruined vault suit.

“Couple holes.” You ducked out of the old storage room you’d found to change in and made your way back to the Ghoul. He’d started a campfire on the linoleum flooring, and you didn’t question how or why.

“You’ll live.” He tore chunks of flesh from the decomposing arm he’d procured. “Better than what ya had.” You watched as he rotated the meat clumsily over the fire with his hands, barely giving it enough time to rise back to living temperatures before taking it off the flame to gnaw from the bone.

“Yeah,” there was no point in arguing. He was right, and you felt silly for finding issues with what you supposed he might consider a gift.

You sat next to him in silence, knees grazing but not creating any real tension. Something about him was so much more reassuring now, a sort of consolation to being stuck in a world so far from what you’d imagined, than just the mysterious man with no nose or empathy that you’d pegged him for that first day.

Even if he was noseless, you tried not to laugh at your internal monologue, he definitely had more feelings than he let on—he cared and commiserated and let you sleep for way too long.

And you felt safe in a way you’d never felt safe before; far from any made-up threat you’d been taught to watch for in the vault, faced with genuine danger for the first time in your life, you still felt that, somehow, by his side, no harm would come to you.

It was more than a feeling. It was a fact.

You stared, unashamed, as he continued to take bites out of the disembodied arm. Cooper glanced at you from his peripheral and slowed his chewing, daring you to say something.

“What’s it taste like?” You finally gave in.

“We playin’ twenty questions again?” He shot back, swallowing what was in his mouth and throwing what was now mostly bone and muscle to the side.

“Is it like regular meat?” You pushed on, ignoring his quip.

“Y’ever had reindeer?” Cooper leaned back on his hands, and with his face only a few inches from yours, the position felt oddly intimate.

“No…” You tilted your head.

“Gamey,” he explained, “Like beef.” He smiled, “Course the flavor, it varies…person to person.”

“Funny.” You stuck your tongue between your teeth. You still thought it was gross, but you couldn’t deny that he made even cannibalism a light subject.

“Yeah? My turn now.” He sat up, “Why’d you get weird ‘round the bodies back there?”

“I was weird with the bodies?” You tried to play dumb.

“Got all prissy.”

“Did not.”

“Oh, yes y’did.”

“You were being disgusting…”

“When am I not?” He pointed out, grinning, and you conceded with a small smile and a nod of your head. “Cmon sweetheart…did it really bother you to see me doin all’at?” He seemed genuinely puzzled by you in this moment. You looked away, staring at your thumbs as you twiddled them in your lap. He took a chance, gloved fingers coming up to your chin and brushing your skin ever so gently. He refocused your gaze on him. “…Cause I won’t do it no more if it makes y’feel…weird.”

“No. it’s not…” You took a deep breath. Maybe it was stupid to get sensitive about it, maybe it was stupid to feel strange about the situation in the first place. You doubted that anybody in the Wasteland ever thought twice about seeing another person’s body—dead or alive. “I’ve just never seen anybody naked before.”

Cooper’s hand dropped from your face and into his lap. “Y’fuckin serious?” He grinned, “You’re kidding.” He was clearly on the verge of laughter, whether from amusement or shock, you couldn’t tell.

“No, I—look. I know it’s not a big deal, it’s probably not something people even think about up here. But it felt—something about seeing another person naked when they’re not…like, when they’re completely lifeless and unaware, it felt wrong to do that.” He didn’t respond, so you continued, “And honestly, it probably sounds insane, or, at the very least, maybe, a little selfish, but I felt like it was wrong because it would be stripping them of a choice, but it would also be stripping me of any choice. You know? Like, maybe it doesn’t matter to everybody else out here, but I’d like to…I mean, I want it to matter as much as it can, at this rate.” You sucked in a breath, deciding that you were done with your rant.

The Ghoul stared at you, his eyes wide but his bald brow knit in an obvious combination of delight and curiosity.

“You never seen a naked body before?” He tried to make his voice come out evenly, hiding his amusement.

“I…never like…” you failed to think of something that might lessen the blow of your revelation, “Not really, no.”

He let out a whistle, shaking his head. “Hell are y’all doin’ in the vaults if you’re not fuckin’?” It was rhetorical, you knew that, but you still felt defensive.

“There’s plenty to do.” The words came out flat, and you laughed nervously to lighten your tone.

He chuckled. “I bet.” He sucked his teeth, letting his eyes flicker over you again. There was a pregnant pause. Dead air hung between the two of you while you tried to ignore his gaze, opting to pick at a loose thread on your new shirt.

“Plenty to do…” You tried to steer the conversation somewhere—anywhere—that would help ease the tension.

“Yeah,” Cooper let his head loll back, “Let’s hear it, then.”

You scooted back on your hands to give yourself the room to properly face him, situating yourself a foot away to allow for the physical space to think.

“Movies to watch and…chores to do…” You tried to think of anything worthwhile you’d done growing up in the vaults but found yourself coming up dry. “Sometimes there were, you know…events.”

“’N you never found yourself at one o’those events with some arm candy?” He was taunting you, and he wouldn’t be ashamed to admit that he was getting a sort of sadistic thrill out of seeing you squirm under his playful interrogation.

“Slim pickings.” You huffed, staring into the fire.

“I’ll be,” he smirked, “For someone so sure of herself, you ain’t seen nothin’, have ya?” He was thinking out loud, analyzing you to your face.

You felt the need to correct him, both out of self-preservation, but also because, and this was a bigger reason than you cared to own up to, you wanted him to know that you weren’t scared of anything—especially not the thing he was implying.

Maybe you were naïve, but you weren’t stupid.

“Don’t really need another person to have a good time.” You made a point to catch his line of sight, eyes holding his as you tilted your head against your shoulder.

The Ghoul whistled, long and low. “Well, now. Talk about self-sufficient.”

You felt heat rise in your face, dappling your neck with a rosy veil. “I’m not stupid, Cooper. I know what you’re talking about.”

“What am I talkin’ ‘bout, darlin’?” He goaded, fingers toying with a button beneath his collar.

“Just cause I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I’m some sort of—I dunno, some sort of…poor shrinking violet who can’t figure it out,” your heart was in your throat now, afraid to take the conversation too far but so desperate to get a reaction out of him. “I know how to…to, you know…” You let your voice fade, chickening out when he failed to change his facial expression.

There was another long stretch of silence. Cooper let his head fall forward, arms coming to rest, folded, over his stomach, as he anticipated the end of your sentence. When you didn’t come out with it, he prodded you verbally.

“Know how’ta what?” He grinned, yellow teeth on display and tongue darting between them in a movement you were sure he wasn’t even conscious of. He leaned forward further, moving his face towards you without actually budging an inch from his spot on the floor. “You don’t know how to deal with death, how t’use a gun—y’barely even know when you’re too tired to stand…” His tongue pushed through the crack in his top and bottom rows of teeth, wetting his lips. “But ya expect me t’believe that y’know how to make yourself cum?” He let his tongue rest on his bottom lip before closing his mouth, sneering mischievously. There was a bright speck of something in his eyes that seemed to be fighting with the more devious glint brewing in him, and paired with his brazen statement, it tugged at your core.

And despite it all, you felt completely at ease; the sudden suspense and the violent thrum of your heartbeat aside, you were almost entirely calm. You knew you were safe, that the solace he cloaked you with spanned to even the most random and uncertain situations or conversations.

So you continued on.

“Took some trial and error,” you felt nervous laughter bubble up from your throat, “But I got the hang of it.” You smiled, before quirking your brow and addressing yourself more so than him, “I think.”

“You think…” He repeated, eyes narrowing as his gaze turned inquisitive.

“Just, you know…” You squirmed under his gaze now, “Not really a how-to manual on touching yourself…”

He exhaled, laughing through the hole where his nose should’ve been. “Maybe not in the vaults.” He dug in his pockets, unsure if the lightheadedness he was feeling should be blamed on a lack of chem in his system or on the topic of conversation. He took a puff before settling again. “Plenty o’guidance up here.”

“You mean, like…porn?” You smiled, shooting him a knowing look.

“At one point. Not anymore,” he sagged a little, “Lucky if ya find a fuckin’ playboy mag up out here.”

“You seem disappointed by that,” you prodded, teasing.

“That’s cause I am,” he shot back, stretching his shoulders.

“Well, all I’m saying is I know what I’m doing.” You rested your back against the wall, hands clasped in your lap.

“And I’m sayin’ that I sincerely doubt it.” He put the inhaler back into his pocket, deciding it was definitely the conversation that was to blame for the way his head swam.

You let his words hang between the two of you momentarily. Then, on a whim, figuring that you’d had plenty of chances before, and being unwilling to let another one slip away: “I could show you.” You didn’t look up at him, but he stiffened, his eyes unwittingly falling to stare at your hands. “How I…how I touch, I mean.”

You braced yourself for rejection, looking up sheepishly and letting your hands fall to your sides. He was already looking back at you, lips parted and eyes half-lidded—he could say no, and he thought about it for a moment. But, Christ, it had been a long time. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he couldn’t say no.

Not to you. Not when it came to something like this, a vision, a woman untouched by the grit and grime of the surface, offering up something that now seemed so holy.

He sucked in a breath; he had never been a church goer. He thought maybe now was a good time to make up for all the sins he’d committed—worship at the shrine of you, talk you through your own wrongs and absolve himself of the thoughts he’d been having since he’d first encountered you all those weeks ago.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, sweetheart…go on ahead…”

You exhaled shakily, not even realizing that you’d been holding in a breath. You scrambled to lose the jeans he’d gifted you, eager to expose yourself, immensely grateful for the chance that had dropped in your lap.

“Hold’t,” his voice cut through your motions, and you froze. You’d gone too far, surely. He recognized the error he had made by giving you the go ahead and was now taking it all back. “Y’gonna listen when I say you’re doin’ it wrong?” He sucked on his lips.

“I won’t—I don’t do it wrong.” There was no bite to your argument.

“I asked ya’a question,” he continued, “Y’gonna listen t’me? Gonna fix your mistakes ‘f’I tell ya to?” He bent one knee, resting his hand limply between his legs. “Do what I fuckin’ say to do?”

You bit the inside of your bottom lip, trying to hide the impact his words had on you. “Yeah,” you nodded, “Yeah, Coop. I will.”

You thought maybe you heard him growl, but any noise coming from him was muddled by the sound of your zipper finally coming undone.

“Good,” he nodded, “Knew you could be a good girl. Just need’a blow off some steam, huh?”

This time, you couldn’t avoid the soft moan that slipped past your lips. Cooper let out an amused exhale in response, eyes trained on your hips as you wiggled your way out of the pants.  

“Yeah, you like this,” he got comfortable, resting one arm behind his head, only nearly knocking his hat off. “Like gettin’ bossed around more than you let on, darlin’.”

“Shut up,” you tried to keep it together, kicking the jeans off your legs and tossing them to the side. But your words were unconvincing, especially with the way you barely smiled, breath hitching already and eyes wild and blown out. You did like it—but only because he was doing it.

He tsked at your response. “Not very nice. Big talk from someone with no panties on.”

In such a short time span, you’d already forgotten that you’d ridded yourself of your underwear. It was gross, and you’d had no change, and it wasn’t as if you’d be thrilled to peel the undergarments off a corpse. You figured commando was the most obvious way to go.

“That a bad thing?” You goaded him, running a palm down your naked thigh and seeing how long it would take to break his collected demeanor.

“Never said that,” he drawled, following your hand on its path down your leg. “Y’gonna keep puttin’ on a li’l show f’me, or ya gonna do what’cha promised?” He licked his lips.

“You don’t like a little showmanship?” You squeezed your thighs together, not missing how his chest rose.

“With my killin’,” he found your eyes, “Not with my pussy.”

If this was a competition to see who could keep it together the longest, you’d be losing by a landslide.

“Spread those legs f’me, baby.”

And with all the pet names he’d given you in your time with him, something as simple as the word baby falling from his lips and landing on your skin had you flooded with arousal.

You did what you were told, straightening your legs and feeling the tile of the floor cling to your skin as you opened them. The Ghoul’s gaze flickered between your face and your core, both positioned perfectly towards him.

“C’mon,” he nodded, “Show me how good ya make yourself feel.”

You knew what he wanted to see. Even after his claims of disliking the display you were putting on, you could tell that he was just being impatient for show. You wanted to draw this out, watch him come undone in sync with you despite the physical distance.

You let your hand roam over the tops of your thighs, feather soft touches making goosebumps erupt on your skin in anticipation for what was to come.

“How y’feel?” He disrupted the otherwise silent escapade you were undertaking.

 “Soft…” you mumbled, “Warm.” You didn’t know if he was asking about your emotions or for the physical description of what your skin felt like on your fingers, but your mind was blank with adrenaline, so you subconsciously chose to focus on the latter.

He took a deep breath, afraid that if he were to blink, he would miss something. “How ‘bout you drop that hand a li’l lower.”

You sighed as you followed his instruction. The pads of your fingers brushed your clit, and you squeaked out a moan.

How long had it been since you’d gotten any time to enjoy yourself? Certainly longer than the month or so you'd been on the surface; with Cooper, you never had the solitude or time to let yourself unwind, and even before joining him, you were more focused on surviving than you were on unwinding. 

You let your fingers circle your clit, building the pressure with every swipe. The friction made you buck your hips gently, sweat-slick skin sliding on the floor. You could feel the way your cunt began to drip, and you spread your legs wider, wanting to give him a proper view. You looked up at him, your face painted with an underlying uncertainty behind the overarching pleasure.

“You got it, sweetheart,” he reassured you, briefly biting down on his tongue when he saw the way your slit glistened, “Show me.”

You relaxed into your own body; fingers dropping lower to tease your entrance were met with a backing score of delicious wet sounds as you let the pads graze beyond your folds and kiss at your hole. You moved your hand at an angle to allow one finger to push into your cunt down to the first knuckle, but Cooper tsked at you.

“Not yet,” his breath was already becoming labored, “Show that pretty pearl a li’l more love first.”

The timbre of his voice made you shiver despite the heat that engulfed your skin. You nodded, staring up at him for guidance, just as you always did—though this circumstance was far different.

Your fingers came back up to toy with your clit, and you let out a breathy sound. He had been right to tell you to slow down, to continue to enjoy the friction instead of diving straight into the penetration; you felt light and malleable, like your body was taking a natural route towards the apex of pleasure without needing the frantic thrust of your finger.

Another moan slipped past your lips, and the Ghoul groaned in front of you, eyes glued to your center as you massaged gentle shapes onto your clit.

“Knew ya didn’t know what y’were doin’,” he chastised softly, voice uncharacteristically tender given the state of events unfolding. “Impatient thing like you just needs some instruction. S’at right, sweetheart?” He leaned forward, bending a knee, “Needed someone to tell ya how t’do it so it feels real good?”

You bucked against your hand, in the midst of discovering something new about yourself; maybe you did need it—maybe you liked it. It could have been the simple fact that it was him taunting you, telling you what you wanted and how you wanted it, but his words had you keening, and you let go of any remaining inhibition.

“Yeah,” you mewled, “Yes…” Your movements were getting sloppy, fingers frantic against your swelling bud. “Like—like it like this.”

He growled, pushing air through gritted teeth that formed a menacing smile meant only for you. “Slow down there,” he wanted to grab your wrist, to replace your hand with his own, but something about the chaste, urgent nature of how you touched yourself made him all the more eager to watch how your own movements played out. “Don’ gotta rush it, baby.”

You knew you'd been right—he did like a little showmanship.

“But—” You wanted to argue; it felt good, and the thought of stopping made you squirm harder. But with his eyes on you the way they were, and his hat tipping forward to emphasize his demand, you let the response die in your throat, slowing your fingers.

“Atta girl,” he praised, and your smile was paired with a small whine. “You like the way I’m talkin’?” He was playing with you, flirting while making sure the waters were still welcoming.

“I do,” you responded with a whimper, thrilled by the noises you made, having only ever touched yourself in silence for fear of getting caught.

“Good. Cause I’m’a keep goin’,” he leaned back once more, shifting slightly to ease the tightness that had sprung up in his trousers. “Give that pussy what she needs—slow, now.”

You pressed a finger into your hole, watching it soak in the wet that dripped from you. You wanted to go faster, to push it in completely and fuck yourself on it, but you refrained from the urge to do so and went leisurely as instructed.

“Fuck,” you breathed when the webs of your fingers stretched over your lips, as deep as you could get inside yourself. “Been a—it’s been a minute since I’ve done this.”

“Easy, now—s’why I’m goin’ slow.” He spoke as if he was the one touching you, as if his finger was buried within you in place of your own.

“Can I…” You fidgeted around your hand, “What next.”

“So fuckin’ eager t’please,” he chuckled, “Where was’s obedience out there, huh?”

“Had to make you work for it,” you smiled, your words carrying no malice as your hand became more saturated with your juices.

“Curl’at finger up,” he ignored your retort with a blunt demand, “Like yer callin’ me over.”

You did, and the spot your finger grazed made your limbs buzz and your core tighten. Your face must’ve changed to display your sudden pleasure, because Cooper let out a proud grunt.

“Didn’know’at was there, did’ya?”

