#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.

[blluespirit]

i wish that there was more time between the day of black sun and sozin's comet bc zuko's official desertion from the fire nation would have the most insane ripple effects (and it would be nice to see the gaang interacting a bit more than we got but hey i'll take what i can get)

zuko's desertion would have been essentially impossible for the fire nation to bury since it was such a big deal that he returned at all. so i imagine the smear campaign against zuko would have been craaazy. i think it would have been interesting for the gaang to try and deal with that when navigating the FN. zuko would be very recognisable i think at this point, and it would have made staying hidden much harder. would they still have chosen ember island? maybe the kids didn't recognise zuko and azula during The Beach , but with the prince of the fire nation committing treason would there be more wanted posters? would there be more talk around the island? would zuko have to remain hidden while the rest go out and get food?

i wonder if zuko deserting and very meaningly committing his loyalty to the avatar influenced other soldiers in the FN to also desert? or would it have had the opposite effect and made people feel more patriotic since zuko was banished, returned under the guise of having killed the avatar, and then left when aang announced his survival to world during the failed invasion?

SPEAKING OF THAT!! the rumours around this would be INSANE. we know what really happened, but the public don't. did zuko and the avatar plan this so that there would be an inside man during the invasion and then zuko used that chaos to escape? what really happened in ba sing se if zuko didn't kill aang, but azula thought that he did? (again: we, the audience know the truth, but the general public don't). if zuko and the avatar where working together... for how long? was iroh involved somehow since he also disappeared the same time that zuko did? did iroh get captured on purpose to be close to zuko to possibly help him if needed? did zuko break iroh out of jail or did one of the guards or was iroh alone? you could spiral on this as just an average person in the avatar world for years like. if youtube existed in atla imagine the video essays breaking down all the conspiracies

its a kids show so obviously Nothing Bad Happened BUT in the Boiling Rock, zuko getting found out as not only an imposter (already, a very bad situation), a traitor (extremely bad), AND the traitorous (ex) prince of the fire nation (devastatingly terrible) would have been... incredibly dangerous for zuko. in zuko and iroh's original wanted poster, the official translation says “Permission is granted to kill them on sight” and this was before zuko has gone right ahead and committed Treason On Purpose. the warden is not going to be nice. when the warden visits zuko in his cell he literally tells him "If these criminals found out who you are, the traitor prince who let his nation down, why they'd tear you to shreds." the boiling rock would be hell trying to survive. it also puts a lot more weight on zuko refusing to leave sokka in their first escape attempt. also ozai obviously knew that he has his son was in prison bc he... broke in to the prison bc azula was there but then zuko manages to escape with sokka (another imposter) and suki and hakoda (POWs) and chit sang (a prisoner) and two of azula's trusted friends end up in prison for treason as well i just. that is literally insane for the average person to hear about. again, THE CONSPIRACIES!!

when zuko eventually does take the throne there's a lot of conjecture around what zuko did while he was banished and moreso, what he did the second time he left, this time voluntarily. i think zuko's loyalty would be questioned a lot; by other world leaders who are understandably wary about the fire nation and its motivations, but also by its own people - some who believe that zuko is a traitor to his country and is trying to sabotage it since he helped end the war.

idk these are all just me rambling but it would been so interesting to explore the implications of zuko leaving the fire nation and how that would have impacted the gaang and how they interacted with others in their travels. there are so many fic where zuko joins the gaang early, but neither myself with the aus that I have written, nor many that ive read have explored this very much or at all.

[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.

[alfhildr-the-word-weaver]

So I started watching Wandavision tonight, and I do already know some spoilers just from being around on tumblr when it first came out, but we just got through episode 3 and it's hitting me. Basically, this is Storybrooke and Wanda is Regina.

Except instead of taking away everyone else's happy endings, she's just trying to give herself her own. But really, that was what Regina was trying to do too, and it's definitely seeming like Wanda has also taken away the happy endings of others, intentionally or not. So in its essence, this is like Once Upon a Time for comic book characters (but without everyone turning up being related somehow ;) lol).

