#one mill town

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"By the 1930s a considerable state apparatus had emerged to monitor and regulate industrial conflict. At both federal and provincial levels labour codes had come about, in part, to forestall direct workers’ actions and allow capital time to prepare for strikes. Thus labour legislation from the Industrial Disputes Investigation Act of 1907 up to the Industrial Relations and Disputes Investigation Act of 1948 increasingly hedged in the rights of unionization and collective bargaining, while simultaneously attempting to solve capital-labour conflicts by means of an innovative “soft” approach. The state central and subcentral units embedded industrial relations in a massive legal structure designed to prevent or delay strikes and lockouts by means of an investigation and conciliation process. As Panitch notes (1977, 19)

This places such tremendous strategy restriction on labour and gives such a large role for the law and the courts to play, that the legitimation aspect of labour legislation in Canada’s case seems at least balanced if not actually overshadowed by the coercive aspect.

Yet, the state sought legitimacy of its policies. It attempted to carve out an autonomous sphere for itself in the arbitration of industry and in so doing secured consent from fractions of capital and sections of the trade union movement. Unlike earlier periods, by the mid-thirties, the state was not an artifice; it was able to mount counteroffensives with its own adjudicative machinery, and it had established a fragile legitimacy to counterbalance its coercive features.

In understanding state intervention in the Blubber Bay dispute a number of preliminary points should be noted:

The autonomy of the state, exercised vis-a-vis its arbitrator role, was highly limited. Even in its moment of conciliation, the state acted to safeguard capital and circumscribe labour.

Labour slowly diagnosed the situation, insisted upon its rights to unionize, fought back against the employer, and in the process the class character of the state became transparent.

Unable to resolve the dispute through bureaucratic means, the state resorted to coercive means; the use of police, courts, and prisons, against labour. That is, criminal justice was differentially applied in order to further weaken the labour movement.

...

From the onset, police, courts, and state departments operated in a visibly instrumental pro-company manner. Police constables enforced illegal eviction notices against Chinese workers so that the company could accommodate strike-breakers. They actively supported company blacklisting by directly recruiting a labour force of strike-breakers for the company. One constable recruited twenty new men by threatening to cut them off relief. The police further aided the employer by seldom enforcing public access regulations to telephone and telegraph service that were located on company property. Civil rights were not protected, indeed they were abused by illegal intimidation and arrest, and police violence against strikers. Some three months into the strike, and before the major riot in September, the community, the I.W.A., [International Woodworkers of America] and an opposition political party were calling for a government investigation into the activities of the police. Some twenty affidavits alleged police wrongdoings. Thus through commission and omission the police protected the property interests of the employer and ensured the maintenance of their operations.

Arrest charges are a further area revealing the instrumentality of the criminal justice system. In a minor fracas (separate from the riot to be discussed later) between police, strikers, company officials and strike-breakers, thirteen charges were laid (by the police) against the pickets, two against picket sympathizers, and none against the strike-breakers. It took the police six days to lay the charges. They were assisted in this by the company time-keeper, who was a party in the dispute, and four charges were against top union officials. Ten of the thirteen pickets were convicted of either obstruction or assault (three were top union officials), the two sympathizers were acquitted, and in the one case where the union charged the manager of the company with assault, he was not tried by a stipendiary magistrate, but by a nonprofessional, and was acquitted on the basis of police and company testimony (Burnell 1980, Ch. 4).

The judiciary itself was manipulated in favour of the company. In the aftermath of the riot in September, twenty-three strikers were arrested and charged, fifteen went to trial, three were acquitted, and twelve were convicted (eight for unlawful assembly and four for unlawful assembly and riot). Twenty-three strike-breakers were also charged; ten had hearings, but none went to trial. All were acquitted. The sole police constable facing legal procedures was, however, prosecuted and convicted. The differential outcomes are a result of direct intervention in the criminal justice process (Burnell 1980, Ch. 4). First, the Attorney-General’s office appointed judges and prosecutors in such a manner as to secure convictions against the union. They appointed competent lawyers as prosecutors, and selected the father of the Assistant District Prosecutor as trial judge. In the cases of the strike-breakers, they made sure (by order-in-council) that an “anti-strike” judge handled the hearing, and they appointed an elderly, ineffectual lawyer as the prosecutor. Second, they ordered the trials in a sequence that would maximize convictions of union members while minimizing the likelihood that strike-breakers would have to be tried. By having the strikers tried first, then the police constable, and finally preliminary hearings for strike-breakers, they were able to use police testimony (which was a large part of the prosecution’s case) before it became suspect. Moreover, by having the strikers prosecuted first, the defense at the preliminary hearings of strike-breakers could present the strikers’ testimony as unreliable (since they were convicted) and justify acquittals of all (Burnell 1980, Ch. 4). Third, the Attorney-General refused the request to try the strikers en masse or individually. Instead they opted for multiple trials by three’s or four’s which allowed frequent repetition of details of participation and grouping of easy convictions with the more problematic. Finally, the summing up of evidence favoured the police position. In the case of the first and only striker tried alone, the judge omitted recounting evidence of police “showdowns” and bolstered the moral character of the force.

... the police, Canada’s representatives of law and order, were faced with a serious situation at Blubber Bay... . If we had a venal police a corrupt one, or one so cowardly that it would not be prepared to take its life in its hands, then there would be no rule in Canada.

Moreover the same judge stated that the basic fact was whether the strikers were there at the time of the riot. He charged the jury that they should not be concerned with the context or aftermath.

It’s not important to decide who struck the first blow.... The testimony on ambushes does not belong here. . . .

In contrast, the hearings of strike-breakers did not find against them because they were on the wharf at the time of the riot. On the contrary, the judge provided the context of self-defence:

Company men did nothing to start trouble when they arrived. The disturbance was provoked by the strikers, and when it began the employees went to the assistance of the police, as it was their duty to do so.

To conclude, the judiciary reinforced the police and the company. Despite a multitude of charges of police misconduct, no summons were issued against them and attempted judicial enquiries were stymied. As Premier Pattullo put it:

What sort of force would we have if every time they took action they were met by irresponsible affidavits. We are not going to destroy their morale by having a threat held over their heads of a judicial enquiry over everything that may happen.

- John L. McMullan and R.S. Ratner, “State, Labour, and Justice in British Columbia,” in Thomas Fleming & L.A. Visano, Deviant Designations: Crime, Law and Deviance in Canada. Toronto: Butterworths, 1983. p. 30-33.

[wyervan]

if my memories workin right, you mentioned in a post before that the place this au takes place is like close to the outskirts? I just imagine there’s a farm nearby and has a corn maze that makes a great chase scene for Moon.

Yeee—this post probably is the one you’re thinking of. Community at the outskirts of a small rundown city. Still technically separate from the city in name. Mix of chain stores/restaurants and small independent businesses. There’s a pretty hard cut to open farmland and forest not too far from the arcade. Really it’s the picture of a thousand other midwestern towns.

Big yes to Moon in a corn maze. Mmm actually, the scene is coming together in my head as I type this. The boys and you visit a cider mill for the season. Do the whole shebang—pick apples and pumpkins, pet the goats, ride the hayride. You guys spend the whole day there. By the time you get to the corn maze, the stalks are casting long shadows across the grass.

Sun parks himself on a bench outside, enjoying cider and donuts while Moon and you head inside the maze. The attendant gives you a flashlight and tells you to watch your step with the impending dusk. First you go right and then right again and then hang a left and then—oh, someone dropped their sunglasses—and then straight and then—hang on, where did Moon go? It’s getting dark fast and he had the flashlight.

Ehehe man, there’s no other feeling like walking 10 feet into a corn field in early autumn. The whole rest of the world just falls away immediately. It’s actually so peaceful right? Just wind and sky and corn stalks. Yet there’s a creeping feeling of anticipation. The flutter of a hundred leaves out of the corner of your eye plays tricks on you. Makes you feel like something else is moving around in there with you, stalking amongst the stalks :3c.

[swirling-romantics]

Pandora x Remus (still need a ship name for them) where they both live in a company owned wood-mill town.

It could be super fluffy, childhood sweethearts in a rural small town vibes

or

It could be angsty where they are both determined to make the most of the last year in town before it closes for good. Them trying to make things work while the prospect of never seeing anyone they know (especially each other) again once the town effectively becomes a ghost town looms over them!!

[ssspringroll]

ive put off playing long enough that all 7 of these towns are completely unfamiliar to me. havent seen a damn one of them, really.