“No…” You didn’t bother to explore the shameful feeling that nipped at your heels for being so unfamiliar with your own body after talking such a big game, too focused on exploring the tantalizing feeling that traveled through you when you nudged at the spot again. “Fuck, that feels good.”

“I know,” he looked smug, clearly impressed with himself for teaching you something new about your own body. “Add another.”

“Another finger?” Your skin flushed.

“Go on.”

“I—I’ve only ever done one.” You explained, more embarrassed about this fact than you had been to strip and fuck yourself in front of him.

 “Y’can do it,” he shot you a jagged grin, “Would I ever lead y'astray?”

You swallowed your reminder to him that he used you as a lure in any situation he could get away with. Your head drooped, and you watched as you pulled your hand back enough to press a second finger to the one that had been nestled inside of you. You prodded your entrance, sinking them in slowly as you had with the first one. You hissed, unfamiliar pressure filling your abdomen, though not in an unwelcome capacity; it was a warm tension, weighty and grounding, and you quickly found pleasure in the new sensation.

The way you stared down at yourself, legs spread and lips parted, nearly made him snap; you were so curious, so hungry for instructions to follow—so deeply trusting of him. Cooper’s mouth went dry, and his hand fell to his crotch, palming at the growing tent there.

“Look’t that,” he licked his lips, “Y’feel the stretch, sweetheart? Feel nice?”

“Mm,” you whimpered out an answer, remaining focused on the way your hand met your cunt, swallowed to the last knuckle and still wanting more.

“Curl ‘em again f’me,” he muttered, squeezing his cock through the fabric of his pants.

You did, throwing your head back and hitting that same spot he’d directed you to earlier. The sound you made was desperate and primal, coming out husky from deep in your chest.

“God!” You felt like crying happy tears. Something built inside you that you couldn’t stop, and it felt good—it felt right.

“He can’t help ya now, darlin’,” the Ghoul’s mouth hung open, hypnotized by the urgency in your sounds and the way your body contorted as you tried to keep up with your own pleasure. “Now pull ‘em out ‘n’do it all again. Fast, now—you got it.”

Hurriedly, you pulled your fingers back, then pushed them back in with equal haste, bending them upwards and grazing the delicious spot you’d been missing out on for god only knows how long. You did it again, and again; your repeated movements helped you chase the high you were looking for, hurtling you towards the finish line, and you wanted him to see it as badly as you wanted to feel it.

“Look’t me,” his voice was gruffer now, a dominant edge finding its way in by way of his own lust. “Lemme see y’feel good, sweetheart.”

“C—ooper,” his words hit you exactly where you needed them, finding his gaze with your own and falling apart completely. You pulsed around your fingers, gluey and hot, your skin pricked with gooseflesh despite the humidity and the rush of warmth you felt all over. You moaned, loud and long, but your ears buzzed and your eyes screwed shut so that not even your own sounds could distract from the intensity of the orgasm that washed over you.

When you opened your eyes, squinting in the light of the fire while you took heaving breaths, you expected a blanket of embarrassment to wash over you, some type of mortification for what you’d just done—exposed to another person for the first time, allowing him a view you’d rarely ever even given yourself.

But when you peeked up at him through heavy eyelids, gulping down air, he looked dazed, his mouth agape and eyes wide. And suddenly you felt pride more than anything—you’d managed to leave the most feared man for miles at a total loss.

His hand was still on his crotch, raking his eyes over you, your form illuminated by the campfire. His throat felt dry, and he coughed a few times, hunching over to collect himself before he made eye contact with you again.

“Goddamn,” he gasped, swallowing his coughing fit, “Fast learner.”

“Good teacher,” you grinned, toeing at the discarded jeans that had been left in a heap at your feet.

“Pretty when you cum,” he rolled his shoulders back, still foggy with arousal after seeing you whine and writhe for him.

That made you blush, not out of embarrassment, but because it was the first real compliment he’d paid you. “Never done it like that before.”

“Never had a ghoul teach ya how t’do it right.” He joked, and you smiled at the way he returned so quickly to his usual snark.

“Never cum that hard, that fast.” You admitted, shooting him a glance before leaning forward to grab the wrinkled denim off the floor.

“Had me fooled,” he took out his inhaler, “Needy fuckin’ thing.” That sent a buzz through your body, and you pressed your thighs together to alleviate the ache in your cunt.

“You liked it.” You quirked a brow, dropping your gaze to your legs and pulling the oversized pants back on.

“Never said I didn’t,” he pointed out, “Almost made me cum my pants like some fuckin’ schoolboy.”

“Never done that either,” you yawned, “Made someone else cum.”

“Don’t think it’d be a hard lesson for y’t’learn,” he smirked, “Natural’at you are.”

“It’ll have to wait,” you didn’t know why you assumed it would happen at all, subconsciously hoping that this wouldn’t be forgotten in a day’s time, “Tired.”

“Course y’are,” he offered no explanation, shifting in his spot. He raised an arm and beckoned to you, encouraging you to come closer.

You did, no stranger to doing what he told you to do, and found yourself curled against his side. He smelled like smoke and sex—musky and dewy in a way that made you feel at home.

“I got first watch, y’fuckin—” he cut is taunting short when he looked down at you, seeing you fast asleep.

☆Like my work? Buy me a ko-fi :)☆

[qqueenofhades]

I'm watching the results come in for the French legislatives first round, and I have been following American presidential race and supreme court from afar. I am depressed. Please say something wise that will give me hope. I never thought to live through times like this.

Anonymous asked: Hey I know you said you’re avoiding posting about politics so absolutely feel free not to reply, but any tips about not getting hopeless? Especially when the fellow young people in your life are all clamoring to talk about how both parties are the same, they won’t vote, etc, etc (😑)?

Welp. It seems that what the people want to hear at this point is some Wise Words From Internet Grandmother Hilary, so... I will do my best to see what I can come up with. It bears repeating, as I have said many times before and will do so again, that I still have heard no better advice for living through The Horrors than the Gandalf: "So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us." Because, yeah. That, in its simplest essence, is it. We cannot control The Horrors. Individual people have never been able to control The Horrors, and five thousand-odd years after the invention of documented human history, here we still are, making the same stupid fucking mistakes. That is pretty maddening to deal with, and if you try to think of it like that, it is impossible to wrap your head around and it will only drive you crazy. So, then. What?

I will freely admit that I am scared too. Despite my best efforts, the post-debate furor wigged me out, I had to log off all social media and news sites for most of the weekend, not look at anything aside from one site I trust for two minutes, and try to get myself back in an okay headspace. So yes, rule number one: STOP DOOMSCROLLING. Please get a muzzle on that little voice in your head that says you HAVE to look, you HAVE to read everything, you have to KNOW JUST IN CASE HOW BAD IT COULD POSSIBLY BE. Then you look at stuff that makes you upset, and that leads to other stuff that makes you more upset, and then there you are in a stew of anxiety and anger and everything else that doesn't help. Do not look at the Bird Site Formerly Known as Twitter or news sites or anything else that is liable to have stuff that upsets you, especially in Panic!!! moments like this. It is designed to make you feel worse and it obscures the fact that nobody actually knows. Like, I devoutly hope that the anonymous "adviser to a prominent Democrat" and the NYT editorial board and everyone else screaming about how Biden should drop out right now step on ten Legos a day for the rest of their lives, but they also DO NOT KNOW (and given the NYT nakedly admitting to a personal vendetta against Biden for not giving them an interview, everyone can see exactly what this crass and unbelievably stupid sabotage attempt is, but yeah). Even if they get quoted in prominent publications, they do not know what is going to happen. They are not prophets. The NYT has, as noted, showed its ass 800 times before and keeps coming up with polls that are so ludicrously pro-Trump that it's becoming a cottage industry to debunk them. They are crass and cynical and trash and all that, they have vested interests, they have a platform, but repeat after me: WE DO NOT KNOW "FOR A FACT" THAT EVERYTHING IS DOOMED AND WILL NEVER BE OKAY AGAIN IF WE DO NOT LISTEN TO THE ALMIGHTY NEW YORK TIMES. In fact, the NYT has been so fucking wrong so fucking many times that at this point, I would bet on it being the other way around.

As part of my Bad Headspace Night on Friday night, I did picture the worst-case scenario of Trump winning, American democracy being overthrown, fascists around the world being emboldened, etc. It was a nasty mental picture and I didn't like anything that would come about if it did, but I had to remind myself that even if it did happen, well, the world would still be here, and good people who care about its future would have to do something to make that future happen. It would be ten times harder and it would be the result of another unimaginably evil and cynical fascist sabotage campaign, but... those are not exactly unprecedented in human history. (See: making all those mistakes over and over again.) People in the past were faced with those same exact moments where everything seemed monumentally hopeless and doomed for a generation, and they fought back, and they won. That's the thing. Fascists are evil and awful and terribly unnecessarily destructive, but they are not unbeatable, and they never have been. If we make the choice to resist them, then, well, they can be resisted. It will not happen by posting vaporous screeds on social media, or sitting on your ass and waiting for some miraculous savior/revolution/whatever to swoop in and save you, but it can happen, and it can work. That's what is very hard to remember in the current Horrors, but it's the way it's been for as long as there has been evil. It is not the be-all and end-all of the human experience and never will be.

Likewise: if a la the second anon you're being surrounded with people who are saying stupid things and making you feel worse: just don't be around them any more. It's that simple and you should do it. You can unfollow people who are posting defeatist rubbish, or you can avoid spending time with people railing about how everything is already doomed and voting is useless, etc. You may feel guilty because these people are your friends or you don't want to cut off contact, but you need to do what is best for your mental health, and if all you hear is BS, then, yeah. Pull the plug, cut the cord, do whatever you want. You do not owe anyone else your headspace, your attention, your mental health, or anything else, especially if it is demonstrably idiotic and incorrect. Find ways to do something. Go out and volunteer. Put down the phone (again, this cannot be overemphasized) and stop looking at doomerists on Twitter who get their engagement fix from making you upset and angry. Read a book, watch a TV show, visit a friend in real life, take a walk outside (if you don't live in a furnace, which unfortunately a lot of us do right now). Just sit and close your eyes and meditate. Stretch or move your body. Drink water. Super basic ordinary things that get you away from the increasingly frantic death spiral mindset and put you back in the reminder that things are never over and there is still a lot of time for everything.

As I said: I am doing this myself right now. It is not easy. I know it is not. I wish that we lived in a kinder timeline where this was not necessary, but as Gandalf says, nobody ever wishes for this and yet it happens nonetheless. But we can still control how we react to it and identify the things that are doing their best to make us feel terrible and doomed and hopeless, and make a choice to move away from them. We do not know what's going to happen, no. But we also do not know that everything is doomed, and you know what, it usually ends up not being that way. So that's what I can offer for now. Courage.

[cuubism]

unhinged dreamling modern au #409430950

the bachelor

dream is bribed, threatened, and/or physically dragged by his ankle into being on a dating show by death and desire (for very different reasons, death just wants him to be happy and is very very desperate at this point, desire's just fucking with him again), and needless to say dream is not the target candidate for this. at all. sure he's pretty and rich but he's also a complete asshole. this is destined to go poorly.

(unless you're the show's producers who just want an unhinged television trainwreck that keeps people in their seats, in which case it's fucking fantastic)

hob is also there as a contestant because he's bored, single, and always willing to do something stupid. everybody on the show is taking it seriously except for dream, who'd rather jump off a cliff than be here right now, and hob, who's just entertaining himself.

dream: this is stupid (hateful) hob: this is stupid (having the time of his life)

needless to say this whole thing is a disaster. normally contestants are clamoring for the 'bachelor's' attention but dream just keeps being an utter jerk to everyone, making them cry, and causing them to actually drop out of the show. contestants: "i'd rather die than be with you." dream: "glad we're finally on the same page." like. dream doesn't even have to actively eliminate people. they just eliminate themselves because he's so insufferable.

hob isn't put off, though, this whole thing is hilarious to him. dream tries scaring him off and hob just laughs like "oh you're so cute, this is great"

dream: i hope you die hob: you want me so bad it makes you look stupid

the more people drop out of the show the more time dream and hob end up spending together, by necessity. unfortunately for dream's sanity hob is actually very charming and fun and inexplicably good at getting dream to smile. they have at least one proper heart-to-heart and hob is so kind to him, and dream hates him soooo much for it.

(of course he actually likes him, and it's the worst thing that's happened to him, maybe ever. he's in agony. he wants off this ride, please. maybe he wants on a different ride ahem.)

so now hob's properly invested in this stupid game, he's like oh that wretched stick of a man is mine (literally nobody is challenging him but he's being super competitive about it anyway). all it really results in is dream being MORE of an asshole both to hob and to everybody else. (dream: one time i had a crush on this guy and i didn't know how to handle it so i just wrote him a letter saying get out of my tv show). and yet every week dream could eliminate hob from the show but he never does...

anyway soon enough literally every other contestant has dropped out of the show and it's JUST hob remaining and he basically wins by default. dream absolutely will not be beaten or outdone and is like fine hob i'll call your bluff. marry me if you're so committed to winning. hob's like, bet :) (see: always willing to do something stupid).

they do in fact get married because they're both incapable of conceding defeat. then they're like well. what do we do now...

dream: going to divorce me now and take half of my money? run with your spoils? hob: idk, are you going to divorce me and finally 'free yourself from the torment of my presence'? dream: *sniff* then you would win hob: then i bet i can stay in this relationship longer than you :) dream, gritting his teeth: bet

anyway they manage about two months before dream, perpetually in agony over how aggressively he's into hob, is like fine, i concede, i can't take it anymore. leave me if you want, take my money, i do not care, only free me from this pain. hob: so... i win? i get to choose the prize? dream, utterly defeated: whatever you want hob: okay! and he kisses him

[prettyboypistol]

TF2 Mercs x Romantic M!Reader

Scout

Has never had anyone pull out the stops for him. He's the youngest of 7, his life has been full of hand-me-downs and overlooking.

When you hand him a bouquet of roses he actually fucking cries.

Dinner, a movie while holding hands, cuddling under the stars? God, he feels like a princess in a disney movie and you're his prince charming

Soldier

He's touched, really, he is! But has a hard time expressing it. He gives you a big ol' kiss and thanks you with a smile, but is lowkey pretty awkward when you offer to dance with him.

He looooved the homecooked dinner you made for him- after all, restaurants aren't really his scene. Course after course if just amazing!

Afterwards, you convince him to slowdance/cuddledance with you while whispering sweet nothings into his ear. He blushed so hard you can feel the heat on his cheeks.

Pyro

OH MY GOD??? ALL THIS FOR ME??? THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!

Well, that's what you think they signed to you as they blubbered tearfully and hugged you. You decorated the recreation room with streamers of deep red and had a bowl of icecream to share while watching a movie!

Their favorite part is when you lit the streamers on fire, making a brief flaming heart.

Demoman

What's better than a roadtrip and sightseeing in a new place? You two snuck out and drove to Dallas for a long weekend out. It took you eons to convince the Administrator for a long weekend too, so it was extra heartfelt!

Big foods, big hats, and big inside jokes nobody else will understand, most of all- you take Demoman out to light fireworks in the desert. Big ones.

With all the clamoring to see the light show, Demoman is elated to kiss you in public with nobody noticing.

Engineer

Going to his favorite museum of engineering and listening to him talk is what Dell found most heartstopping. That dopey look of love as you listened intently had him in a chokehold.

Brushing the backs of your hands together feels more scandalous than holding your hand as you give him a teasing wink.

After, you cook his favorite meal? "Oh darlin', you're an angel."

Heavy

Doesn't know how to react at first, insisting he doesn't need to be spoiled. Then you pull out the handknitted mittens with bear paws on the inside and he's all the way on board to let you spoil him like a king.

You get a thank you kiss for everything you do, a promise to repay the favor later (;P) with every surprise you give him.

Oh boy does he, the more you love on Heavy, the more he loves on you.

Sniper

Survivalist camping with him over the weekend is how you win his heart. He sees you fishing at the crack of dawn and you just smile at him and hand him a pole. The comfortable silence has him blushing like a poppy.

Play wrestle this man. Play wrestle him and win. Pin this man to the ground with a playful yet exerting smile and he will never forget the moment until the day he does and then some. Then kiss him. Do it.

Spy

Ah, a nice restaurant where he doesn't have to worry about the bill, a gala where he doesn't have to assassinate anyone, and a handsome man he isn't obligated to sleep with for information- this is the perfect date!

He's quite the flirt as well, but as long as you can keep up with him, you'll win out in the end with your romance attack modifiers of the date on your side.

Dancing with him is a must, even if you're bad, it's still overwhelmingly charming to Spy.

Medic

YOU BOUGHT HIM NEW SYRINGES AFTER HIS OLD ONES SNAPPED???? AWWW YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE!!!

Much like Spy, Medic loves a fancy dinner and dancing, but he likes the thrill of a mission to help digest his food. That's why you two break into the blood donation truck and take some especially weird samples of blood that you find.

While the police chase you, you two share a kiss. Be gay, do crime!