[royalreef]

       “Alas! I am beginning to fear that they might be correct — this is merely my fourth change of clothes within the day! I have only been through my morning loungewear, and then my daily sundress, and then my midday lunch suit, and now my evening wear!” The serfs buttoning up the back of her dress don’t seem to agree, but that’s fine. They can’t speak anyhow. “I am practically living like a church mouse! I look like an old maid compared to the heyday of my attire within the palace!”

[abigailspinach]

"Then what has he been passing himself off as an unmarried man for?”

“I don’t suppose he did, really,” said Anne, trying to be just. “He never said he wasn’t married. People simply took it for granted. Oh Marilla, what will Mrs. Lynde say to this?”

They found out what Mrs. Lynde had to say when she came up that evening. Mrs. Lynde wasn’t surprised! Mrs. Lynde had always expected something of the sort! Mrs. Lynde had always known there was something about Mr. Harrison!

“To think of his deserting his wife!” she said indignantly. “It’s like something you’d read of in the States, but who would expect such a thing to happen right here in Avonlea?”

“But we don’t know that he deserted her,” protested Anne, determined to believe her friend innocent till he was proved guilty. “We don’t know the rights of it at all.”

“Well, we soon will. I’m going straight over there,” said Mrs. Lynde, who had never learned that there was such a word as delicacy in the dictionary. “I’m not supposed to know anything about her arrival, and Mr. Harrison was to bring some medicine for Thomas from Carmody today, so that will be a good excuse. I’ll find out the whole story and come in and tell you on the way back.”

Mrs. Lynde rushed in where Anne had feared to tread. Nothing would have induced the latter to go over to the Harrison place; but she had her natural and proper share of curiosity and she felt secretly glad that Mrs. Lynde was going to solve the mystery. She and Marilla waited expectantly for that good lady’s return, but waited in vain. Mrs. Lynde did not revisit Green Gables that night. Davy, arriving home at nine o’clock from the Boulter place, explained why.

“I met Mrs. Lynde and some strange woman in the Hollow,” he said, “and gracious, how they were talking both at once! Mrs. Lynde said to tell you she was sorry it was too late to call tonight. Anne, I’m awful hungry. We had tea at Milty’s at four and I think Mrs. Boulter is real mean. She didn’t give us any preserves or cake . . . and even the bread was skurce.”

[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.

[screechingsandwichhologram]

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

[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!

[ssspringroll]

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

[zooophagous]

So why do you hate the advertising industry?

Hokay so.

Let me preface this with some personal history. It's not relevant to the sins of the advertising industry perse but it illustrates how I started to grow to hate it.

I wanted to be a veterinarian growing up, but to be a vet you basically have to be good enough to get into medical school. I do not have the math chops or discipline to make it in medical school. I went into art instead, and in a desperate attempt to find some commercial viability that didn't involve moving to California, I went into graphic design.

I've been a graphic designer for about seven or eight years now and I've worn a lot of hats. One of them was working in a print shop. Now, the print shop had a lot of corporate customers who had various ad campaigns. One of them was Gate City Bank, which had a bigass stack of postcards ordered every couple months to mail to their customers.

Now, paper comes from Dakota Paper, and they make their paper the usual way. Somewhere far, far from our treeless plain there is a forest of tall trees. These trees are cut down and put on big fossil fuel burning trucks and hauled to a paper mill that turns them into pulp while spewing the most fowl odors imaginable over the neighboring town and loads the pulp up with bleach to give it a nice white color.

Then the paper is put on yet another big truck and hauled off to the local paper depot, then put on another big truck and delivered to my print shop, where I turned the paper into postcards telling people to go even deeper into debt to buy a boat because it's almost summer. The inks used are a type of nasty heat sensitive plastic that is melted to the surface of the paper with heat. Then the postcards are put on yet ANOTHER truck and sent to the bank, which puts them on ANOTHER truck and finally into the hands of their customers, who open their mail and take one look at the post card and immediately discard it.