[madigoround]

Had originally planned to go hiking in the mountains at one of the state parks today before staying the night at a hotel up here so I can go to my favorite farmers market in the morning but realized an hour and a half into my drive up that I forgot my state parks pass and wasn’t going to pay ten dollars to get into the park so I did some changes and ended up going to a local park near my hotel/ the farmers market and it was really cute, this is actually just me finding the best local spots for when I move to the mountains lol but also I ended up driving for five hours and then walking around the park for a few hours before checking in to my hotel around 5 and the last few hours I have just been fighting to keep my eyes open I am so so exhausted but if I fall asleep before like nine I’m just going to wake up in three hours and not sleep again tonight so it is a battle of wills with myself

[screechingsandwichhologram]

visiting my parents hometown for a funeral. ghost cities r so interesting to me

[frenchtwistresistance]

Bracing my elbows on my knees, cradling my head in my hands, and groaning mournfully like my team just lost the big sports game when my favorite c-list actress shows up for 10 seconds per episode in a truly crummy sitcom to either lament being single, have something sexist said about her, perfectly deliver a corny joke, or make a seemingly innocuous line of dialogue into a double entendre

Cheering and clapping like my team just won the big sports game when my favourite c-list actor shows up for .5 seconds in the worst movie I have ever seen

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Blubber Bay is an isolated single-resource hinterland town, located on the northern end of Texada Island. In 1937-38, the town as well as much of the island was dominated by one source of employment — the sawmill and lime quarry owned by Pacific Lime Company, an affiliate of Kingsley Navigation Company and a subsidiary (97 percent owned) of the New York multinational Niagara Alkali. By the mid-thirties, the paternalism of this company town industry was in marked decline. Poor export markets, price fluctuations, a surplus labour population, new militant unionism (C.I.O.) under communist leadership and the rise to political prominence of the socialist Cooperative Commonwealth Federation (CCF) led to wage cuts, layoffs, deterioration of working conditions, and aggressive labour-capital conflicts over union recognition and rights (Jamieson 1968, Ch.V). Earlier company policies of rotating the labour force from quarry to sawmill, providing extra work through freight handling and general clean-up, and rewarding seniority, had produced a loyal and relatively harmonious labour force. By the mid-thirties 80 percent of 150 employees had been on the payroll for at least five years, 10 percent for over fifteen years, only 6 employees were with the company for less than a year (Burnell 1980, 7). But by 1936-37, a change of management to a “dedicated anti-unionist” group further deteriorated already poor health and safety conditions in the pit, fostered a growing antagonism towards workers and again reduced wages (Bergren 1966, 116). The labour force in Blubber Bay responded by reorganizing itself on an industrial basis, integrating lumbering, longshoring and quarry-working within one umbrella union — the Federation of Woodworkers, later to be called (July 1937) the International Woodworkers of America (I.W.A.). Decidedly militant, this new union affiliated with the C.I.O. and was met with forceful resistance from employers, other labour organizations (i.e., T.L.C. in Canada) and the state. The Blubber Bay strikes of 1937 and 1938 were the first tests of the new union (Jamieson 1968, 264-266).

The first dispute occurred over wage levels, working conditions in the pits, and recognition of the union as the legitimate bargaining agency for the work force (Bergren 1966, 117-120). The company refused to negotiate with the union committee and a strike ensued which lasted for seven weeks. There was no arbitration, but a settlement was arrived at which improved wages and provided guarantees that (1) no new employees would be hired before the reinstatement of all employees on the 23 July payroll (the first day of the strike), and (2) there would be no discrimination against any employee for union activity. Furthermore, the company agreed to collective bargaining with its labour force through a committee elected by its own employees, but the company did not agree to recognize any union affiliation. Between September 1937 and January 1938 a series of violations of the settlement clauses by the company on rehiring policies fueled a combative climate. By the end of January, the company had decided on a course of action. They attempted to form a company union. This failed and the union applied to the provincial minister of labour for a conciliation commissioner to investigate the company’s attempt “to force upon the men a negotiating committee unacceptable to the majority of the employees” (Burnell 1980,14).

This was the first application for a review under the newly passed Industrial, Conciliation and Arbitration Act. This legislation was an extension of the earlier Industrial Disputes Investigation Act. It conceded labour the right to organize and be protected from employers’ intimidation and discrimination. It also added to the conciliation “cooling off period” by adding an extra stage. The new act required a conciliation commission to investigate and seek a solution in advance of a conciliation board appointment (ICA Act 1937, 93-94). Yet, it was highly ambiguous on entrenching trade union rights. While it did recognize collective bargaining through a committee of the workers’ choice, it did not explicitly compel negotiation with an established trade union (Phillips 1967, 115). This opened the door to an array of competing bargaining agents and the company union.

The conciliator investigating the union’s complaint found against the company, had the election of the I.W.A. committee ratified by a new ballot, and requested that the company recognize the union committee as the bona fide representative of the employees. The company did not respond favourably. They refused negotiations with the union, did not reemploy all old employees (they did not reinstate fourteen employees) and hired new workers from Vancouver. Once again, the union applied to the labour minister for a conciliation commissioner claiming that the company was effectively blacklisting its members by refusing to rehire laid-off men.

However, before the conciliator arrived, the company fired a union stalwart and a one-day wildcat protest strike ensued. Upon reaching Blubber Bay, the conciliator persuaded the company to reinstate the fired employee and open negotiations with the union committee. The strikers returned promptly to work. Negotiations commenced but broke down three weeks later when the company attempted to enforce its agreement (rejected by the employees) on individual workers under threat of dismissal. The workers committee applied for a conciliation-board arbitration. Before the board met, the company fired nine Chinese employees and replaced them with twenty new men recruited by the local provincial police constable. This triggered a political crisis and the minister of labour intervened and ordered the men reinstated (Burnell 1980, Ch. 2).

....

The conflicts between labour and capital were intense. During both strikes, the Pacific Lime Company hired Chinese labourers as strike-breakers, illegally evicted workers from their bunkhouses, denied free access to employees to the post and telegraph offices located on company property, and attempted to establish a new committee of nonstriking employees. Within two months, over 80 percent of the workers and their families had been evicted, some forcibly and with provincial police assistance. The union responded with blacklists of company products, boycotts, picketing and industrial sabotage (i.e., destruction of finished lumber and water supply line). Physical violence between strikebreakers, company officials, strikers, and police occurred on several occasions. Arrests, prosecutions, hearings, trials, fines, convictions, and prison sentences resulted. Altogether thirty-eight strikers were charged with either obstruction, assault, unlawful assembly, or rioting. (Four were charged with unlawful assembly and rioting; twenty-three strike-breakers — some of these apparently company officials — were charged with unlawful assembly, and one company official and a police constable were charged with assault.)

Throughout the strike, charges of illegal police intimidation, disorderly conduct, illegal arrests, and provoking a riot were made. Some twenty affidavits were gathered against police practices, a judicial investigation was considered by the Attorney-General, but was overruled by the Premier. Bias in the administration of justice was also evident. Complaints were voiced that the Department of Labour, the Attorney-General’s department, the Courts, and the Premier’s Office were committed to manipulating legal proceedings in order to obtain a favourable outcome for the company. Certainly the sentencing outcomes were revealing. No strike-breakers or company officials were convicted of any charges, one police constable received a six-month sentence for grievous bodily assault and twenty-two strikers were convicted with sentences ranging from “20 or 30 Days” to six months’ hard labour.

After the police interventions and the subsequent court hearings, trials, and results, union morale was low. Donations did not cover costs and the expenses of legal proceedings, transportation, food, and the length of the strike, severely weakened the union’s financial position. Indeed, by the end of the eleven-month dispute IL.W.A. membership had dropped from around 3,500 (in B.C.) in 1937 to below 300 a year later (Bergren 1966, 125). The strike ended in May 1939 and production resumed to full capacity, there was no union recognition, and what happened to striking employees is not known. However, the strikes of 1937-38 did have an impact on the state. Labour organizations pressured both federal and provincial governments to amend their labour codes to prevent companies from interfering with the rights of labour to organize and to force companies to recognize unions. The I.C.A. was amended in 1943 to accommodate these reforms. The forestry magnates reluctantly acceded to labour’s demands particularly in the favourable circumstances of the war economy and labour shortages (Jamieson 1968, 266). Labour itself was slow to recover. The strike almost destroyed the I.W.A. organization in British Columbia and set back the militant unionism of the C.I.O. The labour movement formally split. The C.I.O. and its affiliates were expelled. Strikes declined in frequency, size, and time loss (Jamieson 1968, 266-269). In the case of the lumberworkers they altered strategies. The main forces of their activities centred around rebuilding their ranks through policy and programs, not in Blubber Bay but in the Queen Charlotte’s and Lake Cowichan regions (Bergren 1966, 128-132). However, the events of Blubber Bay did affect, more generally, the activities and policies of organized labour. They deepened labour’s mistrust of the state as an oppressor, made apparent the ineffectiveness of conciliatory compariy unionism, fostered the promotion of an autonomist labour ideology, encouraged a contempt for the law as an entity designed to protect property rather than the person, and made for difficult bargaining in the years after World War II."

- John L. McMullan and R.S. Ratner, "State, Labour, and Justice in British Columbia," in Thomas Fleming & L.A. Visano, Deviant Designations: Crime, Law and Deviance in Canada. Toronto: Butterworths, 1983. p. 21-25.

[shellshocklove]

moanin' & groanin' | logan howlett

pairing/AU: lumberjack!logan howlett/wolverine x inexperienced!female!reader

summery: working for your father's timber business isn't what you saw yourself doing, but when the wolverine comes looking for work it's suddenly not so bad – especially when he can teach you a thing or two.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so mdni! age gap (in the way that his mutant abilities prolongs his life), swearing, use of pet names, smut, car sex, praise, a little dacryphilia, logan's got a dirty mouth, soft dom!logan, a little size kink (basically logan has a big dick), handjob, fingering, a little manhandling, unprotected sex (don't do it!!), no use of y/n

a/n: um hi! this is my first ever logan fic. i really hope i got him right! not beta read, and barely edited so any mistakes are my own. happy reading! <3

main masterlist / ao3

The pages crinkled under your fingertips as you turned another page. Over the top of your book you could see your father's men milling about, getting the timber ready for another outgoing truck. Day in and day out they worked like flannel-covered ants. 