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER THREE — EDDIE MUNSON COMMITS TREASON (BREAKS UP a CAT FIGHT)

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summary: you deal with the fallout of your fight at steve harrington's party... in the passenger seat of eddie munson's van. so much for pretending you didn't exist to one another, huh? content warnings: as always, MINORS FUCK OFF, because we have *deep breath* implied fantasy smut, lots of swearing, confused yearning, themes of threat, heavy snark, another mention of the drink tab which i feel like is/was gross word count: 7.2k

Dear Dio, Tommy Iommi, Gary Gygax, Pee-wee Herman, Ronnie Ecker — forgive me for what I’m about to do. 

I know I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life. Like the time I lit all my hair on fire and spent middle school with a buzz cut. Or the time I almost trapped myself in a spread eagle with my own handcuffs. Or the time I got my arm stuck in a wall for an entire afternoon when I was trying to rescue a feral cat. 

I’ve done a lot of stupid shit. But the stupidest among it all has got to be saving this girl from the bare knuckle wrath of Carol Whatsername. You know the one. 

Tonight, for whatever reason, this insane ex-rich chick has decided to teeter on the edge of a pool of boiling hot lava and for whatever reason, I feel like it’s my responsibility to yank her back.

Which sucks, because she’s a total bitch to me. 

Even if she just told everybody Tommy Hagan had crabs and has been cheating on his girlfriend in such a deranged way that it almost made me pop a semi. 

Anyway. Tell my guitar I love her. 

The world around Eddie slows to the tick of a football game replay as you let the last incendiary word you speak to Carol bounce around the goddamn Roman amphitheater Harrington’s back yard has become. 

This is insane. What he’s watching is insane. Like, he knew you and your dumb little court of Hawkinsites bickered back and forth, but you’re the last person he’d ever expect to air their dirty laundry like this. 

It’s incredible to watch the fascist leadership that he and the rest of the social nobodies have suffered under for so long rupture in real time. 

What’s even more incredible is how little hesitation there is on his part, shoving through the crowd when he sees Carol leaping for you. Eddie’s nearly jostled backwards by some slobbering roid heads— they’ve already called CAT FIGHT! and a crowd is clamoring. But Eddie’s got years of thankless equipment lugging behind him, giving him deceptively strong arms.

And thank god, because you are not an easy girl to hold onto. 

Carol lands a decent punch to your face, slamming with a dull knuckle-on-cheekbone crunch that makes all the onlookers, including him, go ooof! You stagger back in a state of shock (though, c’mon, you heard what you said just now, right?) and Eddie takes his shot just as you dive forward to retaliate.

He grabs you under the arms so you can’t like, elbow him in the fucking nose, a pale imitation of an illegal wresting move that Al Munson had forced him to learn at the tender age of seven. His dad had fancied himself a wrestling manager at the time— you can imagine how that worked out. 

But Jesus, can you ever squirm! Your body writhes against him—stop—hips bucking—don’t go there—as you try to get free. He doesn’t even think you realize who’s dragging you away from the screaming harpy, otherwise you’d probably turn your fury on him. 

He takes full advantage of the rage blackout and manhandles you through the party, earning a baffled look from Steve Harrington, who’s finally graced his own party with his presence. A pinch-faced Nancy Wheeler lingers behind him, but then again, Wheeler’s always all pinch-faced.

“What the fuck?!” Harrington breathes, exasperated. 

Eddie struggles against you struggling, just about dragging you over the front doorstep. Trust this guy to be upstairs in a domestic dispute, missing all the action while getting no action. 

Even in the chaos, Eddie will never pass up an opportunity to fuck with Harrington.

“You gotta start hidin’ your bath salts, man! Chicks are going crazy in there–Evil Dead type shit!” 

—

“You’re dead, Lacy! Monday morning, you are fucking dead!” Carol screams down the hallway. 

“It’s a date, bitch!” you screech, Munson’s nelson hold on you stronger than your thrashing. With a lot of work, he manages to haul you as far as Harrington’s front yard before you wriggle out of his grasp. You shove him, hard, all white hot and punch drunk and regular drunk on top of that. 

He yelps, high and frightened. You weren’t expecting a noise like that to come out of a surly-looking dude like him. 

So you do it again. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” you spit, and Munson flinches.

“Cutting you off!” he exclaims, this half-yell, half-laugh. It stings, the way he’s looking at you– like your anger isn’t anger, like it’s just amusing to him. 

“Well, who gave you the right? Who died and made you my parole officer, Munson?!” 

“Oh, I’m not– but I also didn’t feel like being woken up at home when the cops come looking for you after you go all Raging Bull on Carol. You haven’t been around the park long enough to hear ‘em, but those sirens really perforate the eardrums!”

Your jaw sets itself stiffly and you bind your arms over your chest. Unfuckingbelievable. “I would’ve, you know,” you breathe, seething, “Beat her up.” 

Munson’s dark eyes glide over you, like he’s checking you for concealed weapons or signs of a zombie bite— you avoid his gaze entirely, staring square into the middle distance. 

You promised that he didn’t exist to you, yet here he is. Driving you off the road. Breaking up your fights. Existing.

“Yeah, I know you woulda. You’re scary,” he says. You shrug, and he reaches to massage his shoulder. “And strong. Shit.” 

Your eyes flick over to him, but you don’t feel bad. You don’t feel bad because he’s grinning at you now and despite yourself, despite everything that’s transpired and the everything about him, you’re trying your hardest not to grin back. Adrenaline and vodka are still burning a hole in your chest. 

“Stay out of my way, then.”  

“Noted, but,” a couple of steps from Munson’s end closes some space between you. He’s peering at your face, right where Carol clocked you. A hand reaches out, angling your chin closer to the Harrington’s glaring porch light with his fingertips. You stiffen and squint, performatively wary, but you don’t stop him. You just let his eyes pan over you, looking anywhere but into them. “You might need a little first aid first. And a ride home.” 

“I was actually planning on carjacking Hagan,” you say coolly, the smile you were trying to beat away edging its way across your face. Munson releases your chin and the spot where his fingers were buzzes. It’s just the cold. It’s just your slutty librarian outfit, you tell yourself. You have to swallow in order to speak again. “Seems like fitting payback.”

“Jesus, sweetheart, what did I just say about cops?”

—

Eddie tolerates your eyes rolling back in your head when he props the passenger door open for you, helping you into the cluttered van with an outstretched had. 

See, I’m not the kind of asshole who doesn’t open doors for girls wearing stilts for shoes.

Those things were not made for clambering into a vehicle like this, sure, but they’re– nice. For what he knows about shoes, which is nothing. They make your legs look more… leggy, and for whatever reason this is making his brain soft. 

In your other hand is a cold can of High Life, which is the closest thing to an ice pack he could nab. That bruise blooming under your eye is going to be nasty, and he’s a little curious how you’re gonna look with it. You, with nary a hair out of place on a bad day, with a big ol’ purple shiner in a place that’s hard to hide.  

Gunning out of Harrington’s hood, a silence settles between Eddie and you. The radio hums in the background– a mainstream station for once. He thoughtfully figured that an aural assault by Sabbath would kinda rub salt in your wound. 

He’s thoughtful, but he’s not not nosy. So, of course he’s gonna ask– 

“That whole… verbal smackdown back there,” Munson starts after clearing his throat. “With Tommy H and everybody.”

On your end, the adrenaline has worn off and the numbing effects of the booze have amped up. You feel loose and warm, apart from the beer can cooling your bruise. There are twice as many streetlights streaming past you as usual. This is going to blow later– if you don’t blow chunks first. 

“All that about your dad pimping me out?” God, I mean, Hagan couldn’t compose a written sentence to save his life but maybe he had a future in speculative fiction. Did he just come up with that on the fly? “Take a wild guess, Munson.” 

Eddie recoils in his seat– gross. Gross. “Not the– the shit with Tina and Carol and–”

“Oh, the crabs? Yeaaaah, that’s true,” you slur, “But I rejected Tommy waaay before I knew that. Call it my brilliant instinct. And then he has the nerve to call me frigid, which– trust me, I’m anything… anything but.”

Munson seems a little surprised at this. You can see it in the way his eyebrows dart under his curly bangs. 

But you’ve had your share of disappointing experiences with the blandly acceptable boys in your circle– it’s par for the course, it’s part of advancing in the field. You can’t throw your cat into the street completely, but god forbid you be choosy about the boys you want to copulate with. The ones you’ve hooked up with, all unremarkable and perfunctory, always seemed so smug afterwards. Like they’d conquered something. 

But from Eddie’s purview, you always held yourself like you were above everyone else; not just the underclassmen and the social rejects, but even your own friends. He’d watch you sometimes, because it’s hard not to watch you. He’d wait for the few flickering moments you let your guard down, when you thought no one was paying attention as you sat at the lunch table or walked the hallways. So achingly unamused by the guffawing, the backslapping, the forced camaraderie of your forced high school persona and your forced high school friends. Then, one of them would say something like, Right, Lacy? and your brow would unarch and you’d be right back in the groove with the rest of them, giggling dumbly and glossing your lips. 

He always wondered how you did it, tolerated it. And why.

“Now, far be it from me to agree with a shithead like Hagan–and I don’t, before you get scary–but I kinda get where he’s picking that up,” Eddie winces, throwing a glance to you, glassy-eyed with your head against the window. You’re looking at him with narrowed eyes, eyeliner smudged. Even that look could cut down a man with twice his ego. “You’re a little bit frosty. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day– which, y’know, could be–”

You absolutely do not let him finish the thought.   

“It’s caaaalled being aloof, Munson,” you drawl, shuffling your shoulders against the passenger door and pulling a stray thread from your skirt with a sharp snap. “Playing hard to get, duh? Leave them wanting more? You wouldn’t get it because you’re so goddamn big and obvious all the time…”

“Obvious!” he brays, letting his jaw hang open with theatrical flair, “Obvious! Lacy, you wound me, I–”

“Obvious,” you bark back, “Obvious like a neon sign, obvious like a circus tent, obvious like– like– look at me, look at me, I’m a weirdo!” Your Munson impression, complete with devil horns, is a little dorkified but it shuts him right up. That loose little tongue of yours has trasmuted your mood from wrath to barbed silliness. “So obvious you wouldn’t know that kind of subtlety. Not if it hit you in the face.” 

A familiar tune whistles from the radio, distracting you. “… or cause you’re a virgin.”

“Okay—!“ Eddie starts, immediately assuming the position of point guard. His hackles are raised, but to be honest, he’s so willing to let you ramble on. It’s the first time he’s heard you talk this much, ever, save your little tête-à-tête by the lockers the other day. 

Eddie doesn’t want to stem the flow just yet. He’s not thinking about it too hard.

“Oh shit, do you hear that?” Like a Virgin pumps from the tinny speakers and you reach to turn it up, your head drunkenly bobbling on your neck. Eddie winces; it’s so weird, watching you like this. It’s like dream logic. It’s like opposite day. “Munson’s a virgin! I’m gonna touch him for the very first tiii-iime! Munson’s a vii-iir-gin—“

“First off, no I am not and no,” he audibly swallows, positive you didn’t realize what you just sang, “no, you are not, ‘cause— well.” He clears his throat. A flare of heat burns around his collar. “I’m not the type to bone and tell.”

“Bone and tell.” You guffaw, a sound so unbecoming yet so endearing coming from you, and slump back in your seat. That tight little skirt you’re wearing rides up about an inch and a half. “Sounds like something a virgin would say.”

Eddie huffs; no way around this. You’re fucking with him, and it’s the indefatiguable male ego that’s not going to let him let you win. 

He fucks, okay? Or has fucked, prior to this. 

Not that there’s anything wrong with not fucking. 

But he’s done it.  

Eddie’s eyes dart between you and the road, and you’ve got him like a stuck pig with that expectant glare. His eyes linger on your exposed upper legs for a half a second. 

Christ, you’re annoying. It occurs to him that wants to bite the soft flesh of your thigh and hear you squeal about it, but you are annoying as hell. 

“Fine. Fine. You wanna know?”

Your head lolls against the rough upholstery of the seat and you bat your lashes at him. “I really wanna know.” 

And Munson will tell you, you know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to. 

“Nicole Summers.”

“Bullshit. Nicole Nicole? My Nicole?”

“Nicole Nicole. Nicole, formerly yours. The only-girl-meaner-than-you Nicole. It was tenth grade,” he snorts bitterly. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life.”

“Nicole told us she got her v-card stamped by a board waxer in Maui.”

“I’ve got a lot of side gigs. You don’t know about me.”

You snort too, despite yourself. That’s a lot of despite-ing tonight, Lacy. You sit up in the seat a little, interest catching. Flame to a candle wick. 

“How was it?” you press. 

Munson furrows his brow, like duh. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life, I just told you.” A beat. “Until— …Cass Finnigan.”

Now, an encounter like that is less surprising, but still you holler, “Bullshit!”

“I’d say the same shit if it hadn’t, y’know, happened to me,” he stage whispers, “In this van.”  

Your eyes widen, a flicker of a grimace sailing across your face. You wonder how he pulled that off, but all that comes to mind is the start of a bad porno– Cass meets him at that dingy little bench out back of the school to pick up and he’s, I don’t know, test driving some of his new supply and offers her a toke. She’s all, why the free samples, Munson? and he’s all, I only let the prettiest girls test the product. And because Cass is notoriously insecure–who among us, girl–she’s all, who, me? and he’s all, come back to my van, and she’s all, but I’m going steady with Mikey B, and he’s all, I won’t tell if you won’t and then he fucks her in the ass. 

Because Cass is saving the first hole for marriage and you know that. You’re the kind of person people tell things to. 

What you don’t expect is a weird pull of… envy. Why, in this imaginary scenario, had he never invited you back to his van? Well. You know why. But you’re drunk, so logic begone. “When did all this go down?”

“Uh, right before school got back,” Munson answers, kind of apprehensively. He could be lying, you figure.

“Well, Cass has been having a weird year,” you mumble, meaning to think that rather than say it. You know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to.

“What’s that supposed to imply exactly?” Eddie says, an edge in his voice. He can’t help the way something in his chest flares; like he forgot to wait for the other shoe to drop with you, and now it’s dropping. 

“It stands to reason that she’d wanna, like, do something stupid,” you explain, and you know how it sounds. It’s mean. But honestly, you’re so drunk, and so past the point of attempting to spare people’s feelings.

“Like hook up with the local freak,” Eddie finishes for you, tone flat. You couldn’t not put him in his place, could you? Not that he thought Cass liked him or anything, he could feel her (literally feel her) going through the motions like a social experiment but– God, a little delusion doesn’t hurt now and again. 

“Exactly!” and even in your inebriated state, you can feel the tension in the air, hanging between you like a balloon full of noxious gas. Rather than cut it, you want to poke at it, unfeeling as to whether that’ll make it worse or better between you and the boy in the driver’s seat. You hike yourself up further, leaning toward him, pulling the can of High Life from your face. 

Munson’s profile is this beguiling mix of hurt and irritation, lit by the scuzzy orange hue of the passing streetlights. 

“What, did you want me to act impressed? Did you want me to lie to you?” 

“What? No– look, I know what girls like that– think of me, but,” Eddie’s voice shrinks in his throat, making him sound completely pre-pubescent. He notices you lean forward in his peripheral vision, like you have to strain to hear it, “that doesn’t make it any less shitty.” 

Oof. He did not need to unleash that little piss-shake of earnestness right now. He mentally steels himself for a ribbing from you, a cackling, piercing laugh like you let out before Carol punched you. 

“Of course it doesn’t!” you froth, “Just like it doesn’t make it any less shitty when guys act like they’re settling a bet with their buddies when they hook up with me.” You cross your arms to your chest with a quickness, slamming back into the seat. “Bet you couldn’t make it with Lacy, she’s got a combination lock on her pussy. Fuck you, dude.”

That coaxes a bark of a laugh from Munson, which makes you giggle a little in turn. It’s a weird feeling. It’s not quite relief; more like satisfaction. One point to Lacy, you made him laugh. 

“Combination lock, huh?”

“Allegedly.”

“Bet none of those losers even know how to crack a lock.” 

Your head tilts in his direction, forward this time. “And you do?”

Munson’s eyes flash at you, a dangerous orange glint sparkling in the darkness of his irises. “My criminal skillset is pretty diverse.”

He pins you down with this look from the driver’s seat and for a heartbeat or two, and you let him. Just long enough that a stab of sobriety sneaks in– and you can’t deny it, but you wish it didn’t. 

You’re drunk. 

If you can stay drunk, all bets are off. 

If you can stay drunk, whatever you do doesn’t matter, because you were drunk. 

You could reach over and press your fingers into the soft denim between his legs, make something hard there. You could squeeze the thickness of him over his zipper and kiss the shock of alabaster skin on his neck, where his pulse goes all jackrabbity under your touch. You could make him forget he ever heard the name Cass Finnigan. 

And it would mean nothing. 

And you wouldn’t have to justify it, because you were drunk. That’s what you’ve always been taught.

But you uncross your arms and you pull at the hem of your skirt and look to the road, just as the van swerves into the trailer park. Munson doesn’t take such a hard turn at the corner this time, probably wary of your risk of ralphing all over the van if he does. He pulls into that negative space between your trailer and his and instructs you to wait in your seat. 