Heaps and heaps and literal hundreds of pounds of literal garbage created at the whim of the marketing team several times a year. And thats just one bank in one city.

I came to realize very quickly that graphic design was the delicate art of turning trees into junk mail.

And wouldn't you know it there are a TON of companies that basically only do junk mail. Many of them operate under the guise of a "charity," sending you pictures of suffering children or animals and begging for handouts and when they get those handouts the executives take a nice fat cut, give some small token amount to whatever cause they pay lip service to, and then put the rest of the cash right back into making more mailers. "Direct mail marketing" they call it.

Oh but maybe it's not so bad, you can advertise online after all. Now that there's decent ad blocker out there and better anti-virus ads usually don't destroy your computer anymore just by existing.

Except now when I search for the exact business I want on Google it's buried under three or four different "promoted search items" tricking me into clicking on them only to shoot themselves in the foot because I searched for the specific result I wanted for a reason and couldn't use those other websites even if I felt like it.

And now we have advertising on YouTube and on every streaming service, forcing more and more eyes onto the ad for the brand new Buick Envision that parks itself because you're too stupid to do it on your own.

Oh thats ok maybe I'll get Spotify premium and go ad free and listen to some podcasts- SIKE we have the hosts of your show doing the song and dance now. Are you depressed and paranoid from listening to my true crime podcast about murdered and mutilated teenagers? That's ok, my sponsor Better Help can keep you sane enough to stay alive and spend more money.

It's gotten so terrible that now you have content farms, huge hubs of shell companies that crank out video after video to get more and more precious clicks. Which if the videos were innocuous maybe that wouldn't be so awful except now you have cooking hacks that can actually burn your house down and craft hacks that can electrocute you being flung into your eyes at the speed of mach fuck so some slimy internet clickbait jockey doesn't need to get a real job.

It of course goes without saying that animals are also relentlessly exploited by clickbait companies that will put them in compromising situations on purpose to create a fake fishing hack video or even just straight up killing them for sport by feeding small animals to a pufferfish that rips them apart for the camera.

And all of this, ALL of this doesn't even touch how adveritising is the death of art in general. Queer topics, any kind of interesting art, any kind of sex or substance use topics are scrubbed clean and hidden at the behest of advertisers.

Sex education, a nude statue, topics such as racism or sexism or bigotry in general have tags purged or hidden from search, even life saving information about SDTs or drug use, because if someone saw that and complained then Verizon might sell fewer tablets and we can't fucking have that.

Conservative talking heads often bitch and moan that they're being censored on social media. The stupid part is, they're right! They are being censored! But it's not by a woke mob, it's by ATT and Coca Cola not wanting their adspace sharing screen time with their stupid fucking opinions.

However, they won't ever figure that out, because the talking heads they get their marching orders from like Tucker and Jones ALSO rely on the sweet milk flowing from the sponsorship teat and they aren't about to turn on their meal ticket so they have to come up with even stupider shit to say for the train to continue rolling.

I managed to rant this far without even getting into the ads I see for the beauty industry. The other day a botox ad described wrinkles as "moderate to severe crows feet" as if wrinkles are a symptom of a fucking serious disease! Like having a flaw in your skin is a medical problem that you need thousands of dollars of literal botulism toxin to fix! I was incandescent with anger.

Advertising is a polluting, censoring, anti educational and anti art industry at it's very core. It destroys human connections, suppresses human thought and makes us hate our own bodies. It ads no value, actively detracts from value, and serves no real purpose and I believe it should be almost if not entirely banned.