He wasn't here, your father, leaving you to hold down the fort, or office to be precise, as he  ran errands. "I'll be back before lunch," he'd told you, a hand passing through the sleeve of his tan Carhartt.

The office felt bigger when he wasn't here, like his neuroticism took up twice as much space as he did himself. You looked around the room. It was small, more like a hut than anything else, raised up on cinderblocks. A tiny kitchen lined the front wall, the refrigerator had given out once this month already and something smelled like it had died in there, the white florescent light under the wall cabinets gave you a headache, and the tap drip drip dripped. The table and the mismatched chairs, your father had found at a fleamarked years ago, before you were born most likely, and they wore the wear and tear of years of use. 

Every available surface was covered in papers, and the wooden shelves on the wall dipped in the middle from the weight of the binders. When you were little you'd been afraid the wood would break in two, but they were still standing (hanging?) – maybe they'd stay like that for the rest of eternity for all you knew. Your father's office had only one desk, which made your job as occasional office manager and full-time problem solver, problematic. 

Your father would sit in his chair on one side, while you'd steal one of the mismatched chairs and occupy the other end. If you'd had your way, you wouldn't be working here. The timber business interested you just as much as your father was interested in the disco they played on the radio. "If it ain't the king of rock I don't want to hear it," he usually said and switched the channel. 

But the town was small, and no one was hiring. The summer after you'd finished high school you'd dreamt of moving to the city, but the money had been tight and your father needed you. At least the work, if your father didn't meddle, was relatively easy: answer the phone, type out the invoices and salaries, keep an eye on logistics, and make sure whatever breaks gets fixed. 

The radio hummed at a low volume, one of the singles from Tapestry, as you turned another page of your book. Leaning back in your father's office chair, you glanced at the clock over the door. He should be back by now. Just as the thought crossed your mind, the door swung open.

"Did you need something?" you asked, your book dipping down in your lap. 

Logan raised an eyebrow at you as he walked into the office on heavy steps, that damn cigar hanging out the side of his mouth. "Nice to see you too, princess," he poked jokingly, tugging at his gloves, one finger at a time, and tucking them into his leather belt. 

He sported the same outfit he usually wore; bootcut jeans, a white t-shirt under his flannel and a thicker wool-lined jacket. He must've been sweating in here with that on.

Autumn had claimed the trees and ground months ago, but this morning the frost had covered the ground and bit at the apples of your cheeks. Your breath had come out in swirling plumes when you'd locked yourself in this morning; the first glints of the sun peeking through the windows as it rose over the mountains. The first thing you'd done was crank the heater, and now as you approached midday, you'd shed your sweater long ago while the windows had fogged with condensation. 

The smallest of frowns tugged at your brows, as a heat prickled up your neck to your cheeks. Logan made you a little nervous– not in a bad way, but in a way where your thoughts would wander in his presence, conjuring up scenarios of him and yourself in… comprising positions. Okay, maybe it was in a bad way. But who could blame you when he walked around like that?

He'd arrived only a few months ago, at the tail end of the summer, looking for work. He was strong, stronger than any of the other men working for your father, and although the work was hard, it seemed like he never tired. You didn't know much about him and he kept mostly to himself, hidden away in a cabin up in the mountain, but sometimes you'd see him down at the local bar, nursing a glass of whiskey in one hand and a lit cigar in the other. More than once you'd seen him chatting up Kayla Silverfox, and more than once you'd wished it was you in her place.

"Oof," Logan groaned as he opened the fridge, grabbing his packed lunch and closing it as fast as he could. You appreciated him for that; whatever had died in there should stay in there.

"Yeah," you said, "I'm not cleaning that again, not even for a million bucks."

"Can't blame ya." 

He looked to the table for a second where the guys usually ate their lunches, before he decided to take your usual chair at your father's desk. As he sat down, you pushed the ash tray to his side of the desk, earning you a short smile in thanks as he rested his cigar. It wasn't unusual for him to talk to you on his breaks. 

So, why did you heart beat so fast in your chest?

Because it was the first time you'd been alone.

"So, where's your old man?" he asked and bit into the sandwich he'd packed in an old newspaper.

"Running errands– he should be back soon…" you trailed off.

Logan hummed non-committedly. "So, you're in here sittin' pretty readin' your book while we're out in the cold slavin' away– maybe I should become the boss' daughter."

"Well, it's not easy," you sighed, feigning confidence, "and you gotta be pretty first of all," you front teeth dug into your bottom lip as you tried to hide your nervousness.

"That's true," he grinned, "I ain't got nothin' on you, princess."

Logan held your gaze with intent, and it was like something in the air shifted. It happened sometimes with Logan, like he had this power beaming from him that sucked you in. Erratic wings fluttered in your stomach, and you had to drop your gaze.

"So, how's the book?" he asked, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Eh," you shrugged, dog-earing the page your were on, before throwing the beat-up paperback on the table. "Too many plot twists– first they're on earth, then there's this virus spreading– so they have to move all of humanity to the moon, but then there's this species that lives under the surface of the moon who they start a war with, but one of the main characters are in love with a moonie– that's what they call them– so, now they're in love and trying to stop the war and…" you shrugged again.

Logan chewed slowly as he nodded his head. "Sounds complicated," he decided, making you let out a small laugh.

"I guess so."

A grin washed over Logan's face at your small laugh, and you felt his gaze roll over you, over your exposed skin. When he looked at you like that, like a predator drooling for a meal, you felt a small damp spot stick to your panties. You watched as his nostrils widened, his jaw clenching shut as a pulsing vein protruded from his neck.

"So, science fiction," he started, clearing his throat, "Didn't know you liked that," he continued between the last bites of his sandwich

"Some kid at the library recommended it," you shrugged, "so I thought I'd try it out. And it's not like it's that far from the truth– we've got mutants."

Logan crumbled the newspaper hard and quick, the sharp sound making you jump. "Yeah," he said, and stood to his feet, "That's true."

He grabbed his burnt out cigar, and threw the ball of newspaper in the trash. You started to wonder if you'd said something wrong, but then he said, "Your father's back," and not even a second later you could see your dad's old truck pull up outside the window.

How did he even know that? 

"Logan– wait," the words just fell out of your mouth before you could even think them through. He hovered by the door, raising a questioning eyebrow at you. 

You could be brave– Just say it! 

"Come by later would you? Before you leave for the day– I have something for you."

A gush of cold air blew in with the arrival of your father. He almost crashed right into Logan on his way out, nearly knocking him down the wooden steps. You thought you could glimpse a small nod from Logan, but he was out the door so fast you couldn't be sure. 

The rest of the day went by slowly as a growing anxiety gnawed at your neck. With your dad back you slipped out to borrow the car, driving into town to pick up some lunch at the local diner. It was routine at this point, something you did without thinking, but today your thoughts couldn't stay still. You were pulling up outside the office when you realized you'd driven the whole way with the radio off.

What was even your plan? 

You wished you were better at this. You could pretend, sure, put on a brave face to hide the nerves from surfacing, but how do you get a man like that to go for a girl like you?

You felt non the wiser when the sun had dipped below the mountains and he finally knocked on the office door. Your dad had left thirty-minutes earlier, stranding you at work with no way to get home. 

If this didn't go well, you didn't look forward to walking home.

"What 's it you wanted, princess," Logan asked, leaning against the frame of the door with one knee popped. Your eyes couldn't help but run down the length of him – his broad shoulders, the bulge hidden below his big belt buckle, and the veins of his exposed arms as he slung his jacket over his shoulder.

"Oh, um," you tried to shake your thoughts, and you rummaged the desk for the envelope. "Here," you said as you found it, stretching your hand out for him to take it.

He pushed off the door frame with a raised eyebrow, the cold air from the open door taking with it the warmth of the office. "What's this?" he questioned, taking the envelope from your hand. 

"It's your check– for this month's work," you explained.

His raised eyebrow pulled into a frown, "This is a week early," he questioned, "and I usually get these sent in the mail."

"Oh, I-I just thought I'd give it to you personally this time," you lied, fitting a shrug at the end for good measure, trying to sell how completely normal and nonchalant you were.

Logan raised a skeptic eyebrow at you, and you suddenly felt really really stupid. In your chest your heart could compete with a hummingbird's.

"Really?" he said with a smile before he dropped his chin, "Can I appreciate a little extra something in here, or…?" he trailed off, waving the envelope.

Letting out a shaky inaudible breath, you tried in your flirtiest voice, "Maybe if you give me a ride home…"

...................

The lights from the town below looked like stars scattered over the night sky, the yellow light of the roads connected them like on a string. You knew that Logan knew where you lived; the town was small, and even with the short time he'd spent here, it wasn't hard to get familiar. He'd stopped at the lookout point, about half-way up the mountain road. It was nice in the daytime, with a nice view of the town, the mountain and rivers, but at night it attracted a different kind of crowd: lovers. It was cheesy, and cliché, but clichés were clichés for a reason. 

The Led Zeppelin tape whirled, and the music stopped. 

Suddenly you felt nervous, fingers picking at a loose tread on your sweater. Logan leaned forward to flip the cassette, and his truck filled with a sound of organ, like you were back in church. When he leaned back he slung his arm over your seat. You watched how he spread his legs, getting comfortable, as his eyes found your face.