“Trust me, the descent out of this baby is much trickier than it looks,” he assures you, jogging to the passenger door, a jingle of keys and pocket chains and belts on leather, “and you’re way too gone to make it in one piece, princess.”

So he holds his hand out again (“M’shitfacedlady,”) and gingerly you take it, and it becomes very apparent very quickly that your legs have turned to rubber on the drive home. 

“Oh, shit!” 

Your attempt at gracefully exiting the van is ruined by an unsteady ankle, sending your weight right into Eddie Munson’s chest. Luckily, he was braced for it– just about. “Told you you couldn’t make it without me,” he breathes as you clutch a handful of his Metallica shirt, vision quadrupling. He’s warm, and you suddenly realize that you’re freezing.

Trembling.

“Stop flirting with me,” you hiss to one out of the four Munsons in front of you. “I need to go to bed.”

Eddie forces himself to bite back another double entendre, which is a shame, because they’re doing an awesome job of covering up how goddamn nervous he suddenly is. He moves his arm to your waist, helping you haul ass to your front door. He’s got to keep one arm outstretched behind you in case you lose your balance again– which you almost do, a couple of times, wavering around like a dashboard Jesus. 

He watches you like he’s trying to commit this to memory, the rare case of you being so beyond your usual composure. He’s even got to intervene after the first five minutes, making unlocking your front door a two idiot job.

Eddie’s about to wave you off and disappear to scream and something else into his pillow when he sees you take a dangerous lunge into the darkness of the trailer. “Woah, girl–” 

But you recover, in a kind of brainless way, taking a measured Bambi-like step forward. One after the other. 

Fuck. He can’t leave you like this. 

You’re gonna trip and brain yourself on a Fabergé egg or whatever the fuck it is you and your mom have in there. 

“Uh– Lacy?” 

The trailer is eerily quiet. You feel like you’re trespassing in your own place. Boxes of out-of-place, too-expensive ephemera are still strewn everywhere, but you navigate the maze of them like it’s nothing. Sense memory. You don’t even entirely register that Munson is following you inside, that he’s frantically whispering after you, until you reach your bedroom door. 

A coldness shoots up your spine as you turn on him. You didn’t invite him in here, did you? 

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask for the second time tonight. This time, it comes out a little fearful. 

Eddie picks this up, right where you’ve erroneously dropped it. His chest gets a little tight. You didn’t think he was trying to–? 

“Making sure you lie down in the recovery position, that’s all,” he throws his hands up in total surrender, Scout’s honor, all that shit. “I’m not tryin’ to pick any locks tonight. I swear.” 

“I don’t need your help, Munson,” but just as you twist the doorknob, you keel over through the door, hitting the floor like a lead balloon. 

“Yeah, you keep telling me that,” he blearily smirks down at you, “And yet.”

But Munson’s not such an asshole about it that he just leaves you there. He hauls you up, again, and you stagger towards your bed, flopping face down on top of the comforter. He says some variation of okay, well, that’s how you choke to death on your own vomit, Jimi Hendrix and bullies you into the recovery position. 

“Don’t freak out, I’m just–” and Munson sits gingerly on the edge of your bed, taking one of your high heeled feet in his hands. 

What the fuck, you mumble, either aloud or in your head. But he’s fiddling with the tiny buckle at your ankle, gently undoing it. Another chill runs through your body but you don’t move, not an iota. You just… let him do it. His hands on your aching feet aren’t a totally unwelcome touch. He’s being featherlight about it, almost afraid to touch you even though he had no problem sheepdogging you into bed. 

“You could do anything to me right now,” you hear yourself saying. “No one would even know. No one would even care, I bet.” 

It’s meant to sound like you’re goading him, or even flirting with him, but it comes out sounding pitiful. You cringe, your hands creeping up to cover your face. 

“I’d care.” Munson’s voice is a tiny mumble– you know he’s just defending himself, but it kind of sounds like something else. He slips your right shoe off and sets it on the floor next to your left one. He hesitates for a moment before getting off your bed. 

“Alright, well– we can forget this ever happened. Resume being assholes to each other on Monday. Don’t, like, die in the meantime.”

“You say resume like we ever stopped being assholes to each other.”

“Have a fun hangover, Lacy.” 

–

You do not have a fun hangover. You wake up late Saturday afternoon after Friday’s bacchanal and don’t emerge from your room save from the occasional bathroom trip to puke up what little dignity you’ve got left. Sunday morning is when your mom hammers on the door and drags you to the kitchenette after confirming that you’re still, y’know, alive. 

“This is your game face, hm?” she says, pulling at your chin to examine your violet bruise that seems to have developed its own heartbeat. She doesn’t hold your face the way Munson did, gentle and searching, just tugs into the sparse light streaming into the dingy kitchenette.

You attempt to steel your jaw, but your bottom lip is starting to waver. 

“What happened?” your mother asks, and beneath all the jagged broken glass, there’s a tiny sliver of tenderness. 

Call it your pride, but you don’t reach for it. 

“I went out,” you say tightly, “and I made a fool of us.”

She hacks up a scoff through her smoker’s cough and disappears into her bedroom, leaving you alone to pick at a cold waffle. The few moments of consciousness you’ve had since Friday night have been spent trying to piece the party together– you remember clearing the better part of a bottle of cheap, cheap, shitty vodka with Robin Buckley’s help (weird), you remember getting into it with Hagan and Carol and getting wailed on. You remember getting a ride home with Munson, but the finer details of that are fuzzy. 

You think, and this is a thought that turns your already 180’d stomach, you let him into your bedroom, but you can’t be one hundred percent sure. All you know for an absolute is that your shoes came off that night, and you would never bother to take your shoes off after a night like that. 

So somebody must have. 

Meanwhile, Eddie’s been having a hell of a meanwhile. 

Fact of the matter is that you managed to detonate a nuclear bomb at Harrington’s party just under an hour after your arrival, which has got to be some kind of world record. It was also a world record for how little product he’d managed to sell during one of those parties, because he was preventing the manslaughter of a teenage girl– could’ve been you, could’ve been Carol. He nearly wishes he let that fight play out, as he stares into his empty wallet. 

Eddie’s gotta busy himself somehow, gotta do something– weirdly, he’s not in the mood to make a whole lot of noise. It’s not such a terrible day for working on his van, so he slams his toolbox on the ground and gives a couple dozen casual glances toward your bedroom window.

Your blinds still aren’t fixed. That’s got to have been shitty when you woke up with a splitting vodka headache and a shiner the size of Canada. 

Eddie keeps finding excuses to pace back and forth in perfect view of your window. Not in a peeping Tom sort of way, but in a way where he’d kind of like to see any sign of life from you. Even if you just rose from your bed like Nosferatu and gave him the finger. Then, he could relax. 

“Ed,” a gruff voice comes from the makeshift trailer porch, “fuck’re you doin’.” 

Those dulcet tones would belong to his beloved Uncle Wayne, who, ever since his hours got cut at the plant, has become unbearably observant of Eddie’s every movement. Wayne’s not a neglectful kind of father figure, not like his blinders-wearing real dad is, so he actually gets concerned when Eddie’s acting out of sorts. 

“Engine,” Eddie mumbles, pivoting fast like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t, “Engine’s making hinky noises.”

“Sounded alright last night,” Wayne levels him instantly, “when you came home.” 

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he twists an oily rag in his hands, avoiding Wayne’s stony stare. 

“I was up.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. God, whenever Wayne susses him out, it’s like drip torture. He’s slow as molasses with the confrontation on purpose, making Eddie sweat and out himself on every little fuck up he’s ever made. “You go in there?”

Chin jerks towards your trailer. Eddie’s shoulders shrug towards his ears, head tilting back. “Wayne, it’s not– she was real drunk, like blotto, I just–”

“You steer clear of that one.” It’s the definite nature with which Wayne says it that makes Eddie’s stomach drop. No prelude to it, no I know, kid, you were just tryin’ to do right by her. Nothing. 

“Wayne–”

“She ain’t what you think she is. Not if she’s anything like her bloodline.” 

He says this like the realization hasn’t hit Eddie like Carol hit you on Friday fight night. 

He says this like people haven’t been saying the same thing about Eddie for years.

–

Monday morning comes and you’re still somewhat suffering. A headache nags at your temple, but you pin that down to anxiety rather than an extended play of your hangover. 

It occurs to you that you should dress as down as possible today– realistically, of course, as you’d never be caught dead in sweatpants. You need comfort, you need something that feels like a well-worn blanket so you opt for a deep burgundy sweater dress that actually belonged to your mom in the 60s. 

You’d found it in the back of her closet when searching for a belt you knew she’d stolen from you and pulled it out. Mom! you chirped, How cute! How come you never wear this?

Oh, God, she’d cringed, batting the garment out of her way as she passed you in a cloud of Shalimar, Just throw that ratty thing out for me, would you?

But you didn’t. You kept it tucked away in the back of your closet and took it out when you needed it. When you needed to bury your face in it. Substitute it for a comfort she refused to give you. Which you realize is terrifically sad, but so’s life. 

The warm red is a distant cousin in the color family to the bruise under your eye. That bruise, it’s a glaring reminder of what a fucking loser you’ve become. The old you, the real you would never have stooped to that level– never had let them drag her down like that. But now you’re the kind of girl that screams and starts fights at parties, you guess. 

Your rage feels ugly in the cold light of day. 

You’re locking the door of the trailer behind you just as Munson emerges from his humble abode and it’s nothing short of awkward. Like you’d both seen each other naked or something.

You both stand there, in your relative doorways. His mouth gapes like he’s about to say hi, say something, and a memory comes back to you. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day. No one likes that. No one wants that. 

Regret stabs at you.

“Can you see it from there?” It’s the only thing you can think of to say, because you’re sure as fuck not saying hi. 

“What?”

“The bruise. Can– can you see it from over there?” 

Munson sort of half-snorts. “Not from here–”

“Ugh, thank god.”

“--but this is like, over fifteen feet away.” 

You roll your eyes, which hurts a lot, thanks guy, and walk toward his van. 

“Now?” you say, waving a hand under your eye, right where you’ve applied and blended and applied and blended a criminal amount of concealer. Munson leaves about a foot of space between you, on purpose, and you crane your neck back, on purpose. Reinstating the forcefield between you. 

“Oh yeah, you can barely even see that you got your ass kicked.”

“It’s not even eight in the morning, Munson. Do you really want to start your day with a knee to the balls?”

“You’re right. That’s usually an after-dinner activity,” he grins and jerks his head toward the van. “Need a ride?”

Need a ride? Like it’s the most ordinary, everyday thing in the world, Eddie Munson offering you a ride to school in his deathtrap of a van. Your stomach pulls at the sense memory of being in there on Friday night, and what you’ll look like getting out of it in the parking lot of Hawkins High. 

“No,” you say, shaking your head, definite and resolute. “I’m walking.” 

He scoffs. “C’mon. It’s too late to start walking now. You’ll be late for first period.” 

You scoff back, imitating him. “So what?”

“You’re never late for first period.” 

“I can be late– how the hell do you know I’m never late for first period?” 

“Because, dummy, I’m always late for first period,” he tells you, yanking open the passenger door, “And I sit behind you in History, and you’re always there when I come in, leaning back with your nose in some dumb book and your stupid hair all over my desk.” 

It’s true– you are always reading in history, because Kaminsky can’t teach for shit and you’ve already read ahead on the coursework anyway. You liked to rub that in his face by pulling out some unprescribed literature during class. Plus, no one you really care about is in your class, so you don’t have to worry about getting made fun of for having your nose in some dumb book. Illiterate jocks would never try that shit with you– nobody there would. 

Until now. 

And it’s true that Eddie Munson sits behind you, and barrels in like an idiotic excuse for a hurricane with some idiotic excuse for being late that you always scoff at, because does he ever get tired of his own bullshit. But after that brief cameo appearance in your day, you really do forget about him. 

Until now. 

“So?” he says, all expectant. 

And you consider it for a second, you really do– but you don’t think you can handle the blowback of leaving a party with Eddie Munson on Friday then turning up with him on Monday. Going to the same class. Where he sits behind you. It’s just… overexposure. 

The same realization must hit him, because all of a sudden he’s slamming the door shut with a roll of his eyes. “Whatever. Your tardy slip, babe.” You can’t help but think he sounds a little wounded. 

But fuck it. Fuck it! Since when do you stand around feeling sorry for Eddie Munson? 

Before you know it, the van roars out and leaves you in the dust. 

You don’t make it to school until after second period, because that so-called bus route a fifteen minute walk from the trailer park must not even exist, so you forge a note from your mom in the parking lot. 

As your fountain pen hovers over the paper, brainstorming an excuse, you consider pulling out the big guns– say you had to attend visitation day at the penitentiary. Use this disaster to your advantage for once; but you pull back. Scribble something about a doctor’s appointment and dot your mother’s ‘i’s with eerie precision.  

You make quick work of dropping the note off in reception– the uptick of being the kid of the town’s gossip beacon is some people still feel sorry for you. Some people weirdly include Janice, Principal Higgins’ secretary, who snatches the note from you before you can even reach the actual receptionist’s desk. 

“I’ll file that for you, dear,” she says, all coo-cooey with an unwelcome hand on your shoulder, “How are you and your poor mother doing these days? And your,” her croaky voice drops to a whisper, “dad? How is… he being treated?”

You blink at her, gripping the fountain pen in your hand. “Do you know what a shiv is, Janice?”

Just then, the bell trills and you take your leave, stepping out into the linoleum. 

Someone calls your name from down the hall. You crane your neck to see Ronnie Ecker jogging toward you, paper in hand. 

Now look, you’ve never had a problem with Ronnie Ecker. You can’t say you’re particularly fond of her but she’s smart; she keeps to herself and she was a decent lab partner during your junior year of dissecting frogs together. Squeamish, but that’s why you were there, to handle the scalpel. As much of a social outcast as she is, she’s not nearly as odious as the rest of them. That’s pretty goddamn remarkable amongst the Hawkins student body. 

She is also, you’ve come to notice, a resident of Forest Hills trailer park. 

“Hey!” she says, “Um, I noticed you missed first period and Kaminsky was handing our papers back so I figured you’d want yours…” 

“Why is everyone so obsessed with me missing first period?”

“Huh?”

“No– nothing,” you huff, taking the paper from her. A solid B on A+ material– told you Kaminsky couldn’t teach for shit. He’d be hearing from you about this. “Thanks for this, Ronnie.”

You start down the hall but notice Ronnie’s keeping in step with you. “I also just wanted to say– I heard about what happened Friday. And I think it’s sick, you standing up to Hagan like that. Asshole needed to be put in his place.” 

Well, there’s only one person she could have heard the nitty gritty of that news from. You know she’s trying to flatter you, but all you feel is a flame of embarrassment, plus a touch of anger– even though the news has easily circulated the school hallways by now. 

Along with the rumors of you taking Hargrove, Buckley and Munson, and not in a fight. 

“Well. Y’know. I was pretty wasted,” you attempt to brush it off and you see Ronnie deflate a little. 

Like you’re not the blazing hero someone made you out to be. 

“Okay, but is it true you had a threesome with Billy Hargrove and Robin Buckley and Robin was wearing the Tigers mascot suit?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

–

Classes pass in a monotonous blur, like most Mondays, but worse. That would be thanks to the extra shot of dread that’s served with your cafeteria meal of a wilted salad and soda. Last week at lunchtime, you at least had a tenuous standing with your former circle– you could still sit between Tina and Nancy Wheeler and suffer Tina’s thinly veiled jabs at you with a semi-placid look on your face. Nancy would look at you with eyes full of pity, and you’d want to punch her face in, but you’d be fine. 

But now, as you stand in the cafeteria swirling with people and catch the death glares from your old table (save for Nancy and Steve Harrington, who just straight up refuse to make eye contact with you), you’re just about ready to snap. 

Your flight instinct tells you to toss the tray out of your clammy hands and run, and keep running, until you disappear into the woods behind the school, never to be found. Your body becomes mulch before anyone remembers to look for you. Maybe you make really good fertilizer and a couple of pretty weeds sprout up from where you die. 

Your bruise, under its flaking layers of concealer, throbs twice– as if to say, don’t you fucking dare.

You make a confident beeline for the table, chin tilted and eyes set in a stare that could be categorized as withering, if only it was trained on anybody in particular. You grab a chair that some dumb underclassman is about to sit in and drag it with you, legs screeeeeching across the waxed floor. 

Who gives a shit who you were on Friday night. 

“I can sit here, right?” you say, and place your tray on the table next to Ronnie Ecker. 

She just stares at you for a hot second. That’s too long to stay standing in uncertainty, so you settle your stolen chair at the table and sit next to her. 

Ronnie isn’t the only one staring, however– the rest of these dorks, all in their matching t-shirts with Satan’s fiery head emblazoned across them, are watching you with their mouths agape. 

“Is this a prank or something?” one of them, a curly-haired freshman, says. 

This question is directed toward their fearless leader, decked out in denim and leather at the head of the table. That is to say, the direct opposite end of the table that you’re sitting at. 