[crazy-pot-pourri]

[Books] Non sei il mio Romeo di Ilsa Madden-Mills (The Game Changers #1)

Titolo originale: Not My Romeo Autore: Ilsa Madden-Mills Prima edizione: 2020 Edizione italiana: traduzione di Elisabetta Giamporcaro (Always Publishing, 2022) Continue reading Untitled

[inkskinned]

hello. you left a neon pink post-it with pgs 194-359 due 9/12 in the book, by the way. it is now May 23rd and the library's printer is running out of ink. it jammed and tore my passport application. one of the librarians dutifully blacked out all my information (front and back!) before proceeding to use every unmarred inch as scrap paper.

i think maybe our (plural, inclusive) lives are connected. all of them. i have been thinking a lot about borrowing. about how people move through the world in waves, filling in the same spaces. i have probably stood on the same subway platform as you. we held the same book. all of us stand in the same line at the grocery, at the gas station. how many feet have stood washing dishes in my kitchen?

i hope you are doing well. the pen you used was a nice red, maybe a glitter pen? you have loopy, curling handwriting. i sometimes wonder if it is true that you can tell a personality by the shape of our letters. i'm borrowing my brother's car. he's got scrangly engineer handwriting (you know the one). it's a yellow-orange ford mustang boss. when i got out of the building, some kids were posing with it for a selfie. i felt a little bird grow in me and had to pause and pretend to be busy with my phone to give them more time for their laughing.

i have a habit of asking people what's the last good book you read? the librarian's handwriting on the back of my smeared-and-chewed passport application says the glass house in small undercase. i usually go for fantasy/sci fi, but she was glowing when she suggested it. i found your post-it on page 26, so i really hope you didn't have to read up to 359 in that particular book. i hope you're like me and just have a weird "random piece of trash" "bookmark" that somehow makes it through like, 58 books.

i wish the concept of soul mates was bigger. i wish it was about how my soul and your soul are reading the same work. how i actually put down that book at the same time you did - page 26 was like, all exposition. i wish we were soul mates with every person on the same train. how magical to exist and borrow the same space together. i like the idea that somewhere, someone is using the shirts i donated. i like the idea that every time i see a nice view and say oh gosh look at the view, you (plural, inclusive) said that too.

the kids hollered when i beeped the car. oh dude you set off the alarm, oh shit is she - dude that's her car!! one was extremely polite. "i like your car, Miss. i'm sorry we touched it." i said i wasn't busy, finish up the pictures. i folded your post-it into a paper crane while i waited. i thought about how my brother's a kind person but his handwriting looks angry. i thought about how for an entire year i drove someone to work every day - and i didn't even think to ask for gas money. my handwriting is straight capital letters.

i thought about how i can make a paper crane because i was taught by someone who was taught by someone else.

the kids asked me to rev the engine and you know i did. the way they reacted? you would have thought i brought the sun from the sky and poured it into a waterglass. i went home smiling about it. i later gave your post it-turned-bird to a tiny child on the bus. she put it in her mouth immediately.

how easy, standing in your shadow, casting my own. how our hands pass over each other in the same minor folds. i wonder how many of the same books you and i have read. i wonder how many people have the same favorite six songs or have been in the same restaurant or have attended the same movie premier. the other day i mentioned the Book Mill from a small town in western massachusetts - a lot of people knew of it. i wonder if i've ever passed you - and didn't even notice it.

i hope whatever i leave behind makes you happy. i hope my hands only leave gentle prints. i hope you and i get the same feeling when the sun comes out. soulmates across all of it.

[annwrites]

⸻ sons & daughters. part two.

· pairing: cregan stark x velaryonprincess!reader · type: part of a series · summary: you spend a day in winterfell's library, until someone comes looking for you. · word count: 2,839

When you wake the next morn, it's to feeling well-rested. You feel so comfortable, in fact, that you have half-a-mind to stay in bed all day, beneath furs and blankets, soft feather pillows resting beneath your head, a warm fire burning—at some point in the night, servants must have snuck in to rebuild it, for elsewise it would be mere embers by now—but know you cannot. Even if Jace is the important one in all this.

You...are merely here to sight-see and stay out of the way.

After Alia—the servant from the night previous—has helped you ready for the day, she then brings you bacon, soft-boiled eggs, honeyed bread with jam, sharp white cheese, and coffee to break your fast.