Under the wool, your heart picked up its beat.

In a brave move you shifted closer, the leather seat moaning under you, as a pleased smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His big palm snaked around your shoulder, curling you closer to him until his lips caught your own. You only hesitated for a second before your hand found his neck, where your fingers tugged lightly at the hair at the nape of his neck. 

A low growl huffed against your lips, and he deepened the kiss, pressing himself roughly against you as he licked into your mouth. You couldn't help the small whimper escaping you. His touch was rough, almost impatient, but tender all at the same time, and you felt yourself fall apart.

The air stuck to your skin, clammy and sticky with arousal and now you started to get impatient. With a loud smack you broke apart, your lips raw and spent from use as you caught your breath. A rough hand cupped your cheek, the pad of his thumb skated gently over your skin as he tilted your head towards him.

"Such a pretty little thing," he mused. His eyes had gone dark, pupils huge and filled with lust; yours must've looked about the same as they rolled down his body. He shifted closer to you, pushing you closer to the door, and you got a better view of the bulge hidden behind his jeans.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, clogging up the sounds around you like you were underwater, pushing at your thoughts at the back of your mind. Logan moved with such ease, each touch natural and easy, like he'd done them a thousand times. Not like you, with only your short-lived high school boyfriend under your belt. 

"Hey," he shook your head gently, "Where you goin', bub?"

"I'm sorry," you whispered, a heat coating the apples of your cheeks. 

He shook his head, his face surprisingly tender for someone so rough, "Tell me, baby."

"I'm just…" you trailed of, trying to find your words, "I'm a little nervous– I haven't done this much," you said, avoiding his gaze.

"That's sweet, bub." The pad of his thumb rubbed the pet name into your skin as he leaned forward to catch your lips in a soft kiss, "But I wouldn't worry that pretty little head of yours 'bout it."

His breath was hot against your own, and an ache started to spread between your legs. The hand on your cheek travelled downwards to tug at your jacket, and you parted only for a second to rid yourself of it, but before you could lock your lips with his again he grabbed at your hands.

"I'll teach ya," he told you and guided your hands to his broad form. 

He let you touch him as he shucked off his jacket, your fingers dancing over the soft flannel. He was solid beneath your fingers, hard muscles from hard work. A patch of dark hair curled at his chest, peeking out beneath his white shirt, and you found yourself wondering where it lead.

Curling his hand around your wrist, he guided your hand lower; down over his chest where you could feel the solid form of him. His bronze belt buckle burned you like ice, but the heat of him as he pressed your hand to the hard bulge beneath the buckle burned even brighter.

"You feel that?" He looked you straight in the eyes. He pressed your hand down harder and you could feel the shape of him against your hand, hard and thick, and big. You barely managed a nod through the wave of heat coating your cheeks. 

"That's because of you, princess." His voice was low, almost like a growl, as he started to guide your hand to rub over the thick length.

"Me?" you questioned, breathless. 

"Yes, you," he chuckled, a heavy hand petting at your head. "D'you want to take it out? Stroke it f'me?"

"Please," you begged, looking at him with moony eyes through your lashes.

"So polite f'me," he mused, his hands tugging at his belt before he popped the button on his jeans. Slipping off your shoes, you crawled up into the seat, sitting back on your knees as you watched him pull at his jeans. Peeking out from under the denim, you could see a dark patch of hair.

Logan was in no rush, revealing only an inch at a time of the base of his cock, making a show of it as the tension rose. A wave of tickling arousal washed over you, and it made you brave, reaching a trembling hand forward, you helped him tug at the fabric.

At last his cock sprung free.

You felt your eyes widen at the sight, as you involuntarily squeezed your thighs together. Even with your limited experience, you knew he was bigger than most. The thick length of his cock bobbed from the weight, hanging heavy between his legs. At the tip of his fat head, a drop of precum pearled, almost invisible in the dark truck. 

"Come here, bub." He widened his legs as he reached out a strong arm for you, curling you into his shoulder. 

"Put your hand on it," he ordered, "like this," he grabbed at your wrist and guided you hand towards his mouth. You let him move you around, eyes blown out and wide as you couldn't take your eyes off his impressive cock. 

A wet blob of spit pulled you from your thoughts, it drew the slightest frown over your face until he guided your palm, now coated in his spit, to his cock.

Under your palm his skin was silky soft, but hard and firm at the same time. You found yourself mesmerized at the sight of your hand around him as you familiarized yourself with the heaviness of him in your hand. 

"There ya go–" he cut himself off with a groan as you formed a fist around the head of him. Your fingers struggled to reach around him, but it didn't seem like Logan minded much when you moved downwards smearing his spit over his shaft in an experimental tug. 

"That's it, good girl, just like that."

A warmth bloomed in your chest at the praise, wrapping itself around your heart. You wanted him to say it again– to be good for him. So, you reached forward with your other hand, wrapping it around the base as the other formed a fist around the head. Another pearl of precum beaded at the tip, and you took the opportunity to skate your thumb over it, massaging it into his spit.

A growl seemed to get caught in Logan's throat, and still riding off your high that the praise had sown in you, you started to pump his cock in slow strokes. A slick sound escaped under your fists with each stroke, and you watched how his head fell back in pleasure.

"Am-am I doing it right?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

At the sound of your voice, Logan sat up straighter, a heavy hand falling over your back to pull you closer. "You're a natural, princess."  

You couldn't contain the smile from coating your lips as he brought you in for another searing kiss. It was hot, and suffocating, and all-consuming, all at the same time. It clouded your mind, and you forgot what your hands were supposed to be doing. 

Logan's hand travelled down your body, his big palm grabbing at your ass. "Take of your pants," he ordered against your lips, "Panties too," underlining his order with a couple of light slaps to the flesh.

Shuffling out of his hold, you fingered at the button of your pants, pulling at them and your panties as quickly as you could. Goosebumps prickled over your exposed skin, the air suddenly frosty without Logan's touch – but that didn't last long.

The calloused pads of his fingers trailed up your thighs, pressing down into the flesh as he pulled you closer to him. "Come sit in my lap, princess."

He didn't wait for you to move, instead he manhandled you how he wanted. Spreading his legs wide apart he fit you between his legs, your back pressed against his hot chest with his hard and leaking cock caged against your ass. 

"I'm gonna touch you now, baby, okay?" his deep voice whispered in your ear.

"Okay," you peeped, heart pounding in your ears at this new proximity. 

He spread your legs, putting your wet and neglected cunt on display, hooking them over his knees. When his palms danced over your inner thighs, you felt yourself sink deeper into his chest, deeper into the safe scent of pine and man. 

"Need to get you ready f'me, bub– stretch this tight cunt out for my big cock," he cooed.

You ached for him, a sticky wet feeling between your legs as you wished so badly for him to finally touch you. His touch was light, but teasing, drawing circles along the thin flesh, circling closer and closer to where you needed his touch the most, before he pulled away. 

"Please," you whined, grabbing at his arm.

His breath felt hot against your neck, and you could feel the grin he pressed against your skin. He let you guide him upwards to hover his large palm over your mound, but he wouldn't let you have it. Instead, he pushed at your sweater. His hand spread across the skin beneath your belly button as prickled goosebumps followed the rough pads as they ran across your skin.

"Y'gonna feel me right here, bub?" he teased, "So deep inside your tummy?"

A whine caught in your throat and you felt like an exposed nerve. Arousal pulsated throughout your body, threatening to pull you apart unless he did something soon. Your neglected cunt dripped with an ache only he could sooth. 

"Yes, please, Logan," you whined, tears threatening to spill.

His thick beard scraped against your cheek, and you almost trembled from anticipation as he slid his hands downwards. He raked his fingers through the curls of your mound, and a gasp fell from your lips when he finally pushed at your clit.

A wide smile reached across your face when he started to circle his fingers, tight with the perfect amount of pressure. Your hips bucked to meet his touch, your cunt eager and dripping for more of him. His other arm clasped around your middle, keeping your still and steady in his lap as he had his way with you.

A bold finger dipped lower, running through your folds and teasing at you entrance. A slick sound filled the car as he played with your cunt, circling his fingers around your hole, dipping a teasing finger inside you just to the first knuckle, before withdrawing it just as quickly. 

"Such a messy pussy," Logan murmured in your ear, the deep bass of his voice vibrating into your skin. "Listen."

The sound as he played with your pussy was obscene, lewd, and so dirty you felt a heat crawl up your chest. A breathy gasp escaped you when he finally split you on his finger, and a satisfied smile coated your lips as he started to move it inside in a steady rhythm, prodding every so often at that spongy spot inside, the spot your own finger couldn't reach.

"F-feels s-so good," you managed to stutter out. 

The heel of his palm pressed against your clit with every thrust, teasing at your insides and conjuring moan after breathy moan from your lips. He guided you closer and closer to the edge, and you wanted so badly to fall. When he pulled out to slide another finger inside you, you felt a tear roll down your cheek with satisfaction.

"I can feel that pussy clenching me– you close, bub?" he poked, never stopping his fingers.

Your head rolled back, resting heavy on his shoulder as you nodded franticly, mouth parted slightly, humming out small breathy whines. You were so close, the tension in your stomach twisting and aching for release.

But then he pulled his fingers, dragging them up over your mound leaving a wet trail in your curls. You couldn't help the disappointed sigh as more tears pressed their way down your cheeks.