“That’s no way to greet a lady, Gareth,” Munson says, feigning coolness but you can tell he’s a little flustered. The dead giveaway is in the way he misses his mac and cheese with his fork, the way his solid gaze double-blinks. You’ve thrown him off game– and because he’s impossible not to overhear sometimes, you know that game is all he’s got going on at this table. 

There’s that feeling again– point to Lacy. 

“To what do we owe the pleasure?”

This is Munson’s version of what the hell do you think you’re doing, but you choose to ignore him. It’ll drive him insane, and you know that, glaring red warning sign that he is. Instead, you flash a smile at the freshman that almost makes him pass out, Cupid’s arrow struck straight through the heart. 

You cross your legs and angle your body toward Ronnie– and by extension, in the direction of your old table. You can see Carol burying her face in Tommy’s shoulder, the both of them on the verge of losing bowel control with laughter. Laughter at you. 

Who gives a shit who you were before Friday night.

“So, Ronnie,” you say, taking a sip of your Tab, “You get up to anything fun this weekend?”

author's notes: let me get ahead of everything and say yes, i am absolutely fucking with the timeline. suspend your disbelief, my beautiful babies, and enjoy steve, carol, tommy and ronnie ecker still being in high school because I SURE WILL. but on an absolutely serious note, thank you so much for all the support and each and every note you’ve put on the chapters so far. i seriously, seriously appreciate it. now, the notes: - you think eddie munson doesn’t fuck with pee-wee herman heavy? you think he didn’t watch this movie in reefer rick’s, high out of his gourd, and think oh yeah i love this freak? get REAL! RIP paul reubens, this one’s for you. specially every time i mention a handjob - eddie munson also has charlie kelly disease - speaking of iterations of always sunny characters, much like frank reynolds, there’s not a get rich quick scheme al munson hasn’t tried. we’ll get into that a little more… later - admittedly, the whole ‘face eating on bath salts’ thing didn’t gain traction until the 00s, but if hawkins is going to be ahead of its time in anything, it’s fucked up shit happening to people! - did you notice how i blended eddie and lacy’s povs in the van? i’m going to continue doing that in moments where they’re on a similar ~wavelength~ - jimi hendrix did unfortunately die of asphixiation, but instead of thinking about that, watch this sick video of him playing guitar that eddie definitely has committed to memory - RONNIE ECKER KLAXON. i know that in flight of icarus she’s described as tall, but that hasn’t stopped me fancasting her as ayo edebiri in an eddie munson wig - at this point, you might be thinking damn, everyone sure seems to hate each other in this story. like, why is nancy wheeler catching strays? i’m here to remind you it’s the 1980s and teenagers kind of suck. play the track - thanks again for all the love! you can keep this crazy train going by liking, commenting, reblogging and generally showing me the same kindness you’ve shown me so far. love u my little hellcats

[ramsayxme]

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / AO3 Link

TW: emotional, physical, and sexual abuse. period sex, knives, cutting, rape, forced oral sex, forced anal sex, manipulation, ramsay bolton things. ramsay goes a little feral in this chapter.

Chapter Four: A Losing Game

You weren’t sure how many days had passed, but you knew Ramsay had lied. He didn’t come see you the next day, or the day after that. You were served cold soup and bread three times a day, sometimes only twice. Servants came in to give you more firewood, which was the only comfort you had. You desperately needed a bath and you wouldn’t dare submerge yourself in the stale water from days ago. You were fighting the cold off enough as it was, you didn’t need any additional threats.

You started your menstrual cycle this morning and your sheets needed to be changed. You wrapped a blanket around yourself as you walked to the door, pounding on the large wooden slabs. “Please, can someone help me? I need my sheets changed.” You felt humiliated having to ask for this. You were met with nothing but silence on the other side of the door. Feeling defeated, you walked back to your bed and sat down on the soiled linens. You almost felt hurt that Ramsay hadn’t come to see you. Had he forgotten you? You didn’t want him to forget about you. It felt wrong to admit it, but you liked the idea of him thinking about coming back from a hunt to be with you.

Your mind drifted off, imagining Ramsay dismounting his horse in the stables with his brain swimming full of ideas of what to do to you. Your thoughts were interrupted by the door clamoring as it swung open and a very disheveled looking Ramsay stepped inside before slamming the door shut and locking it. He wore filthy leather, caked with mud and blood. There were scratch marks and chunks missing from his leather outer coat. His trousers were stained with blood and his hair was messy. His hands were dirty, his fingernails darkened. “Hellooo, my lady.” His voice was still pleasant, almost a sing-song tone.

“Ramsay! You’re back.” You realized you sounded almost excited. He walked over to you with arms stretched out. You stood up and quickly embraced him, he stunk of iron, dirt, and sweat. You flushed red in the face realizing that not only were you being so obvious with your lust for him, but knowing that he would now see your soiled sheets. His strong arms embraced you tightly as he sighed. “It’s nice to know someone missed me.” He whispered. He pulled back from the embrace. “Ah, I see your red flower has blossomed this month.” He nodded at the sheets. You felt your cheeks turned rosy.

“Yes, My Lord, I asked for new sheets but…” your voice trailed off. Ramsay led you to the bed by your hand. He motioned for you to sit down on the bed. “I have servants bringing you fresh sheets, fresh clothes, and fresh water for a warm bath. I had a feeling you were neglected while I was gone. Nobody will treat you as well as I do, dear girl.” He smiled as he began unlacing his filthy clothes. “I need a bath as well, perhaps we can share the bath after I’m through with you.” He didn’t look at you while he finished undressing. You suddenly felt your heart race in your throat. You felt very ashamed of your cycle and didn’t ever let anyone near you during it. The mere thought of Ramsay even seeing you bleed was enough to make you want to crawl into a hole for the rest of your life.

“But, My Lord, I can’t…” you searched for the words to say. “I can’t…” Ramsay chuckled as the last bits of his clothing fell to the floor and he set his knives on the table, except for one that he kept in his hand. “What, you think a little blood is going to scare me away? Have you forgotten what I do for fun?” He chuckled, walking confidently over to you. His body was pale and naked, and rather dirty. He sat down on the bed, and you pulled your knees to your side, attempting to shield yourself from him. You did not want to do this, not like this. Ramsay grinned at you, his dark hair was still somehow perfect even though it was messy.

He placed the knife on the bed and then his hands on your legs and brought them back towards him, opening them so he sat in between your legs. You pressed your clothing down between your legs, covering yourself. “My Lord, I’m embarrassed, I don’t want you to see me like this…” you couldn’t look at Ramsay. His head cocked to the side. “If I want to see you, I’ll see you. It’s not up to you, and it never will be.” He stated, yanking your dress up to reveal your naked lower half. The inside of your thighs were bloody and slick. Ramsay stared as he gently ran his index finger across the blood. You hid your face in your hands. This was nearly unbearable. You felt utterly humiliated. You had never envisioned this.

“Why are you hiding from me?” Ramsay whispered, his hand still tracing up and down your blood covered thighs. You muttered from inside your hands, “I don’t want this. Please. Not like this.” Ramsay leaned forward, kissing your hands on your face. “I do want this, though.” He forcefully grabbed your hips and yanked you down so you were lying flat on the bed. He pulled your legs on either side of him so he was kneeling in between your legs. “I’ll tie your hands behind your head if you can’t keep them down.” He threatened. You whimpered as you brought your hands to your sides. Ramsay tore your dress in half instead of pulling it over your head. His hands quickly found your body, harshly kneading your bare skin on your stomach and chest.

He picked up the knife and effortlessly nicked your collarbone with the sharp blade. It stung and you felt warm blood trickle down your chest. “See? I don’t mind blood.” Ramsay leaned down and licked the blood that had freshly poured from your wound. He licked it up to the cut, and sucked on the open skin. You whined in an argument as he brought the knife to your throat. “Ramsay, please stop, I-“ he interrupted you. “Do you want to argue? There’s a game I have called the losing game. We can play it if you like! The rules are simple…you argue with me, and I get what I want. I always win! It’s quite fun...”

He rested the blade on your neck. You didn’t answer him, swallowing your rebuttals. Ramsay went back to your wound and licked it once more before dragging his lips down your chest. He removed the knife from your neckline and dragged it down, the tip of the blade barely pressed against your skin. He dragged the blade to your belly button and then set the knife aside. Ramsay lifted and spread your thighs, fully exposing yourself to him. You felt your eyes fill with tears as he stared between your open legs. You truly had never felt more humiliated. You began to blink your tears down your cheeks.

Ramsay noticed your tears and stuck his bottom lip out. "Poor girl. You're quite shy, aren't you?" A cry escaped your lips as he quickly plunged two fingers into your bloody slit. You wanted to cover your face, but you definitely didn't want to be tied up like this. You gripped the bedding. You admit, you did enjoy the feeling of his fingers sinking into your extra sensitive core, but you were too distracted with the burning of your cheeks to pay much attention to the feeling. Ramsay slid his fingers in and out of you a few times before pulling them out and showing them to you.

They were slick with blood and perhaps a small amount of arousal, it was impossible to tell. He grinned wildly as he admired his fingers, his eyes wide as he wiggled them towards you. In an instant, the hand that was just inside you was tightened around your neck. You gasped as Ramsay quickly choked you. The blood from your neck wound mixed with his bloody fingers. Ramsay chuckled as he mortified you. He reached down with his other hand and plunged two fingers into you, watching you squirm and writhe under his chokehold.

"It feels good, doesn't it? You know, your humiliation just turns me on even more, my dear." He growled, his fingers curling inside you and instantly making your cheeks flush. Your tears kept rolling down your temples as you lie in the bed. Ramsay leaned forward and licked one of the tears, humming with pleasure. "I like tasting every bit of you." He whispered in your ear. Your eyes rolled to the side, an attempt to avoid him. He pulled his fingers out of you and raised them to your face. "Every. Bit." He grinned wickedly as you watched him put the two fingers in his mouth. You winced, squeezing your eyes shut, your face bubbling with discomfort.

Ramsay was clearly loving this. He watched you squirm with a smile on his face. You trembled and began to cry harder as you watched him suck the blood from his fingers. He groaned with pleasure as you struggled underneath him. "You make such pretty sounds when you're miserable, do you know that?" He asked you as he plunged his fingers back inside you. You whined, your body was in combat between arousal and shame. There was something dark and possessive in his eyes as his stare burned through you.

He pulled his fingers out and immediately began rubbing his hand on his cock. His teeth were grinding tightly as his eyes widened, his beaming face telling you everything you needed to know. Ramsay was downright enthusiastic about getting to fuck you while your cunt was bloody. He lined up the head of his cock and placed it between your folds. Before he pushed his length inside you, he exhaled. "I am going to enjoy this."

Forcefully, his cock plunged into your soaking cunt. Not only were you slick with blood, but you were regrettably quite aroused. Your sore and swollen insides were being massaged by his cock and you couldn't deny that it felt amazing. You mewled as he began pumping in and out, his eyes glued to his cock. His eyebrows furrowed and his jaw hung slack, something you hadn't seen before. Ramsay was enjoying himself so much that he was being swallowed by pleasure. His eyes shifted up to you, where he met your gaze. His facial expression did not change, his mouth slightly parted and his eyes desperate. He licked his lips softly. You felt your core heat up as a moan escaped his lips as they parted again.

You almost felt proud, knowing that your body was bringing Ramsay so much pleasure that he had let his guard down, allowing his tough exterior to almost melt away from the sensations. Your heart fluttered at the sight of a softened Ramsay. You wondered if perhaps you could be the woman to break him? Before you could indulge in any more thoughts, the familiar smirk broke across his face again. "I'm feeling selfish, love." He groaned. Your stomach quivered when he called you 'love'.

He pulled his cock out, leaving you empty. "Roll over for me." Ramsay commanded, his cock twitching and dripping. You didn't dare disobey, and you rolled to your stomach, feeling blood trickle out of your cunt. Ramsay growled at the sight of the bloody sheets, and just as you adjusted to being on your stomach you felt his cock between your ass cheeks. He grabbed both of your wrists and held them down by your hips as he forced his cock into your ass. You screamed, your body completely unprepared for this. The blood and arousal allowed him to shove inside you, his cock completely stretching your asshole.

You scream and fight, any attempt to get out from underneath him. "Ramsay!! Stop!" He just growls with affection in return, his cock beginning to pump in and out of your virgin asshole. From the groans and grunts coming from behind you, Ramsay is clearly enjoying this. He lets go of your wrists, one hand grabbing the knife next to you, the other hand snaking under your hips and sliding three fingers into your cunt. "Stop, My Lord, please..." You whine. "Say stop again, and you'll wish you hadn't." He groans, the knife pressing into your spine.

With your hands now free, you reach up by your head and grab onto the bedding. You bury your face in the blankets, allowing yourself to fully cry. He pulls his fingers from your cunt and he wipes the blood across your back. Ramsay tosses the knife on the floor as his hands move to work at your ass cheeks, kneading and squeezing. He bucks his hips hard, you feel like your entire backside might rip in half. You hear his breathing get jagged, and his strokes get quicker. One more deep plunge into your ass, and his cock starts leaking cum. He groans as he slowly fucks your hole through his orgasm.

He pulls out, leaving you aching and sore. You immediately roll back over in an attempt to shield yourself from any more penetration. Your lower core is throbbing and leaking. Ramsay is out of breath and covered in beads of sweat. His eyes are soft with orgasmic haze. His forehead dripping with sweat as his curls clung to his skin. He grins at you while your eyes fall to his waist. His cock is bloody, and blood trickles down his legs. He stands up and takes a deep breath. "Well, that was lovely, wasn't it?" He walks over to a pile of spare blankets that were placed in the room at some point during your sexual encounter and wraps one around his waist.

You notice his pale and toned chest glistening with sweat, but you are too broken to feel much about it at this point. Your asshole aches and your cunt continues to bleed. You're covered in blood from the nick on your collarbone and you feel washed up and abused. Apparently while Ramsay was savaging you, the servants had crept in and prepared fresh bath water for you and him. He walked over to the steaming tub, dropped the blanket, and climbed in. He sighed as he sunk into the hot water. "Are you waiting for something, love?" He uttered as he stared at you, still on the bed. "Come join me."

You slid off the bed and meekly sauntered to the bath, aware of the blood dripping on the floor from your naked body. Ramsay smiled as he held a hand out to help you climb into the tub. You stepped in and he helped you sit, placing you between his legs so you could lie back against his chest. You trembled as his arms wrapped around your waist under the water. The hands that were just abusing you were now caressing you as if you were a fragile prize to be won. He held you close and nuzzled into your neck as he pulled you back to rest on his body.

"You're very good to me." Ramsay whispered, peppering a kiss on your ear. You felt anger boil within you. "You're not good to me." You muttered. You felt his chest heave as he exhaled a chuckle. "I'm not? I believe I have saved your life multiple times. I bring you fresh linens. I feed you. I bathe you. I watch over you." his voice lowered as he spat the last words, "I pleasure you." You didn't have the strength to argue with him, you knew it wouldn't change his mind either way. You exhaled, allowing your body to slowly sink into Ramsay's chest. His hands were gently brushing across your body under the surface of the water, cleaning your skin from the blood. The water was quickly darkening from Ramsay's filthy body and yours.

It was alarming how safe you felt in Ramsay's embrace. You were too exhausted to question it, but you still knew it was unnerving. This is the man that hurt you, but yet he cradled you as if you were the only thing that mattered in the seven kingdoms. He was gently rising and falling with his breath as you rested on him, feeling his strong heartbeat pumping through his chest. "You know, love..." He started, his hand came out of the water to move your hair to the side so he could whisper to you. "Perhaps someday I'll marry you and you can give me an heir. Would you like that?" He cooed in your ear softly.

Without thinking, you nodded. Somehow, the idea of being Ramsay's bride settled your stomach. You feared him all the same, but knowing that you could belong to him made you feel... at ease. "Yes, My Lord. That would be wonderful." You were surprised at your own words. Ramsay squeezed you gently. "Good." He whispered, his lips lingering on your ear. Your brain swirled at the idea of him abusing you and then comforting you for the rest of your life, but somehow it seemed better than the alternative; being flayed alive. Perhaps you would grow to enjoy Ramsay's antics. Perhaps Ramsay would calm down once he fell in love and created a baby with you. You smiled at the thought, but deep down knew you were being foolish. Ramsay? Calm down? Never.

Chapter Five

[triforce-of-mischief]

Scared Little Bunny

Summary: Legend has transformed in the middle of camp, and he can't find his moon pearl. Rabbit finds his young counterpart in a familiar situation and gives the little bunny a chance to breathe.

Words: 580

AO3

Please reblog to show your support! Likes do nothing.

Rabbit walked through the woods, somewhere between the other group’s camp and his own. Even with the extra nine elsewhere, twelve was still a lot and nobody argued when Rabbit left in search of a clear mind. His wandering thoughts were interrupted by something under his boot, and he idly crouched to pick it up.

The object was a moon pearl, identical to his own. He couldn’t imagine that Legend would be careless enough to drop his, but the worry took him in a new direction. He dropped the moon pearl in his bag for safekeeping until he reached the others’ camp.