As you eat, you enjoy the silence. No loud, crashing waves breaking against the base of the castle like at Dragonstone, and no sounds of a sleepless city like that of King's Landing—children screaming, horses whinnying, and criers shouting in the streets.

Winterfell—no, the North, it seems—is...peace. Tranquility. Strength.

Being here... You feel as if you've finally found something you hadn't even known you'd been looking for all your life: a sense of home.

You take another bite of your boiled egg, shaking your head, knowing you cannot grow used to it. It will not last. Before long, you will be perched upon Vermax once again, heading back to Dragonstone, never to return to these lands. As if you want to return there, either.

You think of your mother giving you her blessing for...that, before you and Jace had climbed upon his dragon, ready to depart.

For once, you think her foolish.

No man—certainly not a hardened one of the North—would ever take you to wife for love. No, it's your name that prospects lust after. Even if it, too, is half a lie. They do not want you; just what you can give them.

You wonder where you truly belong then, if anywhere.

Sometimes, you feel so alone in the world.

But here, you just...feel. Quiet. Restful.

And a world away, but finally where you belong.

You bundle yourself in tights beneath your dress once again, with the thickest pair of socks you own donning your feet, boots slipped over them, and gloves on your dainty hands. You then slip on your cloak, desperately wishing it was fur-lined like everyone else's here.

Eventually, you may need to make a small trip into the nearest market town to stock up on winter wear.

Once you deem yourself as ready as you are able to be for the brisk day, you emerge from the castle, clasping your hidden hands nervously once again as you wander around unfamiliar grounds.

You watch as a servant goes by with a small stack of books in her arms and then glance to the tower behind her, most assured that it must be Winterfell's library.

The perfect place for you to spend your day, then, entirely out of the way of your brother's and Lord Stark's political dealings.

Thankfully, there are two small hearths in the library, along with a selection of fine blankets to keep you warm, and a nearby tea tray, piled high with various treats, as well as pitchers of juice, and a silver tea pot to keep your hunger at-bay.

Before long, you are forced to remove a few layers to cool yourself—opting to also seat yourself upon a cushioned window-seat, after kicking off your boots and placing them near you on the floor, so you might feel even a slight, cooling draft as you watch people mill about in the yard while you peruse a selection of novels and books of beautiful artwork, depicting northern kings of old.

You rest your head back against the wooden wall behind you and wonder what Winterfell might look like if Torrhen had not bent the knee to your great, great, great, great grandsire.

So long ago now, and yet it feels so very recent.

Here you and your brother are, after all, asking for aid from the very people your own forebear had subjugated.

You wonder what Lord Stark must think of it. To only be acknowledged—called upon—when it is his strength, his men, his swords and means that another suddenly desires. You're sure he is, otherwise, content to be left alone, away from Southron dealings and schemes.

You sigh, envying him in some ways, but not others.

Envying him his home, his customs, his proud heritage—this place—but not the burden thrust upon him at so young an age.

You are glad for Jacaerys. For your brothers in general. For you cannot imagine the heavy weight of a crown being placed upon your head.

You feel your mother has, thus far, bore it well—stayed her hand, as opposed to plunging the kingdom into war and dragonfire at first opportunity—but you know a dark future looms close if amicable resolve is not soon reached.

Daemon thirsts for bloodshed, using Aegon's usurpation as excuse to enact such violent measures, when you know it has little to do with what the Greens 'stole' from your mother, and instead to do more with his own pride. They took an opportunity from him: an opportunity to mayhaps be Hand of the Queen, or, at the very least, a valued member of her Small Council.

Perhaps Master of War.

You are glad your grandsire disinherited him as heir. That he'd had the foresight to see what sort of ruler he might've been.

You tuck your blanket more tightly around yourself, gladder still to be far from him. Far from all of it.