"Shh," he hushed you, "you're okay, bub." 

Under you, you felt him move, his strong muscles flexing as he shifted you on his lap. When you felt the blunt head of his cock slide between your folds, an eagerness came upon you. You grinded against him, making a small chuckle rumble from his chest. Logan slapped his heavy cock against your folds, coating his big cock in your slick arousal. 

The first stretch of him knocked the breath right out of you, the fat tip of him splitting you in half as he helped you guide yourself down on him. You had to remember to breathe, your hand fumbling for something to hold on to. 

"Fuck," you whimpered, eyes wide, "I-it's so big– it's t-too big."

His hand wrapped around your middle held you in place, keeping you still on his cock as you adjusted to the first inches of him inside you. 

"It's not too big, princess, you're doing so well f'me," he praised, "just a little more, bub– you can do it."

With a wet whimper you lowered yourself, taking a couple more inches of him, as Logan pressed more fluttering praise into your skin. He let you take your time, easing yourself down on him at your own pace. When your thighs were finally flushed with his, he was so deep inside you, you jolted, trying to move back up, but Logan's hands held you down. You felt him in your tummy, like he'd said, his cock reaching so deep you were shaking.

"Sit still, get used to it," he told you, as you tried to catch your breath, "You're being so good f'me."

And somehow the burning stretch of him soothed away into a pleasurable pressure, one you couldn't help but chase. With an experimental rock of your hips, you felt the fat head of him prod at your spot, making you mewl. And when you started to swivel your hips, Logan groaned in satisfaction, meeting your movement with small thrusts.

Slowly, he picked up his rhythm, strong hands shifted to dig into your hips, holding you in place for him to move you as he wished. In your ear, you heard him growl, deep and animalistic as he fucked up into you.

It didn't take long until your breath came out fast between moans as the pressure built, and built, and built. 

"Logan," you moaned, tethering right on the edge.

Another growl escaped his chest, as his strong arms hooked under your legs. He pressed them tightly to your body as he picked up his pace, bucking wildly into your eager cunt. You could feel him throb inside of you, and you couldn't help but clench at the thought of feeling him spill inside you, claiming you.

"Don't stop, please, don't stop," you begged, tears streaming down your face like two winding rivers, "I-I'm gonna come."

A hand slid between your legs to rub at your puffy clit, coaxing you closer and closer with winding circles. 

"Come on my cock, baby, come all over that big cock."

It was hot, and blinding. Euphoric shocks pulsed through your body, as you fluttered and gushed around his cock. Logan's grip on your legs tightened as you shook violently with your orgasm – a million stars exploded behind your eyes.

"Oh, that's it, bub, such a good girl," he praised between heavy wet pants against your ear.    

Fucking you through your ecstasy, Logan chased his own high at a relentless pace, and all you could do was take it, reduced to a ragdoll in his hands. In your ear he muttered nonsense interlaced with praise, telling you how good you felt, and how perfect you were for him.

With a deep groan he pulled out quickly, tugging at himself until he spilled his thick spend on the truck floor. With bleary eyes you watched how it pumped in quick spurts, dripping down his hand and soiled the knuckles in his own sticky cum. 

Behind you, Logan breathed hard, nudging his nose against the column of your neck to press soft kisses to the hot skin. 

A pair of bright headlights beamed down the road, pulling you from the moment with its blinding light. Logan helped you shift off his lap, reaching to hand you your discarded clothes before he tucked himself back into his jeans. 

The cassette whirled in the car radio, and you couldn't remember when the music had stopped. Logan shifted back behind the wheel and an eerie silence grew in the distance between you.

"How 'bout I take you somewhere to eat?" he posed.

You smiled, "I could eat."

...................

hopefully this was okay? a comment telling me your favorite part is always welcome, and my ask box is always open to chat <3 and thank you for reading!!

© shellshocklove, 2024 i do not give any permission to repost, translate, feed to AI or redistribute any of my writing, with or without credit!

[casuallyanidiot]

Yandere Eldritch being who has taken over your entire town.

TW. Dead Dove Do Not Eat Horror, confinement, isolation, death, Stockholm syndrome, yandere

You didn’t know when it had happened, but there was something very obviously wrong with your town.

It was the little things like the warped street signs, the inconsistent cracks in the sidewalk, and the way that the uncanny faces of people seemed to stare at you. It didn’t use to be like this, but you found yourself cautious about your new reality on the daily. You did try to leave and call for help, but there was some mysterious force cutting off your network. And when you did try to pack all your bags and high tail it out of there, you would end up just looping straight back on your street no matter what direction you drove in.

So now you made do with the fact that nothing was normal.

You sometimes wonder why whatever has infected all the people decided to leave you alone. Because there was no way it wasn’t a conscious decision. Your favorite flowers would start sprouting out of concrete walls and glass despite the fact it would be the middle of winter one day and a scorching summer the next. Not to mention, those flowers didn’t even grow here to begin with. It was a gesture. If it was meant to tempt or be kind, you weren’t sure. 

The town functioned like nothing was out of the ordinary, though. Well, at least it tried to puppet the barely real bodies of your community to do things they would daily. The grocery store always had food and figures milling about, and even though none of the products ever tasted quite right or had words in a real language, you could tell “it” was trying to keep things running for you.

You’d once tried to hide away in your house, thinking that it was somehow protecting you from whatever was out there. But all you did was make it angry. Constant thunderstorms that shook the ground, and hail that pounded on your roof and walls. When you continued to stay inside, that’s when it made things clear: it was letting you stay as you were. The house shifted dramatically, doors disappearing and walls bending in front of your eyes. 

Come outside. Stop trying to resist.

Privacy was just another one of those far-out concepts now.

The thing, as you so liked to call it, had been more affectionate lately. You didn’t know exactly how to describe it, but it had started morphing all the “people” into more attractive versions of themselves. Or at least, what it thought of as attractive to humans. Their faces were more tangible now and less blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, but they were uncanny in a new way. Skin too smooth, too perfect in so many different ways. Symmetrical, full lips, pleasant expressions, soothing voices: all things that on paper would lure someone in, but it had alarm bells ringing in your head nearly all the time now.

“I don’t like this, you know,” You said one day as you sat in the diner. The room was stretched out wider than what it looked like on the outside, and the waitress had an unnaturally wide smile. Before you was a plate of… something. Your guess was pancakes.

“What do you mean?” Several voices asked at once. It came from all around, and the waitress’s mouth barely moved to match the words. 

“ I like you better when you aren’t trying so hard to be something you weren’t.”

There was a pause, and the building slowly unraveled into a jumbled mess of things that you could barely comprehend, the other patrons' faces and bodies melting away into linoleum floors. 

“You’re not human. You don’t have to be. I think I’d prefer that honestly,” You shrugged and poked at your food. From the corner of your eyes, a figure seemed to emerge from the mess of what used to be your favorite restaurant. It was a writhing mass of dark tendrils, reaching for anything nearby. You’re breath caught in your throat.

“Do you really mean that?”

The voice spoke, but there wasn’t any face to accompany it. It reverberated in the base of your spine, racing through your nerves like lightning. Your breath hitched, and you finally gathered enough courage to look at it. It was a mess of things you couldn’t quite make out, but it was almost comforting. 

“This is the first time I’ve actually seen you,” you admitted, a small laugh of disbelief caught in your throat. You couldn’t help but smile. It was the first time it had actually listened to you. 

The being twitched, pulsing as it slid over towards where you were sitting at the booth. It was the only thing that had stayed intact. For something so expressionless, you’d dare to say it seemed shy. 

From the inky mass, one tendril reached out for you, the air around it crackling. You stayed in place as it slid over your hand, and you felt the wonder and relief.

“Will you stay with me? I don’t want to force you, but I’m so alone… you’re the only one who doesn’t disappear when I’m near.”

You blinked as the mass filled the cracks between your hands, folding into the lines of your palms as if trying to memorize you. If it had a hand, you’d be holding it. If it had lips, yours would be slotting against them. If it had a heart, you were certain they’d be painted a similar shade of loneliness. 

You stood up and slowly approached it, holding out your arms as you leaned in, wrapped your arms around its slowly forming figure, and nodded in silence. 

[trippingontheescalator]

Sometimes I think this fandom forgets that the Marauders and Snape are boomers. I just saw an "rip Lily Evans you would have loved Dolly Parton" post and like... Dolly Parton began her career in the 60s. Lily most definitely would have listened to "Jolene" as a 13 year old kid. And as a fanfic writer myself, I don't want to unnecessarily dunk on anyone's hard work, but it is a pet peeve of mine when I search for fics set in the Marauders era during the 1970s and the characters all sound like they are heavily involved in 2024 tumblr discourse. These kids would have never heard the term "genderfluid." They would call themselves transsexual or a butch dyke and there would be 212% more cigarette smoke, just everywhere. Fuck there was a designated smoking area at my boomer parents' high school for students and so long as the parents signed the permission slip the kids could go there and smoke. This was incredibly common (at least in American high schools) pre-1980s. Like, I can see the Evans family playing a game of lawn darts, Mr Evans with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in his mouth, throwing highly dangerous lawn darts that would eventually be recalled because of all the deaths it caused. Severus Snape had most certainly absorbed lead from the leaded paint in his house. Nobody was going to call the cops on any abuse they might see going on in the Snape's house because its the 1960/1970s and "how Mr. Snape disciplines his son is his business." War rationing had just ended 6 years before Snape, Lily, and the Marauders were born. Mental illness was extremely taboo, dyslexia wasn't really recognized in schools or talked about until the 1980s, after the Marauders had graduated, a lot of people were still calling PTSD "shell shock." For Muggles, there was no real DNA testing (it was in its infancy), no cellphones you had to pray there was a payphone nearby, and you wpuld talk to a telephone operator. It wasn't until 1966 that the UK switched to an all-digit telephone numbers. Before then instead of an area code it was a central office in every city/region that used letters. So if Lily, as a six year old girl, wanted to talk to her grandma in Manchester, her mother would have dialed something like MAN-9126 (I actually have no idea what Manchester's central office code was lol, this is just an example). Cokeworth is likely a Victorian mill town, and the major push to replace outdoor plumbing with indoor plumbing didn't start until the 1960s. Severus would have most likely spent his early years without indoor plumbing while living in a rowhouse built in the 1860s. Tubs would have had to be filled by hand, laundry scrubbed by hand and hung out to dry, he would have used an outdoor toilet and considering he is in a poor urban area he most likely would have shared this toilet with his neighbors in the other rowhouses.