Nearly the entire party was present, save for Time, Four, and Sky who Rabbit guessed were scouting or foraging. The rest, overwhelmingly teenagers, were making quite the racket. Rabbit’s ears flicked back; so much for a moment’s peace. He didn’t see Legend either, so he made his way to Twilight instead.

The rancher, Rabbit could see as he approached, was fending off the rest against something he held in his arms. Wild and Wind were clamoring to see, while Hyrule stood back with his arms crossed. Warriors and Twilight were engaged in a heated argument above the younger boys’ heads.

“He’s scared, Twi!” Warriors hissed. “He trusts me more, just give him to me!”

“He trusts me plenty!” Twilight snapped back, his arms tightening defensively around whatever he was holding.

“What,” Rabbit said loudly, “is going on here?”

Twilight snarled at him, but Warriors looked relieved.

“It’s Legend,” Warriors explained immediately. “He’s changed and we don’t know how and Twi won’t even let me see him.”

That explained the missing moon pearl, Rabbit thought, and spoke to Twilight with a tone that left no question of who was the adult in charge. “Give.”

Twilight was too dumbfounded to argue as Rabbit took the tiny pink bundle from his arms. Legend was too distressed to speak, for all appearances simply a whimpering bunny saved from suffocating in Twilight’s hold.

Rabbit spun on his heel to mixed confusion and disappointment from the others. “He’ll be back when he’s ready, and no sooner,” he promised. “I’ll keep him safe.”

Rabbit took Legend away from the commotion, his heart breaking as the bunny continued to panic. “I know,” he whispered. “It’s alright, I have you now.”

He remembered being tiny and helpless and scared. He didn’t want to think about how much younger Legend had been- how much younger Legend still was.

He found a nice tree and sat with his back against it. Legend was crying now, in the way bunnies did; pitiful squeaks and snuffles and Rabbit could feel him shivering as well. He considered transforming himself, but decided that it would be better for Legend to regain his own body first.

Rabbit ran his finger along Legend’s ears, pressed flat to the bunny’s head. “It’s okay, you don’t have to hide anymore,” Rabbit hummed, and pressed the twin moon pearl to Legend’s paw.

Legend didn’t seem to notice his transformation, and Rabbit carefully closed Legend’s hand around his moon pearl. Legend was on Rabbit’s lap now, his head still resting on Rabbit’s chest, and he hadn’t stopped crying. Whatever had happened, it had been entirely too overwhelming.

Rabbit cooed at him, hugging him gently so he wouldn’t feel trapped. “Shh, it’s okay, little bunny. I won’t let anything scare you.”

As long as it took for Legend to feel like himself again, Rabbit would protect him.

[parrythisucasual]

What About Me? Ch.5

SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG I PLAN ON PICKING IT UP SOON!!!!

“Thought so? What’s that supposed to mean?” Jax glared at her, though his expression was more defensive than angry. Ragatha shrugs, “Nothing,” she hums softly. You can tell she knows something but is hiding it from him. Jax knows too, and it was clearly making him uncomfortable.

He didn’t press further, though, and you could only assume it was to keep the “I don’t care” front. You made a tiny smirk. Despite not being here for more than a day, you already felt yourself growing accustomed to how things worked, and by extension, you enjoyed Jax being put in his place. It was funny, seeing him silently seething, confused and defensive, but playing it off.

“I have a great idea!” Gangle squeaked suddenly, shyly glancing between Jax and Ragatha. You become suddenly aware she’s changing the subject to lessen the awkwardness and hop on the bandwagon to help her, “Oh, yeah? What is it?” Her smile transitioned from nervously hopeful to thankfully relieved.

“We could go to the digital fairgrounds today?” she suggested, moving her ribbons in a way that resembled rubbing your hands together. You perk up, “A fairgrounds? You have a fair?” You loved fairs and festivals. The rides, the games, even the food. It was like a slice of childhood, but one that never quite got old. Something you could always hold onto.

“Can we go?” you continue, a smile spreading across your face, turning to Ragatha. She seemed caught off guard, “Well, of course! You don’t have to ask me, you know.” Gangle pipes up, “Let’s go, then! It’s only a five-minute walk!”

You follow the girls, slightly surprised when Jax follows as well. He had fallen silent, after all. He walked beside you, meeting step for step. You were about to say something, but Jax spoke up first, “Hope you ain’t afraid of heights.” You raised a brow, unsure.

“Why’s that?” you ask suspiciously. He grins, bumping you with his hip, knocking you off course. You stumble, nearly falling, but catch yourself. He chuckles, then continues, “we’re gonna ride the coaster.” You return his smirk, “Oh, (honk) yeah! Roller coaster!”

His smile softens a bit, oddly, but he doesn’t die down his swagger, “Cool. You a front seater, or a back?” “Front, all the way. You see everything and the wind makes it hard to breathe, it’s awesome!”

The group walked through the gates, and you felt your chest swell. Stands set up everywhere, games, food, rides! And the best part? There was nobody else here. Just wooden mannequins manning the stands. There were no lines, no waiting! You squealed, waving your hands in excitement, “I can’t wait!”

Jax pointed, “This way!” you barely spared a second glance at the others as you scurried away, stopping only to wave at them. Ragatha gave a thumbs up before you rounded a corner, and there it stood.

You rush ahead of Jax, scooting around the barriers and onto the loading dock of the coaster. You climbed into one of the coaster carts, the very front one, “Hurry it up, lanky! I wanna ride!” you call to Jax, who just made it to the loading dock. He snorted, “Oh you do?” he laughed as he clamored into the seat beside you.

Your cheeks flushed slightly, “Shut up. That’s not what I meant!” The lap guards came down suddenly, the sound of air hissing invading your ears. Jax faced forward, “Oooh ho! Get ready! It’s about to go down!”

________________________

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[basilone]

22 for Nora Graham from the trio prompts?

Thank you for sending this one! Prompt 22 is a red convertible, a priest’s collar and dogtags... which naturally made me think of Nora & Crank! 😊 I hope you will like this one.

It’s remarkably easy to hide this.

It helps, she supposes, that most days when she walks out the girls aren’t clamoring a where are you going, Nora at her. They used to back when they were in training, but she’s well-practiced enough to make everything she does sound like a great boring yawn. Just going to grab another cup of coffee, just going on a walk and watch the birds, just going to find a place to sit and draw my maps in peace, and nobody bothers to ask to come along to any of that.

She sometimes wonders how it is that they didn’t wash out. Tiny spends more time gossiping than anyone she knows, but yet managed to get her pilot license just fine. Val and Push are some of the most combative arguers she’s ever met, getting into trouble for it until they’re airborne and doing their jobs better than anybody. By all rights, Frosty should have been on the outs when the brass figured out just what that Lombardi surname was about – all Chicago mob in that girl, right down to her stash of cash and jewels – but then Frosty’d calculated a bomb drop with alarming accuracy and that had stopped them all cold.

Nora supposes beggars can’t be choosers in a time of war. Whatever she considers to be their personal flaws – Max calling girls pretty but never calling a man handsome, One-Eye’s refusal to sleep without her teddy, Dee’s hatred of men’s mustaches – are things that Colonel Huglin and Colonel Harding both wouldn’t give a damn about. As long as they can fly right, it hardly matters what they do when down on the ground.

“You’re doing it again,” says Charles, then, all soft admonishment beside her.

She allows her grin to stretch to the corners of her mouth. “Doing what?”

“Thinking too hard for the occasion.”

“One of us ought to,” she says, turning her head only to find him smiling at her already. “Just realizing that nobody cares what we do as long as we’re able to get into a bomber and give hell to everyone who deserves it. It’s a sole purpose sort of thing, you know?”

“Hmm.”

“That’s a hmm, Nora, you are clever but I disagree sort of hmm.”

“I wouldn’t say nobody cares.” His voice is as earnest as his eyes – soft yet unyielding – and a soft sigh accompanies his words. “They care enough to send us to a flak house, or give us weekend passes when we really need them. They care enough to keep us grounded when we fly too much. Buck would’ve passed out if they’d made him fly one more run, but they sent him to barracks and made Lottie fly with DeMarco day before last.”

“Which was a great decision, considering that she is finally realizing this fad of hers with Darlene won’t last and DeMarco’s solely responsible for that realization hitting her at all,” says Nora, rolling her eyes a little to let Charles know just what she thinks of all that. “It was like being in a plane with my parents, who’d also pretend everything is fine while making you feel miserable over dinner. Val kept talking over comms just to stave off how unbelievably awkward it was to have DeMarco in our plane. It took two hours before Lottie gave him more than one syllable answers. Two hours, Charles!”

“At least they’re talking again now, aren’t they? I would say it worked out all right.”

“Of course you would say that, you weren’t stuck in a bomber having to give directions to two pilots who both like the same girl,” snorts Nora as she gives him a nudge. “I still don’t think that’s a lot of care going into those sorts of decisions, you know.”

“If nobody cared,” he hums, taking a sip of his coffee, “I could marry you tomorrow without either one of us being sent home about that.”

Nora feels herself flushing crimson from the root of her hair all the way down to her toes. “I thought you said we had to wait until we got home? That you wanted that sweet red convertible to drive us off into the sunset with?” she teases, remembering some of his more fanciful daydreams she had laughed about before realizing he was really quite serious. “Maybe we should get married – find someone with a priest’s collar to do the job – and just not tell anybody.”

Charles’s eyes crinkle into a broad smile. “Don’t have a ring,” he says, ducking his head slightly as he takes a bigger gulp of his drink. “Am saving up to get you one. That’s easy enough, just need to avoid playing craps with DeMarco for a while...”

“We could… exchange dogtags. Or ask Two what sort of thing she’s exchanging with Blakely the second they go on leave.”

“What?”

“Apparently they’re getting married,” shrugs Nora, having mostly learned this through Tiny’s inability to keep quiet about anything. “They’re being too obvious about it, once you know where to look”– Two’s post-flight smiles, Blakely’s refusal to dance with other girls –“but I suppose not everyone is as good as us at hiding that sort of thing. We could pull a sneak wedding off better than they could.”

“Or we could wait,” he says, hand finding hers, “and do all of it better than they could. None of this hurried business where you don’t even have a dress for the occasion. I want us to have a moment, Nora. Something just for us, without…”

“Without the war peeking around the corner asking us to get back into our bombers,” she sighs, dropping her head onto his shoulder. “I know. I want that, too. That moment with you, where it’s nothing but us, where it’s just love. I was just…” Being silly, she almost says, except she doesn’t think Charles would find it silly at all. “I was just getting ahead of myself.”

“I was there with you. Ahead and terribly in love with you about it.”

“Really? Tell me more about that,” she smiles, lifting her head off his shoulder just to kiss his cheek. “How in love are we talking, hm?” She can’t help but giggle as he takes his time to set his coffee cup down. “Oh, you need to take a moment, Charl–mmph!”

“More than a moment,” he laughs, once he pulls back from their kiss. “I am, after all, very in love.”

“Keep talking,” she says, before kissing him briefly.

“Can’t,” he breathes as her hands slip into his curls, “unless by talking you mean…”

Nora tilts her head. Nudges her nose against his a moment. “Kiss me more?”

It shouldn’t be easy to hide this. But for now, toppled over in the grass and laughing about it, Nora is glad this is the one thing she doesn’t have to share.

[moon-huny]

Stole the Moon - Chapter Six

CW: My content is not for anyone under 18. Minors DNI. Reader uses she/her pronouns. Character death (mom related)

Word Count: 1.1K

Summary: In sleep, a memory comes back to you, forcing you yet again to remember a painful part of your past. Buggy is smitten but god forbid he ever tells you. You make a plan to visit a friend.

A/N: I still feel – at all times – like I am being hit with a bus. Oh my god that is so dramatic, okay no. I don't actually feel like that, but I am getting some burnout.

I think that is fairly common with fic writers, especially when you know you have a story to tell but getting it out takes a while.

However, writing and posting does help with my mental health as it is a good creative exercise, so, to make a compromise, I decided that this chapter and maybe the next few will be a bit shorter than normal.

Thank you all for reading and commenting and liking and re-bloging. I recently got the update that let's me comment back as moon-huny in the mentions so you best believe Imma be doin that now.

Okay, that's all, enjoy.

masterlist ✧˖°

previous • next

As soon as the air hit your little lungs, you began to cough up sea water onto the rocks beside you. Still not registering much in your state, you heard voices clamoring around you.

“She’s alive”

“Course she is, I saved her”

Waves hit rocks and rain pelted your face. Squinting through the gales, you could make out those most gorgeous creatures you’d come to befriend.

“Please, you have to help! My mother! She’s … where is she?” You were frantic and screaming over the storm.

“Well we didn’t like her as much as you”

“She was already bound to drown no matter which way you look at it”

They weren’t yelling back at you. They were barely moving their mouths. You couldn’t hear a word they were saying and, truth be told you never could, they spoke like the waves, hushed and foreign.

They tread the water with such ease even though the sea was churning all around them. They had placed you on a small rocky island, close enough to see the shore but nowhere near close enough for you to swim to it.

“I can’t … I can’t understand you! Please! My mother! Where is she? Please, save her too!” You could no longer tell whether it was rain all over your face or your tears.

You couldn’t quite tell how many there were, they all swam around you like sharks around prey. They would dip in and out of sight coming up briefly to exchange glances and what you thought were words. 

“We don’t like her”

“She’s already dead girl”

They made eye contact with you, their lips moved but nothing you could understand fell out of them. You began to shout. “Mama! Mama!” but you knew it was futile.

“I want to give her the fruit,” said one to another. Perhaps it was out of pity at your crying form shivering in the storm or maybe it was their love of tricks but it was that moment they decided what they wanted to do with you.

///

You tossed and turned in your sleep as he watched you. Sitting upright in bed, one of his arms perched on his bent knee. He just looked down at you. The ocean was quiet while you slept.

He’d awoken only a little while ago to a knock at the door. If he were honest though it was more of an aggressive pounding at the door. It just so happened that the two goofballs obsessed with one another were looking for you. He’d dismissed them when he opened the door just slightly to reveal your sleeping – presumably naked – body.

After they left, he had the opportunity to wake you, begin a day full of questions and fights to get the upper hand away from you. But that could wait. While he watched you sleep, that could all wait.

You slept on your stomach clutching a pillow the way he wished you would cling to him. You weren't awake, there was nobody here, he could let himself think whatever he wanted, and he wanted to think about you.

The way your eyebrows furrowed in your sleep and your lashes would flutter made him weak. You were so beautiful and full of danger and uncertainty. Any pirate with half a mind would have kept you in a cell far below deck, confined to a tub of seawater, behind multiple padlocks. 

Hostages weren’t new to Buggy or his crew. Sure, he knew he had a few bleeding hearts here and there but nobody disobeyed him. This was his ship, his crew and he wanted you to be a part of it.

You began to stir. Slowly you opened your eyes to find Buggy on the other side of the room pilfering through maps and charters and journals. You could have sworn you’d felt his presence beside you. He was so warm and you’d woken up with the thought of embracing him.

“If you were as good at using your power as you were at sleeping I’d be sailing the Grand Line by now,” he said in no way regarding you. 

The opposite could be said of you. The man stood at his desk, low hanging trousers not concealing anything as it seems this morning he was too hot to put on a shirt. 

“What are you looking at?” you asked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and looking for something to cover your body with.

Your voice in the morning sounds like heaven, he thought. “Get up and see for yourself, sweetness.” He smirked over at you.

You rolled your eyes which did land on an article of clothing at the end of his bed. Grabbing it and throwing it over your head you realized it was his shirt. You gathered yourself off the bed and walked over to him in nothing but his own clothes.

Leaning against the edge of the desk next to him you pushed yourself up to sit next to all of his important work. His eyes flicked over to you and slowly moved down your body.

“So what are we looking at?” You ask him, sucking your lower lip in between your teeth and giving him a sweet smile.

“I’m looking at an attention seeking whore.” He throws back at you.

That’s okay. You know you’re winning. 

Your eyes travel lower to that oh so desirable part of him. “And I’m looking at a certain pirate that is terrible at hiding how he responds to the attention seeking whore.

You liked this. The banter helped you take your mind off of the intense memory you were having. One you really desperately wanted to wake up from.

Your eyes drifted across the desk to a sketch of a mermaid skeleton. 

“You know anything about those, Clown?” you asked.

“What happened to Captain?” he responded by raising an eyebrow when you looked back at him with frustration. He sighed when he realized you were the toughest crowd he’d ever performed to.

“Not a lot, babe so quit with the questions.”

“You know,” you said, hopping down from the desk and confronting him head on. “I think I might be more willing to explore these so-called powers I have if I knew a bit more about myself.”

“Well, talking about feelings isn’t really daddy’s forte so maybe go find someone else to gab with.” You soured at the mocking use of the nickname he’d pulled last night. The name he clearly didn’t have a problem using for himself but one you were a little embarrassed you liked. 

“Fine, maybe I will,” you responded, turning your back to him to hunt for your clothing and planning your trip to Beau’s.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚

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[meowcats734]

(prompt response) A panicked scream of "Is anybody here a doctor?" You tentatively raise your hand. "I'm a Necromancer, if you're willing to wait a few minutes."