Your eyes flutter closed—for just a moment you tell yourself—as you allow yourself to pretend that this place could be your home and you not a princess at all, but instead...whomever you wish to be. And that all is well and right in the world, as it had once been not but a few days ago.

Heavy boots thump against wooden stairs, a fur cloak shifts, and eyes the color of a darkening winter sky scan the cramped confines of the Winterfell library, searching.

A broad form weaves through towering bookcases, the smell of parchment, leather, and charcoal greeting his senses.

And, as he rounds a corner, he finally discovers the object of his hunt.

He comes nearer, his prowling steps now quiet to avoid waking you as he peers down at you from beneath a now-unfurrowing brow, his form relaxing as he sees that you are perfectly safe.

He'd had half-a-mind to send out a search party if he and your brother had been unable to find you.

But here you sit, leaned back against the wall, head resting against the window to your side, eyes closed, and your pink lips slightly parted as you take in slow, steady breaths while you dream.

And for the first time in a long, long while, he thinks himself foolish. Because he wishes to know what about, exactly. A handsome lord of the south mayhaps, or, perhaps, a gallant knight whose only fighting experience is that of celebratory tourneys.

He reaches down, gently tucking a lock of hair behind your dainty ear, then running his callused fingertips along your soft, flushed cheek.

He cannot remember the last time he's been so taken with a woman. Not since his late Lady Wife, he is sure.

He still misses her dearly some days. On others, the pain of her loss is easier to bear. He supposes that marrying for love only served to contribute to that pain. And while his son is his heart, he sees her in him, and it oftentimes only serves to make carrying the burden of her sudden passing that much more difficult.

She is in Rickon's smile, his laugh, even his eyes.

He deigns that he shall visit her in the crypts tomorrow morn.

Finally, he seats himself beside you, near your feet, and he leans back against the window behind him, rolling his head to the side to continue gazing upon you.

He wonders why it is here that you chose to sequester yourself away for the day.

He'd asked after you while with Jace, but your twin had stated that you preferred to spend your time alone; that you did not do well with strangers. That he was sure you were fine.

He now worries that you find him too intimidating.

He means to be, certainly. He rules his lands with an iron fist. Would not rule them at all unless he did, considering his uncle's reluctance to relinquish power once he finally came-of-age, and his hand thus being forced when he finally took what was rightfully his from Bennard's clutches.

But he is also fair.

And he can be gentle. When the time calls for it. Even if now is not it. But for you...mayhaps he can make an exception.

Given that he finds you deserving of his more forgiving side, that is. Jace, he thus far, enjoys the company of, at least.

You, he is still trying to gather a reading of. You seem polite enough, shy clearly, and also seem to posses humility. But he knows how sweet a serpent's venom can taste when being fed by a comely young face with a honeyed tongue.

Though, he does not in his heart of hearts truly think you that sort of girl—rather, woman.

He only wishes to spend more time at your side to find out for himself exactly who you are.

He leans toward you, his large hand enveloping the slender crown of your shoulder as he begins to gently shake you awake. "Princess."

Your brows furrow and you stir for only a moment before resuming your peaceful slumber.

He tries again. "Y/N, it is time to wake."

You slowly blink your eyes open, looking around confusedly under hooded lids before your eyes meet his own. "Where—"

"You fell asleep, Princess. It is nearly time for supper."

You suddenly sit up straighter then, heart jumping. You...you'd been here all day? Had slept it away? Gods be good. Now he must think you incredibly lazy.

You can't do anything right, can you?

You hide yourself away to prevent yourself from interrupting he and Jace, and still you managed to do it in error.

"I...forgive me, My Lord. I..." You trail off, looking for an excuse.

"Why did you not join us, Y/N?"

Your eyes meet his then. "I—what?"

His lip twitches at your unsurety of yourself. A far cry from the woman his advisors had been speaking to him of just this morn before breaking his fast, encouraging him into a betrothal with her. One of House Blackwood, with a bawdy tongue and a fierce disposition.