These characters' story are shaped by the time they lived in, and sometimes I think the fandom doesn't realize how different the 1960s and 1970s really was.

[frownyalfred]

In that same vein of inhuman-not-human enough Clark, what about a world where the Kents still love their son so much, and they’re not bad people, but Clark isn’t allowed to know, mention, or acknowledge his powers / Kryptonian ancestry at all. It could be for safety, for fear that he’ll be taken away, or maybe just run of the mill “we love you but you can’t be different, not in a town this small” Midwestern sentiment.

Clark doesn’t get to fly in the cornfields of smallville and practice lifting tractors. He’s not even allowed to talk to his parents about being “adopted” unless they bring it up first. They’re trying to protect him, especially when his papers start manifesting and his body changes and all that does is create questions. So many questions, including Clark’s own. Where did I come from? Why won’t you talk about it? Why do I feel so different from everyone else?

And then that Clark Kent still moves on and becomes Superman, even if it’s a little delayed or uncertain. He finds his path away from Smallville, he starts saving people. He starts learning about Krypton, he starts chasing down clues to who he is.

How does he come back to his parents, after that? How does the “Ma, I’m Superman” conversation happen? Does Clark snap one day when Pa has a heart attack and flies him to the nearest hospital, even though his Ma is begging him not to, because they might be found out?

Does he help build the Justice League with Diana and Bruce and still has to come home and push all that he is down into himself for family dinner? His two closest friends and allies, who get him like no one else when it comes to secret identities and masks — they probably think his parents are bigots, but they’re not. They’re good, scared people. They wanted to protect a son. They wanted a son, not an alien. Not a hero, not someone they can’t protect.

[ssspringroll]

only a couple lots left in brindleton bay. i wonder when the next opportunity for industrial lofts will arise...

[peachetteprice]

I think I blacked out when I wrote this - CW; infidelity, miscarriage, squirting, oral sex... John Price being the biggest fucking DILF of a married man.

Everybody says John Price Dad's Best Friend, John Price Dad's Best Friend; SHUT THE FUCK UP.

John Price Husband's Best Friend?

-

It was a really a stroke of misfortune that you met Peter before John.

He was a nice enough man; he wore a tie to your first date, for God's sake, but he was, what some might call, rough around the edges. He laughed too loudly and finished it off with a piggish snort. He dribbled Kopparberg onto his torso when drunk. He was sloppy in bed. He never remembered your wedding anniversary, even though it was the same day as his own parents'. He always forgot to clean his beard hairs from the bathroom sink.

The town you forged your career in, and indeed the town you settled down in, was small, the lot of you cramped into townhouses up and down the street like mill workers, always seeing the same faces and saying 'lovely day, isn't it?' to the same few people.

Peter went wherever John did; it had been that way since they were 11 years old. You figured that out when you finally met the man, two months into your relationship, pregnant with Pete's son, when Pete followed him to the bathroom to talk motorbikes, whilst John had tried to ask how you were feeling all evening - you hadn't touched your pasta once. John came to your wedding - he was the photographer, in fact. He was right alongside you for the welcoming of your first child, your second, your third that never quite made it to birth, and you were there whilst his wife Linda had her first, her second, her miracle third. Lovely woman, Linda. A tad abrasive to the ears whenever she spoke, but lovely nonetheless - she held your hand as you delivered your stillborn when Paul was away in London and told you it simply wasn't meant to be.

Of course, that was the cruelty of the village life - everyone knew everyone, for better and for worse.

John accompanied Linda to every parents' evening and listened attentively when you explained that their third child, their son Owen, may possibly qualify for autism, and John held her as she sobbed and spit vitriol about it all being one big joke that the universe was pulling on her - the joke that she had three gorgeous, darling children with a man who bought her flowers and chocolates every time they had sex, whilst yours put a towel on the bedsheets for 'splatter' and a hand over your mouth when you were being 'annoyingly loud'.

Something changed when Peter crashed his 1987 Ducati and was hospitalised for three days. It was all a bit touch-and-go, really. He required a skin graft on his knee and a rod through his hip and a dozen injections that sent him right to sleep whenever he woke up and wanted to talk. John sat right beside you throughout the whole debacle. Each day. Every night. He rested his hand on your knee. He wiped the tears from your eyes. He hugged your shoulders.

Something certainly changed. Three weeks after his hospitalisation, Peter wished for a celebratory dinner. Everyone was invited. John, Linda, their three children, including little Owen, who sat in the corner with his tablet and played colour-matching games whilst the others scarpered around the house; Peter, you, your two children, Linda's friend Holly and her husband Ben, Rachel and Samuel. Everyone was invited, and they all wanted to play Scrabble at the end of a long evening, but you were never one for finding the right words.

"How are you?" John asked as he sat down on the sofa. It was just the two of you at that point.

No kids - they were cavorting about upstairs - no television, no phone conversation, no distractions, just the lamp on the little table emitting a warm glow against the hollow of his face, and four glass-fulls of red wine in both of your stomachs.

He had his arm around the rear of the sofa, elongated. His fingers could touch your hair, but he made sure not to let them.

"Fine, thanks." You smiled, and that was about it for the the sorts of conversations you found you had nowadays - Peter and Linda tended to have a lot more things to talk about between the four of you than you and John combined. Life had sucked the whimsy out of the both of you - you realised it when Linda was five months gone with her first.

Eleven years ago, that was.

There was a hoot in the background from Samuel - he just won Scrabble. Yahtzee, he posed for them to play, and they all readily agreed.

"How are you really, I mean?" John asked. He was closer, now, idling with his watered-down Scotch in hand.

On Tuesdays, there was the PTA at the school. The headmaster raved at there being a new curriculum scheme added to the roster, and you hardly had the time to get your head around it. There was swimming on a Wednesday from four until five, football on Thursday for your son from six until seven, Netball on Friday for your daughter from five until six. The kids needed their lunches packed daily but they didn't want ham sandwiches, cheese sandwiches or tuna sandwiches because they apparently didn't like ham sandwiches, cheese sandwiches or tuna sandwiches even though for the past 5-8 years all they'd eaten was ham sandwiches, cheese sandwiches and tuna sandwiches, so your son had chicken and lettuce and your daughter had egg mayo. Of course, the dog needed walking after work every evening and before work every morning, and Peter had decided he didn't want to walk the dog every evening and every morning so it was up to you to walk the dog every evening and every morning. You'd recently been tolerating a burning pain in your abdomen that the GP told you was probably not likely to be cancerous, but nonetheless had advised you not to rule it out as a possibility, and above all of that, you hadn't gotten over your third child in your third bedroom that stayed a nursery since the day he never came home.

Your voice wavered as you spoke. "Just busy, I suppose."

John smoothed a hand over your knee, and there it was again - that feeling of having lost something you never had in the first place. "Well, you look good for 'just busy'."

You surprised yourself when you laughed.

"How's Owen?" You probed - as his teacher, John couldn't keep quiet.

"Yeah, well, he'll get over his mum not loving him," he joked, but the sincerity wrought his usually jovial features to a stand-still. "God."

Silence was wonderful with John.

"Where did it all go wrong, hey?" He scoffed. It would have been a throwaway comment had it come from anyone else's mouth. "Three kids, a wife, and a thriving career. I should be bloody over the moon."

In truth, John had only found Linda because he was lonely at the sight of you and Peter. You knew that the moment he brought her out and paraded her around the bar, how awkwardly they kissed, and how he glanced at you as if to say 'look, I have one, too, now, now we're all happy'. She was a bright thing back then. Not so much, now. Sometimes, you wondered if he'd pay to have someone else - someone who'd love him the way he was meant to be loved.

John swirled his drink and drank a bit of it. Just a sip. And, right as you thought he was going to stand, he swept a hand round the back of your neck and kissed you tight. Then, he left without another word.

Since then, all John had done was steal.

When Peter went to the garage to show him the headlight of the Ducati he totalled, John took you on the sofa, sunk his hand into your panties, and got you off in a matter of minutes. He was all hot cum, sweat and fur, nothing half a man like Peter. Snogged you until you came undone and set you straight before Peter could ever know. At dinner parties, whenever he said he didn't have time for board games, you found him in the bathroom and he fucked you against the wall. You bit the flesh of his palm to stop yourself from screaming.