Unsurprisingly, the closer we got to the center of the battlefield, the more deaths there were. Lucet floated the idea of retreating to the edge of the hailstorm to camp out, but even though Sansen couldn't see that far into the future without setting up his ring of hope-inducing memorabilia, it was pretty clear that any remaining soul fragments would drift away if we spent days on end backtracking and re-entering the storm. And I wasn't going to let any information on Jiaola's whereabouts fade away if I could help it.

So at my insistence, we camped out in ramshackle tents that were battered by hail, trying our best to sleep despite the eternal thunk-thunk-thunk of falling ice.

I attuned regret later that night. I supposed my companions weren't too happy about my choice.

An indeterminate amount of time later, I heard rustling outside my tent. I hadn't been sleeping, exactly—the endless clamor of hail made it hard—so it was a matter of heartbeats to sit up and look into soulspace. Lucet's soul shone on the other side of the tent flap. I got up, put on my shirt and binder, and called out.

"I'm awake, Lucet," I said. "You can come in."

"Eep! Er, sorry." Lucet scurried into the tent, shucking off her winter coat, and gave me a confused look. "How'd you know it was me?"

"I recognized your soul," I said.

"I... I can't do that," Lucet admitted.

"Yeah, well, people's sorrow might look the same by coincidence," I said. "But when you can see someone's levels of calm, sorrow, passion, insecurity, joy, fear, spite, guilt, shame, disgust, regret, and self-hatred, it'd take one hell of a coincidence for all twelve of those emotions to look similar between two different souls."

Lucet fell quiet for a moment.

"You made another attunement," she said.

I winced. "I... yeah. I did."

"Okay." She didn't pry, which almost made it worse. Instead, she just wordlessly scooted towards me; I leaned on her shoulder and closed my eyes.

"I'm sorry if I'm keeping you up," she finally said. "I just... I couldn't sleep."

"You can't sleep because I fucking convinced you all to camp out beneath what I dearly hope is the largest rift in the world. Don't blame yourself."

"I'm not blaming myself," she whispered. "I just... don't want to be useless."

Rifts, I felt that. Because I was useless. I was worse than useless. I shivered and snuggled closer to Lucet, and there must have only been room for one or the other, because the voices seemed to shy away when she was around. "I..." I bit my lip, liquid metal roiling in my soul, then went for it. "If you... I've been having a hard time sleeping too. If you wanted to stay over for the night..."

Lucet smiled. "Yeah. I... I think I'd like that. Scoot over?"

I laid down on my side, facing Lucet, and she slipped beneath the blanket, putting one arm around my back and pulling me closer.

"Cozy," she murmured sleepily, and I nodded into her neck.

"M-hm," I said, and closed my eyes.

Our souls glittered together in the dark behind my eyes, and the clattering hail faded into the void of sleep.

###

Nobody said anything when Lucet and I came out of the same tent the next day, but I saw the dewdrops of joy and sparks of hope in Sansen's soul as he saw us smiling at each other. For some reason, passion was incredibly inefficient to use while we were under the rift, so we were stuck with mundane jackets and body heat. Thankfully, it wasn't like the conditions under the rift were that much worse than in the Silent Peaks, and the supplies we already had sufficed well enough.

I was prepared to spend another day hunting for soul fragments, but as Sansen led us deeper into the battlefield, he paused.

"Hey," he said. "There's, uh... there's an opportunity in a nearby future."

"What kind of opportunity?" Meloai asked.

"I... I really don't know what to make of this, but... there's a... settlement? No, a shelter of some kind around here. With... what looks like some soldiers who got left behind."

I rubbed my chin. "If we're trying to get information on Jiaola... interviewing living soldiers is about as good as we can hope for."

"Especially if they're stuck here," Meloai said. "I mean, I don't know about you guys, but I'd run away from the giant death-rift in the sky if I could. The fact that they're still here probably means they can't leave. Maybe... maybe we could help them, and get information in return?"

"Or, y'know, help them out because they're probably going to starve to death if they're stuck here," Lucet added.

"...Right, that too," I said. "Either way, we should check it out."

Sansen nodded. "Then we're going this way." There weren't really any landmarks in the never-ending hailstorm, so the only idea I had of where we were going was 'left,' but Sansen seemed to know where we were going. Before long, he paused, frowning, then said, "Follow me."

Then he took off in a dead sprint.

The three of us didn't hesitate—following the old oracle's directions had gotten us all saved more than once, and we'd be utterly fucked without him. It wasn't long before the future Sansen foresaw caught up to us: in the distance, I heard someone screaming for help. Something about... a medical emergency? Needing a healer?

Well. Grimly, I readied myself. None of us had attuned forgiveness, but... I had something else I could try.

I got an impression of a log cabin in the hailstorm before Sansen threw the door open, startling the collection of people inside. Before anyone else could speak, though, Sansen said, "You called?"

The group of soldiers—and they were definitely soldiers, clad in the uniform of the Silent Peaks—stared at us, baffled. They'd formed a loose semicircle around two men, one standing over the other, who was bleeding out on the floor. The one standing regained his composure first.

"Yes. I—I don't know who you are, but if any of you are a healer—"

"We're not," I brusquely said, "but... I might be able to do something after death."

There was a moment of shocked silence as everyone in the room except Sansen turned towards me.

Then the man broke the silence. "My husband died fighting necromancers!" The man screamed at me. "And you expect  me to let some junior necromancer defile his soul?"

"Your husband died fighting necromancers?" I asked.

The man nodded fiercely, standing over the gasping, bleeding body of his husband.

"Out of curiosity, who does he have to thank for coming back to life from the dead? Any school of magic in particular that could take credit for resurrections?"

He blushed furiously. I got the feeling he wasn't used to people applying silly little conventions like 'logic' and 'internal consistency' to his tirades. "That's irrelevant! I can see the greed in your eyes. You just want to steal Mertri's soul. But I won't let you!"

"Literally every single word you just said is incorrect. Look, how about this." I raised my hands in an attempt to de-escalate the situation. The man—Mertri's husband, I suppose—stood opposite me in the large wooden dining hall. Behind me, three of my friends watched Mertri's husband nervously; a handful of people I assumed were simply bystanders stood opposite us, forming a complete ring of bodies, locking Mertri's husband and I in with each other. I raised my voice to be heard over the thakka-thakka-thakka of hail on the wooden roof. "Ask around. See if literally anyone else has any relevant medical expertise. Let them have their go first. And then if they fail... let me help."

"I already asked, you idiot. You think I'd be talking to a necromancer instead of staking him through the heart if I had any better options?"

"You're thinking of vampires, not necromancers. And you've admitted it yourself—you don't have any better options." I grimaced. "I don't, either. I wish I was a normal healer. But... salvaging what's left afterwards is the best I can do."

The man started to speak, but Mertri coughed wetly from the floor. I wasn't entirely sure what the nature of his injury was, but judging by the blood on his chest, it... wasn't pretty. "Vuliel," Mertri managed.

"I'm here, love." Vuliel knelt by his husband's side, and I could see the raw anger and sorrow in his soul. "I'm listening."

"Let... the boy... try." Mertri managed a weak smile.

Vuliel jerked back, shocked. "But—if he—you could become a monster. Why would you..."

Mertri focused on his husband. "Because," he whispered. "I'll take any chance to see you again."

And before my very eyes, Mertri's soul began to fracture as the bleeding man died.

"It's now or never," I said.

Vuliel closed his eyes.

Then he stood, expression inscrutable. "Do your worst."

And I knelt by the dying man's side as his soul began to shake apart.

Necromancy was a vast and complex field, and different people had different approaches to it. I had absorbed fragments of souls on broken battlefields, trying to piece together narratives from dying memories; I had stitched together the souls of animals to form ghosts and demons of terrible light; I had even reached between planes to chase departed souls as they tried to move on from this world.

But here and now, I could prevent having to take any of those measures before they even happened. I could hold the dying man's soul together before it shattered into uncountable memories. All I had to do was draw upon the core of necromancy:

Regret.

All necromancy was, fundamentally, an act of regret. A wish that the dead never died. And I was no exception.

In order to call up necromancy, I simply had to remember the day I'd decided to fight back against death.

I closed my eyes, remembering another place, another time. A girl named Astrenn who had loved to feed crows.

My helplessness as I arrived at her cold, long-dead body, her head caved in by a falling roof beam.

The regret that had flooded my soul ever since.

The wellspring of power came sludgily at first—then as I let my regrets sing through me, it flooded from my core and down my hands and into the dying man's cracking soul. The magic was thick and swampy and fetid, but it was mine, and I hardly had to lift a finger as my regrets did what they did best.

They tried to hold together a broken heart.

And, miracle of miracles, they did.

Only those with soulsight could see what happened next, and from what I could tell, Vuliel was not one of them. But a bitter, forlorn pride swelled in my heart as the man's soul drifted free of his body, stabilized, anchored in this world.

"What... what did you do?" Vuliel whispered.

"I kept his soul from breaking," I said. "I... I'm not powerful enough to reunite it with a dead body. But... he could still live on if his possessed someone else. Someone who cared about him an awful lot. Someone who'd be willing to share their body with a man who lost his own." I gestured towards the invisible soul. "All you have to do is let him in."

Vuliel looked down at his husband's corpse.

"It's not what I wanted," he managed to say.

For a heartbeat, the only sound in the wooden hall was the crash of hail on the roof.

"But it's the best I have," he finished. He looked up, meeting my eyes, and said, "I'm ready. Tell me what to do."

I shook my head. "There's nothing simpler. Just reach out and touch his soul."

Vuliel swallowed, then stretched out a hand.

And in a flash of memories absorbed, two souls became one.

A.N.

Soulmage is a serial written in response to writing prompts. Stick around for more episodes, or join my Discord to chat about it!

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[isdalinarhot]

I think I can say this now because I am Certified Wasted BUT!!!!‼︎ I’ve been thinking all day (all week even maybe?) about sadalinar mpreg honestly speaking. Like not omegaverse mpreg but good old fashioned cis guy x trans guy mpreg. Its mpreg cuz it gets horny with it. And I have like. Hmm. I think I have a longfic idea brewing but if I write it I think it’ll stay on my hard drive. Because god knows nobody else on this gay earth is clamoring for sadalinar mpreg it’s just me with my incurable condition. Anyway the premise is it’s the blackthorn era, sadeas is 19 and has been married to Ialai for like a year, dalinar is 22 and shirking marriage, maybe the Evi stuff is happening, maybe not, BUT a lot of the plot involves Sadeas and Dalinar and Ialai trying to come to grips with whatever the hell their weird family dynamic is gonna be. Because it’s a cross-princedoms thing, but it undoubtably is gonna be a Sadeas princedom heir because duh. And there’s some Alethi politics but there’s also the politics of how the hell Vorin society can handle a three-parents situation. Because I want it to be chill I’d give Sadeas less dysphoria I think it would be a thing like “oh you’d think it would suck gender wise but I actually feel more in touch with my masculinity in a weird way going through this”. I dunno im thinking about it a LOT lately and absolutely nobody on this gay earth wants it but me but with tbhwo being in the home stretch im gonna need a new writing project soon and why not? Why not have it be a kink adjacent fic? I’m not gonna publish it it’ll just be for my health.

[saltygilmores]

Thoughts While Watching Gilmore Girls: S3/EP4/One's Got Class The Other One Dyes

Episode titles with 6 or more words (the first four seasons): Season 1: The Lorelais First Day At Chilton, Star Crossed Lovers And Other Strangers Season 2: Red Light on The Wedding NIght, Nick And Nora And Sid And Nancy

Season 3: One's Got Class The Other One Dyes Season 4: The Lorelais First Day At Yale, The Hobbit The Sofa and Digger Stiles, In The Clamor and The Clanger, Girls In Bikinis Boys Doing The Twist, Last Week Fights This Week Tights, Nag Hammadi Is Where They Found the Gnostic Gospel (come on AmyShermanPalladino. Come on. She's just fucking with us with that one. She didn't envision a future where people like me would have to type that shit out). Anyway. This episode is a classic.

Let's have a look at what Jesstopher is reading...

That tracks. Lorelai: I think I'm in touch with the other side. Rory: Republicans? Ba dum tsssh.

What are we doing, naming things we see in the room? Dead cow, dead cow, non paying customer, non paying customer, old timey scale, the only business proprietor in America who purposely tries to drive away his own customers by insulting their selections from his own menu... Lorelai has been having premonitions about her own death. How does she know about the script for my Gilmore Girls horror movie trilogy titled "Blood In The Hollow"?

No, Lorelai will get a much more dignified slaughtering in BITH (at the hands of Rory? Luke? Jess? Her mother? Crusty? Possibly even DEAN, her jilted lover? The script is still in progress).

Now you're just naming all the hilarious ways I've imagined Dean's demise. TWWGG is chock full of "Dean Forrester should get eaten by a ____" , Most recently, it was a pair of T-Rexes. I may have suggested Death by Turtle before, I can’t recall. I do know that when he wore this sweater I said he looked like a turtle anus.

Stars Hollow has never once rocked and or rolled. Lane's got dreams of rock superstadorm. Not if AmyShermanPalladino has anything to do with it. Rory wraps her half eaten burger (The fakest fake burger I've ever seen) in a napkin (this is not a thing) and R&R leave Luke's without paying. INCOMING!

Lorelai's face. Lorelai mutters that Shane is a freak. Because why...? Sure, she doesn't have the best manners with all this barging through the door stuff, but you wanna talk about ettiquite, Miss Dine and Dash? So what makes her a freak? The girl has (horny, horny) needs and she knows how to get what she wants. Shane doesn't play silly games. On a random Tuesday at 6:17 pm, Shane thinks, "I want Jess Mariano's tongue in my mouth" And then she goes to the diner and gets that tongue in her mouth. That doesn't make her a freak, that makes her an example R&R should take after. Shane is a role model. Shane is Rock and Roll. Shane is a modern woman. Shane is a GOD DAMN HERO. SHANE IS SWAN FOOD (soon).

Nobody in the diner even blinks while this is happening.

There may not be any rock and roll in Stars Hollow, but there's certainly free porn, and Rory's going to grab a popcorn and watch the show.

"That was my intention, Uncle Luke"

Introducing for the first time, Zack Van Gerbig and Brian Fuller. I don't have any dog in this fight of "Which boyfriend was better for Lane". Well, maybe I do have a dog, but she's a sleepy bassett hound who can't be bothered to choose because anything that happens after season 4 (aka Lane's life trajectory after high school) doesn't affect me in the grand scheme of things. Alright let's briefly rate the members of Hep Alien: Zack: Lane's first sexual experience with Zack is a complete disaster. Zack enters into a teenage marriage with Lane, buys cheap off brand condoms and knocks her up with twins on their honeymoon, derailing her entire life and destroying her rock and roll dreams. (People on this show need to stop getting married right out of high school, for the love of all that is holy. And stop sleeping through Sex Ed! You live in a blue state where sex ed in school might actually be adequate and available! CHERISH IT). Zack is cuter than Dave. Zack is the lead singer, but I tend to crush on band members that are not the lead singers. Lead singers are trouble. That blond floppy hair is trouble. He looks like he might not shower that often. Dave: Dave didn't do any of those things. Dave definitely takes showers. Maybe too many showers + Impeccably clean, geeky clothes. Did you know Dave read the entire Bible in one night to impress Lane's mother? What a guy. He has curly hair which means he's a good guy. Got sucked up by the Male Gilmore Girls Character California Wormhole but unlike Jess and Max, She liked him so much she never spat him back out. Brian:

Lane gets a taste of the rampant sexism inherent in Rock and Roll when her suggestions for improving the band's sound are totally ignored by the men. Lane's paranoia about her mother is incredibly annoying and stifling to the other members of the band, and they almost walk out, and I'm not saying it's right to ignore her...I'm just saying, I understand.

In my gritty unrated Gilmore Girls spinoff with cursing and nudity and realism titled the Hollow no one would be shielded from perversion. At one point, Kirk apparently had a rock band called "The Kirk Gleason 5" who played covers of Queen songs and Mrs Kim put the kibosh on them.

The people of Hartford to the people of Stars Hollow: Please stop coming over here. There are other cities in Connecticut you can visit if you want to escape The Bubble. What about Stamford? We're full. Lane has to find a way to make it to band practice in Hartford 3 nights a week while still under the watchful eye of Mrs Kim. Rory and Lane try to brainstorm how she might get away with this Super Secret Band Thing, even though Lane has no money, no car, and no instrument.

A circa 2002 Karen (real name: Debbie), calling the Gilmores. Lorelai doesn't remember Debbie-Karen because Rory can only describe Karen-Debbie, the mother of a former classmate, as blond haired and average height. We find out Rory actually had another childhood friend of sorts besides Lane, Debbie-Karen's daughter Kathy. Rory would frequently go swimming at her house. Lorelai claims she can't remember any Stars Hollow Moms because they all look the same, except for Mrs.Kim and a woman with a glass eye. I guess that's Lorelai's way of saying Mrs Kim and Mrs Glass Eye are the only two minorities in Stars Hollow. That tracks. Lorelai doesn't even know Dean's mom? Things might get awkward when Lorelai and Dean have to write out their wedding invitations. Karen-Debbie: The PTA likes to ask prominent locals in business to talk to the students, you know, someone who knows about how much hard work it takes to run a business, and we thought of you. Bahahahaha. Lorelai, a hard worker. Don't make me laugh. Oh wait, I already did. I will laugh some more. Bahahahaha.