You palmed his cock beneath the dinner table when nobody was looking.

John bent you over in secret, forwards, backwards, twisted you sideways, claimed you from behind, let you ride him as you vented about your day, made you feel him in places you barely knew you had the nerves available there for feeling. He pumped you placidly until you squirted mid-weekend and warmed his face with your cunt in the evening, pulled you taught against his abdomen when you took his cock down your throat, and at the end, instead of chucking the towel into the wash and smothering you so you were quiet, he asked if you were alright, bought you flowers and chocolates, said he was sorry about the baby and promised to have you properly in the next life.

| Masterlist |

[mrsknowitallll]

If I Ain’t Got You

Bo Chow x Black Plus Size Reader

Summary - You have an on again off again situationship going on with Bo Chow and you’ve grown tired of it, deciding to spread your wings and try out other suitors. After a date goes badly and he nearly loses you he decides he’s done with the games and wants to make you his once and for all.

Warning: Assault, Fighting/Violence, Foul language, Mentions of death, Gore, I think that’s it?

A/N - Bo Chow appreciation cause that man is FINE, i’m going through the whole crew at this point lolll y’all tired of these fics yet?

"When you gone stop playing with me girl? I ain't too proud to beg y'know." Bo leaned into your personal space, strong smell of whisky on his breath.

"Don't you got a lady at home Bo? You can't have yo cake and eat it too, not with me." You placed a hand on his face, mushing him.

"Oh come on now you know me and that lady been done for a while. You the one I want why you keep doing me like that?" He grabbed ahold of your waist pulling you against him.

"Cause you like to play games and i don't. I'm a grown ass woman, too grown for a fuck buddy, you gone be with me you gone have to settle down, stop fucking everything that moves." You glared at him.

"Aww is that what you take me fo baby? Somebody that just goes around sticking it in every available hole?" He frowned.

"Bo go on now, I came here to have a good time not fool around, go mess with some of these other huzzys in here. Bartender, a refill please." You shook your glass.

"These other 'huzzys' ain't you, it's you I want." His lips ghosted over your ear.

His words caused you to shiver, arousal pooling in your gut causing your knees to go weak.

But you knew Bo all too well, it was easy to fall under his spell, all those sweet nothings he'd whisper in your ear turning you to mush, leaving you feinin for him, begging for it all for him grow cold afterwards, standoffish, distant. You never knew what his problem was but you weren't gonna be swept up into the mess again.

"Have a goodnight Bo." You downed your drink heading toward the exit of the club, waving goodbye to slim and the others.

He watched you go, disappointment washing over him.

He was just gonna have to do better, try harder. As much as he loved the thrill of the chase had grown rather impatient. It wasn't your fault it was his, he was the one that kept running, from what? He didn't exactly know. But he was done playing games, you were his and he wasn't gone stop till he got you.

You’re out on the town a few nights later shacking up with some guy you met through Annie, while he was a nice man, polite, gentleman like he didn’t appease you. He was just soooo boring.

He kept going on and on about some mill he inherited from his father, something about how all the upkeep was wearing him down not only physically but financially, and while you felt for the man, you really, really did, you didn’t wanna spend your night talking about work. You came out to have fun, to pretend like your problems didn’t exist, not be burdened with somebody else’s.

You stared longingly into Bo’s shop window as you passed. Was it bad that you wished he was inside? That you wished he’d come out and save you from this terrible date.. if you could even call it that.

As much as you’d hate to admit it, especially to Bo himself, you’d grown to love the man. No matter how many time the two of you fell out you always came running back as did he. You had spent many nights looking for someone to fulfill those desires, to scratch that itch, to love you like you needed, but nobody else seemed to fill Bo’s shoes, no matter how many guys you took up no one could compare and you hated that but at the same time it ignited something in you, a fire you didn’t care to tame.

You turned toward your date, ready to cut the night short when he kissed you all of sudden, causing you to freeze for a few seconds before you pushed him away harshly.

“What the fuck was that about?” You wiped your mouth roughly glaring at the man.

“I just thought..” He trailed off eyes lowering to his feet in shame.

“You thought what? Just because you took me out to dinner, brought me flowers that i owed you something? All you niggas act just alike.” You scoffed storming off.

“Girl get yo ass back here!” He grabbed ahold of your wrist snatching you up.

“You better get yo motherfucking hands off me or i swear ‘fore god.” You seethed.

He grabbed a switchblade from his pocket, placing it against your throat.

Any smart remark that you had quickly diminished.

“I spent my last on you, wined and dined your stuck up ass and you think i ain’t leaving hear with something? Oh you got me fucked up.” He began dragging you away.

Your eyes darted around pleading that somebody, anybody stop this but they all just stared cowardly, to fearful to do anything.

You couldn’t believe they’d just stand around and watch this man hold you at knifepoint, drag you off to god knows where and do god knows what with you.

Your eyes fluttered close, tears spilling from beneath your lids as you continued walk, the man’s arms wrapped around your neck, blade still pressed against your throat.

“I suggest you drop that and let the lady go.” A familiar voice spoke in front of you, the sound of a gun cocking.

“Bo.” You sighed in relief, body relaxing upon seeing his face.

He spared a quick glance at you, brows furrowing in worry, gaze softening.

“You come any closer and i’ll slit her throat.” The man’s grip on you tightened.

“Nah you wouldn’t even attempt to do that, cause if you did i’d have your brains splattered all over these country roads faster than you could blink.” Stack spoke lowly from behind him, gun aimed at the back of his head, a hint of amusement in his voice.

The man’s body stiffened in fear, dropping the blade immediately.

“S-stack i ain’t mean no harm i swear.” He turned around raising his hands in the air.

“Oh you meant every bit of harm when you put yo hands on my lil cousin.” Stack twirled his toothpick around in his mouth, his iron grip on his gun not faltering.

“And my lady.” Bo inched toward the man, gun aimed at his back.

You rushed over to him, arms wrapping around his middle tightly.

“Thank god you came when you did.” You whispered into his neck.

He kissed your forehead gently, free hand rubbing your cheek.

“Go wait in the shop for me.” He looked down at you, expression hard.

You knew not to argue, nodding rapidly before rushing off to the store.

“On your knees.” Bo commanded.

The man did as he was told, sobbing like a little girl, reciting scripture, but even god couldn’t save him from the wrath of the two men.

“You got this?” Stack spared him a glance.

“Absolutely, he messed with my woman, so imma take care of it.” Bo grinned devilishly.

“Baby you alright?” Bo rushed over to you practically tearing off the shop door.

“I’m fine, I’m good. What bout you, you okay?” You swatted at his hands grabbing ahold of his face.

He sighed deeply resting his forehead against yours.

“Be mine.” He whispered after a while.

“What?” You pulled back from him slightly to stare into his eyes.

“Be. Mine.” He repeated staring right back at you.

“Where all this coming from Bo?” Your eyes searched his.

“When I saw that man threatening you i just- I realized right then and there that i couldn’t imagine a life without you, that i wouldn’t be able to live with myself if i lost ya, be mine baby, no more games, be mine.” He peppered gentle kisses on your jaw.

“Okay.” You nodded.

“Yeah?” His eyes lit up.

“Yeah Bo i’ll be yours, no more games.” You giggled.

He shouted in excitement, picking you up and twirling you around.

He set you down, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward the back.

“Where we going?” You quirked a brow.

“I gotta show my lady how much i love her, sometimes words just ain’t enough, and lord knows i love a little action.” He smirked setting you on top of a supply box.

He knew just what to do to get you going.

Tags - @eclecticblkgirl @alphabetically-deranged @sassymemoryelixir (Comment to be added to my tag list)

[livingmybestfakelife]

Love Rollercoaster (pt. 2)

Elias “Stack” Moore x Reader

[Part 1]

“Juke Joint Briefly Owned by the Notorious SmokeStack Twins Mysteriously Burns Down — No Casualties Reported”

The headline of the Mississippi Herald is what you were expecting. As much as you didn’t want to face that reality, the club was gone. The twins and little Sammy were gone. No there weren’t any reports of any losses of life, you didn’t hear from your friends either…well friends and your back door man and secret fiancé.

During your eight month long affair, Stack had proposed to you. He took you to Miss Marlene’s restaurant in her backyard. It was a shack that was spruced up enough to look presentable enough. He payed her five dollars so that you both could dine alone and to help Miss Marlene make up lost revenue for closing the popular spot for the rest of the public for an hour. You ate, slow danced to a few songs on a record player, and he guided you to sit back down before getting down on one knee. A gorgeous oval ruby and diamond halo ring is what he promised himself to you with. You jumped into his arms and sprinkled his face with kisses, his laugh boomed through the shack at your acceptance, you made him a very happy man that evening.

Of course you could only wear it during your time with Stack. Removing your current one and placing it in your purse and he’d slide his ring on your finger every time before kissing your hand. When you were with Stack you were Mrs. Moore, everyone who were friends or respected the twins knew about your relationship and of course wouldn’t say anything, out of respect or fear, either way it was an open secret.

It was one you should’ve been ashamed of, and on occasion you were. But when Stack would make you laugh, shielded you from danger or planned an exciting outing, that guilt was bogged down. You couldn’t honestly say that you were truly in love with Donny. Sure he was a respectable man, had an honest job being a mill supervisor, and he was nice to you. But you didn’t have any chemistry with him on your end, and more often than not he bored you. He was too green for your liking, craving something more exciting than the dutiful housewife path you’re currently in. But you also liked and respected him enough to break the news to him easy for when the time came to tell him that you were filing for divorce.

It would crush him, he loved you and considered himself lucky that one of the most beautiful women in the town married him. But now those plans were over, a part of you was relieved about it, it would eat at you to break Donny’s gentle heart. Once you place the newspaper down you headed to the kitchen to get started on dinner. You planned on making some Oysters Rockefeller and roasted duck breast, something more fancy as a celebration of Donny’s mill closing on a good deal. The only issue is, you forgot to pick up some oysters today. You sigh and go to grab your purse and head to the seafood market before it closed. You managed to make it there forty five minutes before closing, considering yourself lucky for the new automobile Donny purchased you last month at making your commute quicker.

You got out of the car and walked towards the entrance, while you did so you noticed how stuffy the air felt, it being the middle of summer was most likely the excuse. But this was a different type, it didn’t feel right, it especially didn’t feel right that the shop looked empty, and once you entered you saw that it was indeed empty. That’s weird, you know for sure it would be still open, unless Mr. Harrison changed his time without you knowing, but then again why would the door still be unlocked?.

“Hello? Mr. Harrison?! Anybody here?!”

The display around the store was still halfway abundant, the oysters especially were unusually still stacked with a fresh batch. What the hell is going on this evening? Anyone would be lucky to get half a pound of oysters left around this time. Something wasn’t right here, but were you overthinking things? Maybe it was a slow day, but that would be impossible in these parts. All of a sudden you heard heavy footsteps from the back, oh good, someone was here.

“Mr. Harrison?! It’s Mrs. Warwick, I’ve come to purchase some oysters if you’re still selling”

You’re met with silence and the sudden stopping of footsteps for a moment before it picks up again, it gets closer and closer towards the front of the store. You turn and pick up a shopping bag and fill it with enough oysters for you and Donny. The steps behind you get even more closer and now it sounds like it’s finally inside the store. Once you’re done you fold up the paper bag.

“You got you a good batch today Mr. Harrison, nice and fresh….well they always are but-“

You’re shocked when you turn around to see that the man in front of you isn’t Mr. Harrison, or any of his employees, instead it’s someone you didn’t think you’d ever see again.

“Elias?!”

“It’s me ladybug”

You drop the bag without thinking and jump into his arms. He returned the hug with a squeeze and gave you a sloppy kiss, it’s as if he hadn’t seen you in years.

“Oh honey, I thought something happened to you, the fire-the papers said there weren’t any casualties but, there were no signs of you and the others either! What happened?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that anymore baby, what happened was just what it is”

“W-what? How can you be so nonchalant about this, you and Smoke lost your club, you didn’t even own for twenty four hours”

“I know, but some things happen for a reason”

“Um, is Smoke and everyone else alright?”

“Yes darling, they’re okay, I’m okay, and you and I are gonna be fine,

“Elias, how did the fire start?”

“Oh it just happened”

“But-“

“Hey I got good news”

“What?”

“This is ours now!”

You look around at where he gestured, you couldn’t believe it, he was smiling wide and proud, not being able to wait for your reaction.

“Well, what do you think?”

“You bought the seafood market off of Mr. Harrison?”

“I sure did baby”

“This store was his papa’s, he swore he’d never sell and keep it in his family, how’d you convince him to give it to you?”

“You know I can be very persuasive” he winks,

He was proud of himself of being able to distract you from the fire incident. That was a conversation for when you’d be able to understand the situation better. You look around and smile.

“I thought you sunk all your money into the juke joint, but here you are making other investments”

“That’s right baby, I’m coming up in the world, doing something to make you proud”

“I’ve always been proud of you honey”

You reach up and rub his cheek, which makes him lean into the comfort of your warm palm, it’s something different about him, you can feel it, his eyes seem slightly lighter than usual, but before you can question that, your mind shifts back to the store.

“This is a wonderful investment for your future”

“Our future, remember?”

He sees your face twitch and knows you’re remembering your dilemma, luckily he knows just how to help you make your decision.

“Oh right….um Elias darling I-I”

“Don’t you think you’ve made me wait long enough YN?”

“Of course, but sweetheart it isn’t that easy-“

You’re silenced by him walking towards the entrance and locking the door, the slow turn around makes you nervous. He’s upset, that much is obvious, but him not saying a word is bothering you.

“Elias I promise in due time honey”

“The time is up now ladybug, your time with him is over”

He walks closer to you and it makes you stumble back, you’ve never been scared to be around him before. You didn’t like the feeling, he’s the love of your life, why does it feel like you wish you weren’t here right now?.

“What are you talking about Elias….Elias what are you doing?”

His eyes start to glow a bright red color, then his smile, it wasn’t that sweet and lively smile you’re used to from him, his teeth, what the hell is going on with his teeth?

“Elias w-what is going on? Your eyes! Your teeth!”

“It’ll be alright bab-“

You bolt towards the back of the store, slam and lock a door. But the lock would soon prove to be useless, in a flash he was on the other side slamming against it while you tried to look for a weapon, but nothing in here would’ve taken him down.

“YN! I’m not gonna hurt you darling, I’d rather die than do that, it’ll be quick I promise!”

“ELIAS PLEASE YOU’RE SCARING ME”

“Don’t be scared baby, don’t say that to me, you love me”

You begin to cry, you’re frightened and confused, this is something you’d only seen in films at the picture houses or read in books, vampires aren’t real, they can’t be.

“I have all of these plans for our future baby doll, I can’t complete any of that without you. This is our dream remember? Mr. and Mrs. Elias Moore, you run the books and I take care of the dirty work. You remember those conversations, under the covers? In the bed that’s under the roof of our secret apartment….I’m tired of secrets, sick of you hiding my ring, you ain’t gonna hide me no more, you’re gonna make an honest man out me darling. Let me be the father of your babies, you’re gonna give me everything you promised me while I was between your legs!”

“Elias, please!”

The door finally flung open and the next thing you know, your neck was burning from the sharp prick of his fangs, your screams were muffled from an unknown force, making sure no passersby’s could hear your cries and intervene. Your moment of despair soon waned and your eyes got heavy, you were dying, your Elias was killing you. You reached up to touch his cheek, still having enough strength to attempt to move him away from you, he gently grabbed it and kissed your hand before reaching into his pocket to pull out your ring and slid it onto your finger, where it belonged permanently. Soon the world around you went dark.

———————————————————————————

{April 26 1977}

“Right this way Mr. Moore”

The younger man guided him towards the back entrance for a little more privacy. Knowing the older one who was walking alongside him would have a crowd desperate for his attention.

“May I just say that I’m a huge fan sir, I can’t believe I’m talking to THE Sammie Moore”

Sammie smiled and patted him on the shoulder at his excitement.

“I appreciate the love fella”

Once they entered they walked to an upstairs area where there were some closed doors and a couple of racks of costumes hanging. They finally reached a door at the end of the hallway and the young man had knocked on it.

“He’s here!”

The door soon opened to a familiar face, still young and as stunning as he remembered.

“Thank you Simon, please make sure everyone else have done their jobs downstairs before opening the doors”

“Yes ma’am, nice to meet you Mr. Moore, have a good set tonight”

He rushes downstairs, leaving you two in a semi awkward silence, you give him a big smile, he can see some gold grillz covering your teeth and your fangs.

“Well don’t just stand there little Sammie come on in”

You move aside and let him walk in. The office is decorated in what is currently popular in Italy. He can tell it was high quality and expensive. He looks around until his eyes land on another familiar face.

“Stack?”

“What’s happening little Sammie? My my my you ain’t so little no more ain’t ya? Done got old on your big cousin, come on over here!”

He walks over and embraces Stack. He notices his tailor made custom suit, he’s clearly earned a good living for himself.

“How?”

“I guess I was one of the ones you just couldn’t kill”

Sammie clears his throat and adjusts his guitar case on his shoulder.

“So, you own this joint huh? The highly anticipated Studio 54 that everyone in New York has been talking about?”

“Sure is, my YN and I worked our asses off to make this happen”

He reaches out for you and you walk into his arms and sit on his lap.

“We’re excited to see you perform tonight Sammie, we have all your records”

Your sweet and gentle voice tells him. You look equally as stylish as your husband. A leopard print silk dress adorns your body and flows to your ankles, but your solid gold anklet and strappy platform heels are still visible.

“Did you get the wire transfer we sent your manager?”

“I did, even he was surprised at how much the owner of this joint was willing to pay me, said that a Mr. E.M. had to be a big fan to find me this valuable”

They both chuckle and end up having a drink together. After some time passes it’s time for Sammie to perform his twenty minute opening act.

“Break a leg Sammie”

“You be good Stack”

They shake hands and you hug him and kiss his cheek.

“See you around Sam”

The grand opening was the success you knew it’d be. And to have the legendary Sammie Moore open was the icing on the cake. You and Stack enjoyed the show on a balcony on the left side of the stage, you’re sitting on Stack’s lap again, with his arm over your shoulder and your hand resting on his other leg, slightly swaying to the familiar rhythm, he kisses your neck and you smile and lean back on his chest. You can no longer remember most of what went on the night you died and was reborn, all you knew was that you were with the man you were meant to be with, publicly and proudly.

Tags: @tforpresz