The Gilmore Girls California Wormhole is about to claim it's first female snack, Kathy. Things Googled While Watching GIlmore Girls We Owe You Nothing (first tried I Owe You Something because I couldn't see the cover), major cities in Connecticut, Brian's last name (it's Fuller)

[fe-fictions]

Saizo x Corrin Commission (Corrin goes to the nearby tavern to do some recon...and Saizo is not pleased!)

The army had to gather new intel. The Vallites were ruthless, and everyone was exhausted. But to continue forward, you had to use every method of getting new information. Even if that meant scraping the bottom of the barrel. Which, at this point, meant goin

Saizo immediately objected when you volunteered. But you knew he’d be tagging along even if he hadn’t admitted it outright.

So naturally, within a few minutes of your trek into the village, you felt Saizo’s eyes on you, watching his wife’s every movement and making sure nothing bad could possibly happen to you on the walk there.

“You’re welcome to join me, you know. I’ve gotten very good at sensing when you’re nearby.” You glanced back, meeting the sharp glare hidden in the canopy above. The moment you blinked, a red-haired ninja loomed over you, arms crossed.

“This is a waste of time and you know it, Corrin. Why did you volunteer?”

“Because someone has to, and I knew you’d tag along.” You said, earning a flick to the forehead.

“You abuse my devotion. Wasting our time and resources like this is too much. Maybe I should let you go by yourself while I make myself useful at camp.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? You’d really leave your defenseless, beautiful wife to the whims of strangers in enemy territory?”

“Stop acting foolish.” He flicked your forehead again, “Otherwise I really will abandon you.”

“All right, all right. I’m sorry,” You laughed, before you linked arms and rested your head on his bicep. “Why don’t you be my date tonight? If you’re with me it’ll keep trouble away.”

“Feh. It’ll be a waste of time no matter how we go in, but I’d rather keep an eye on you from a distance. I need to be able to identify as many threats as possible.”

It wasn’t your first foray into the world of greasy food and overflowing mead, but this place was on a whole other level. The place was stuffed with rowdy people clamoring for food and drink, shouting slurred profanities at each other.

It was loud, but at least it was jovial. Nobody would be fazed by a woman with pricked ears in Valla, so your sense for potential danger was low.

“Do you wish for me to stay close?” Saizo murmured in your ear, close enough to hear despite the pub’s intensity. 

“No, I’ll be fine. Go see what you can find- I’ll stay at the bar and do some recon.”

“Be safe.” He squeezed your hand, and faded into the crowd. Reassured that your red shadow wouldn’t be far, you took your place at the counter, placed your order, and got to work.

Within thirty minutes, you were sure it was a failure. After having your shoulders bumped and being startled by boisterous laughter right next to you, it was about time to call it. But as you readied to leave, a large figure entered your peripheral.

“You’re not leaving already, are you?”

Your ears twitched at the unfamiliar voice, finding a man who was definitely too drunk  teetering in front of you. His smile was broad, but his eyes gleamed with mal intent.

“I’m afraid I have some urgent business to attend to, sir.”

“It can’t be that serious if you’re here, of all places- but if you insist, why not leave this shithole and have some fun with me somewhere else?”

“I’m flattered, but I’m not interested.”

“C’mon, don’t be like that! Maybe you just need some more time to loosen up.” The man grinned, gesturing for the bartender. “Bring this pretty little lady another round!”

“Er…well, I suppose, if you insist.” You twisted a lock of hair behind your ear, inviting more intrigue from the heavily inebriated man. He plunked down onto the seat next to you, emboldened by your accepting his invitation.

“Of course! You’ve only just got here, and it’s always exciting to meet new people! Especially a fella as manly as me, buying a drink for a beautiful stranger like yourself.”

“You’re too kind.” You took a swig of the drink, “You’re a local, aren’t you?”

“As local as they come! Want me to show you around?”

“Actually, I don’t suppose you’d know anything about a small town called ‘Lumme’, would you? I was hoping to visit with some family who moved there, but Valla is difficult to navigate.”

“They moved all the way out there? I wouldn’t bother even trying to reach it.” He said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Curiosity piqued, you pressed.

“Oh? And why is that?”

“I heard the royal army’s setting up near there. If they haven’t cleared out the village, they’ve certainly blocked it off. You’re better off staying here rather than going that way.”

“But surely if it’s a Vallite citizen, they can make an exception, right? I mean, it is for family, and I haven’t been able to see them in so-”

“And who is this pretty little thing?” A new voice interrupted, this time a rather elegant woman. “You’re way out of this bastard’s league. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, instead?”

“Shut up, you crusty old witch.” The man laughed, throwing a heavy arm around your shoulders. You fought the urge to toss him. “You’re just jealous you didn’t spot her first!”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t steal her away…besides, I’m not the only one interested.” 

It wouldn’t take long for it to become a group of three, then four, then five. The man wouldn’t release you from his hold. The noise and the heat was overwhelming.

While some information you pulled from the conversations was worthwhile, it wasn’t enough. You moved to get out from under the brute’s arm, pushing the pint away.

“Thank you for your hospitality, everyone, but I must be going. It’s past-”

“C’mon now!! We’re just starting to have fun!!” The arm you managed to slip from reached out again, this time grabbing your wrist. You took a deep breath, readying your fist to crack the drunkard’s nose. But before you could even turn around, a shadow cut in front of you.

“Let her go.” Saizo’s growl commanded attention, forcing his body between you and the man, and pulling you to his side in a single movement.

“What the hell is this, huh? We were just having a good time with my new lady friend!”

“She isn’t interested. Leave her alone.” He snapped, “I will not repeat myself.”

Saizo did not speak another word to anyone in that tavern. To be fair, he didn’t need to- when they tried to protest, a fierce glare was enough to silence them.

Your husband strode from the town, silently brooding until you were halfway home.

“Saizo, dear- you’re holding me too tight. Can you ease up a bit?”

“Why did you stay so long? It was obvious you weren’t going to get any new information an hour into the night. It was a waste of time, just like I said!”

“Not completely! The village we’re heading to is overrun with Vallites, and there was mention of an alternate route we might be able to take from that suave woman who was talking me up. She didn’t get far into explaining it, but-”

“‘Suave’.” He clicked his tongue, his pace quickening. “Those people were vultures, nothing more. Especially that bastard who wouldn’t keep his hands off you.”

“I mean, we got a lead out of it! And I’m sure you got good surveillance intel, right?”

“I didn’t bother,” He huffed, his gaze forward. “I was watching the crowd for potential threats. It was too dangerous for you to go at all, and to let those varlots close by was-”

“Time out, Saizo.” You tugged your wrist from his grasp, forcing him to stop. “I can handle myself. It’s not like you to intervene.”

“Because you were about to start a fight. I wasn’t going to let you get hurt by acting foolish.”

“Please, I would never lose a fight like that. But now I know why you’re upset.” You hummed, “I can hear your heartbeat is faster, and your body language is more rigid than usual. Your temper flares every time I mention my new friends-”

“-Obnoxious bastards-”

“-Who I was sitting with. You were jealous, weren’t you?”

“Jealous? Of them?!” He was aghast at the thought. “Why would I be jealous of a bunch of drunkards? They simply should not touch a Hoshidan princess with their filthy hands!”

“You didn’t want their filthy hands to touch your wife.” You corrected him, teasing.

“You’re ridiculous.” He grumbled, earning a laugh from his far less serious wife.

“Saizo, c’mon!! I was just kidding!” You hurried after him, closing the distance easily and catching his hand. You threaded your fingers together. “I was teasing, my love, honestly! I know you were looking out for me, like always. You wanted to keep me safe.”

“Of course I do.” He rolled his eyes, trying (and failing) to conceal his reddening cheeks. “I care about you too much to let something bad happen to you. Seeing those insufferable morons get so close was right at my limit.”

“I understand. Thank you for looking out for me. I’m so lucky to have you by my side.” 

You stood on your tippy toes, kissing him over the mask. With a growl, his arms wrapped around your waist, the mask disappeared and you were caught in a searing kiss from your dearest one.

You gasped into the kiss, your hands flush against his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath your fingertips. He all but lifted you off the ground to hold you as close as he possibly could. 

It was dizzying when he finally released you, both of you trying to catch your breath. His hand fell to your waist, steadying you from his aggressive display. You laughed softly, leaning into his chest.

“So you’re definitely not jealous, huh?”

“I cannot be sure until we’ve returned home.”

“That’s fair. You need to be thorough in making sure they didn’t do anything untowards.”

“You will not be leaving our room for at least 12 hours. I hope you’re aware of that.” He said before he turned, resuming his march to camp with much more vigor.

Of course you happily trailed along, giddy at the thought that you had a very jealous husband to assuage. Saizo was always the cutest when he was jealous. It was rare to see him so riled up, but knowing it was because he was enamored with you made it adorable.

It also meant he’d be getting teased more…once he was placated, of course.

[rynneer]

Blood of Durin

A reader-insert fanfiction

Y/N doesn’t know how she found herself in Middle Earth, how she found herself among the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, or how she let herself be captivated by the elder Durin prince—but she does know one thing.

She’s carrying his child.

Chapter One: Meet Me in the Woods

tw: pregnancy

show me yours and i’ll show you mine—meet me in the woods tonight.

-Meet Me in the Woods, Lord Huron

You sit hunched over by the fire, poking at the cinders with a long stick and watching the rising smoke disappear into the leaves overhead. The stars are just barely visible as twilight descends over the woods. In the distance, a lonely wolf howls. You shiver, missing the security and sturdy walls of Beorn’s home. A sharp pain runs through your abdomen, and you unconsciously wrap an arm around yourself. The cramps are coming more frequently. You aren’t sure how much longer you can hide them before the rest of the Company catch on. For now, the dwarves seem preoccupied with making camp, too distracted to notice your discomfort. Bilbo sits beside you, his nervous eyes darting in your direction every once in a while. If anyone is on the verge of finding out, it’s the burglar.

Gandalf left the party a week ago, mentioning some vague business he had to attend to. Now, more than ever, you wish he had stayed—he was centuries old, surely he’d have some advice. But he’s gone, leaving you, a human woman, with thirteen dwarves and one hobbit. And he took the ponies, too. Your feet are in agony.

Another stabbing pain makes you grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut.

“Y/N?” Bilbo nudges you gently. “Are you alright?”

You force a smile. “I’m fine, Bilbo. I’m just… thinking ahead.” You glance down at the book beside you. The Hobbit. The other members of the Company had clamored to read it once everyone had recovered from the shock of a young human waking up among them the morning after leaving Bag End. You refused to hand it over, and guarded it fiercely. Even if they were to read it, it’d be little help. Still, it’s a comfort you take solace in, even if you can’t remember what will happen beyond a few days.

Bilbo’s eyes follow yours. The hobbit doesn’t seem quite satisfied, but he doesn’t press further. You pick up the book and thumb through its blank pages. It’s about halfway full, the story only showing events that have already happened. At least, events as Tolkien wrote them. Events that didn’t account for a twenty-something woman crashing into the story.

Another cramp—a bad one. You quickly turn away from Bilbo, biting your tongue so hard you’re surprised you don’t bite right through it. You can’t take it any longer. With a sigh you get to your feet, absentmindedly adjusting your bra strap. “I’m going to get more firewood,” you announce to nobody in particular. A few of the dwarves grunt in acknowledgement. You scan them, evaluating who would take the news the best. Glóin? He’d have first-hand experience, but you haven’t spent much time with him. Not enough to talk about this. There’s the kind-hearted Bofur, but you don’t trust him to keep your secret for long. Finally, your eyes reach Balin. Perfect.

Balin was the first dwarf to readily accept you into the Company. He had taken a fatherly attitude toward you since the beginning, comforting you when the homesickness became too much to bear.

“Balin? Would you help, please?”

The old dwarf furrows his brow. There is already a small stack of firewood near the bedrolls. You put on your best pleading face. Still a bit confused, Balin shrugs and makes his way over.

Bilbo stands, brushing off his waistcoat. “Believe I’ll come along, if you’ll have me,” he says. “I could do with a brisk walk.”

Again, you bite your tongue. You consider the hobbit before you. The two of you have the most in common out of the Company, both thrust into some strange adventure and completely out of your depths. You relent with a sigh, leading your companions away from the fire until you can no longer hear voices bickering over who should sleep where and who took the first watch last night.

“Whatever you mean to tell us, I do believe we are quite far enough from the others,” Balin comments.

“What makes you think I want to tell you anything?” You keep your tone light.

“You’ve no tool for felling wood. What’s on your mind, lass?”

You stop, curling and uncurling a fist nervously before turning back to him.

“I… I’m not sure how to say this,” you mutter. Deep breaths. “I skipped my period. Two weeks ago. I never skip.” You begin pacing.

Bilbo glances back and forth between you and Balin with concern. “Period?”

“Shark week. Aunt Flo. The crimson tide. Bloody Mary. Japan is attacking. For fuck’s sake, my bleeding, Bilbo,” you snap, grabbing at your hair in frustration. “At first I thought maybe it was the stress of the journey, but I’ve been so tired, and my boobs have been sore, and my clothes haven’t felt right, and I wake up nauseous, and–”

“Lass,” Balin interrupts quietly, reaching a hand out to pause your pacing. Concern is etched into every line on his face as he looks up at you. “Are you telling us that you are with child?”

Without even thinking, you place a hand on your belly protectively. “I think so,” you whisper. Tears fill your eyes and spill onto your cheeks.

Bilbo gapes at you. “You’re pregnant?”

A sniffle and a nod. “Eight weeks along, I think.”

“Oh, lass,” Balin murmurs. He pulls gently on your arm, easing you to the ground and wiping your wet cheeks with his cloak. “How do you feel about it?”

“Scared,” the word escapes your lips before you have time to think. You look down at your lap, tears dripping onto your faded denim jeans.

Balin nods. “I imagine that’s the proper way to feel.” He pauses, searching your face. “You must tell Fíli.”

Your eyes widen and you snap your head up. “How…?”

“Well, it’s rather obvious,” Bilbo interjects. “Anyone with eyes could see it.”

Heat pulses from your reddening cheeks. “We were trying to keep it secret,” you mumble. “Especially from Th–”

“Y/N? Balin? Bilbo?”

A shout from the trees makes you jump. Fíli comes stomping through the leaves and pushing through the undergrowth. “Bombur’s got a stew going, and…” his words die on his tongue as he takes in the scene before him: Bilbo crouching nervously by your side while Balin gently rubs your back. “What’s going on?”

Balin stands. “I believe Y/N has something she needs to tell you.” He beckons for Bilbo to follow, patting Fíli on the arm as he passes. “Congratulations,” he whispers.

Fíli frowns. His little mustache braids sway as he looks between you and the retreating figures of Balin and Bilbo. “What was that?” He kneels and gently strokes your cheekbone with his thumb. Concern fills his blue gaze, the gaze that had ensnared you, stolen your heart back within the safety of Rivendell. “Are you alright?”

You sniff and clumsily wipe at your eyes with your sleeve. “I didn’t know how to tell you, but… I’m…” You trail off, the words sticking in your throat. Instead, you take Fíli’s hand from your face and slip it beneath your shirt to rest on your stomach. Slowly, you look up at him, willing your eyes to say what your lips cannot.

He stares at you blankly. But as his eyes flicker from your face to his hand under the cloth, you watch the realization slowly dawn on him. “Y/N…” he whispers in disbelief. “You’re…?”

You nod, bracing for anger, rejection, disappointment. Instead, you find yourself wrapped in his arms and lifted into the air as Fíli spins you around, laughing. He stops abruptly and sets you back on your feet, gripping your shoulders and holding you back at arm’s length. “You really are?”

The boyish excitement on your dwarf’s face brings a small smile to your lips. “I really am.”

He lets go of you and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m going to be a father,” he breathes. Suddenly, he pales. “It… it is mine, isn’t it?”

That finally coaxes a laugh from you. You step forward and wrap your arms around him, burying your face in the hollow of his shoulder. “Of course,” you murmur. “No one else but you.”

“I love you, ghivashel,” he murmurs back, lips gently brushing your neck. You stay like that for what feels like hours, melting into each other.

“Fíli! Y/N!” A sharp call comes from the trees behind you.

Hastily, you push away from Fíli and clear your throat as his uncle pushes through the brush. Thorin jerks his head back toward the fire. “You two have first watch tonight,” he grunts. Seeing the two of you standing so close, he narrows his eyes and opens his mouth as if to continue, but shakes his head and starts back toward camp.

You take Fíli’s hand and intertwine your fingers as the pair of you follow the path of broken twigs left by Thorin’s heavy steps. Fíli starts to pull his hand away as you reach camp, and reluctantly you let go. The agreement still stands between you: no one finds out until the quest is fulfilled.

But with the secret now bearing literal fruit, you wonder how much longer it can last.