"Jacaerys and I. We had a full day together, discussing future plans if war comes to pass, while exploring Winterfell's grounds. I had looked for you, but you were not to be found. Did you hide yourself away from me here, then?"

Your eyes grow wide. Oh no. Now he thinks you mislike him.

You shake your head. "No. I just...I did not wish to be an impediment, My Lord—Cregan. So I stayed here."

He frowns. You think yourself a burden, clearly. He wishes desperately to see what you are like amongst those you are more comfortable with. Wishes to hear your laugh, to see your smile.

"You do not intend to stay hidden all the while you are here, do you, Y/N?"

You nervously clasp your hands in your lap. "No. I'm sure I will explore on my own eventually. You needn't worry about me."

He studies you for a moment and you merely blink at him in return, waiting for him to speak next.

"Are you hungry, then?" He asks with a raised brow.

You nod, smiling softly.

He stands, towering over you. "Then let us feast."

You slip the blanket from your lap, flushing fiercely when you notice that your gown has ridden all the way up to your thighs beneath it.

You quickly shove it back down, refusing to meet his eyes as you then pull on your boots and slip on your cloak before standing.

You go to leave, until he takes your hand in his, wrapping it round his arm as he leads you both out, his palm resting atop your own all the while.

When you sit to dine, Cregan motions for you to seat yourself next to him, to which you silently oblige.

You truly appreciate him trying to be genial toward you, but you know it is all out of lordly hospitality. That it is due to your title, not you.

Never you.

You remain quiet as always as he and Jace discuss their explorations of the day, listening with interest, so as to give yourself ideas of places to see by yourself tomorrow.

Even if Jace's continual looks are beginning to grate on your nerves. Had something set him off today?

You sip your soup, then take a small bite of bread, only then noticing that Jace is glaring at you, yet again, over his meat pie.

“What?” You ask, annoyed.

Cregan glances to you, surprised by your fiery tone.

“You couldn’t have left a note on your bed, or upon mine—”

You roll your eyes, sighing. Gods forbid you explore the library without a royal escort. “I was in the library, not taking a trip to the Wall. I hadn’t even thought a note necessary." A smug smile then crawls onto your face. "How are you to one day be king if you cannot even look after me?”

He kicks you under the table then. 

You swing your leg back, doing the same and he shouts. “Ouch, that hurt!”

You shrug. “I didn’t feel a thing.”

He plants his palms flat atop the trestle table. “Do it again and I’ll feed you to Vermax.”

You raise a brow, ready to swing your leg back yet again, until Cregan begins to laugh lightly to himself. 

You both turn your heads in his direction, and he waves his hand just once. “Forgive me, My Prince.” He nods toward you. “Princess. I just can’t help but think how much you remind me of my late younger brother, Jace.”

You smile softly and Jace’s shoulders relax then. At least he had not been offended by your sudden displays of anger...

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you say quietly. And you truly mean it. You cannot imagine losing any of your brothers. Not a one.

If you did, especially to war...for the first time in all your life, you wish for a dragon of your very own. Then again, if you had one, whomever took them from you would not be safe. No one would, as such terrible grief overtook you.

Cregan looks at you then, his gaze softening as his thigh presses up against your own. “Thank you, Princess. It was a long time ago, now. I’d like to think, if he had been given a chance to grow into a man, he would be much like your older brother," he says, nodding toward Jace.

Jacaerys smiles at that. “Will you tell us about him, then?”

Cregan nods and throws himself into tales of brotherly love and camaraderie, which you listen to with a warm smile.

Once you have supped, you and Jace head off to bed, even if you do not feel tired—you blame your midday nap (perhaps a bit longer than a nap) for your lack of exhaustion. At least tonight you did not nearly fall over face-first into a bowl of desert.

You bid your brother goodnight after he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

You refrain from stomping on one of his feet in return after his comment at dinner about making you dinner for his dragon, only because you know Lord Cregan is watching.

When you turn round, you give him a small smile and a slight bow of your head. "Goodnight, Lord—"

"Will you join me in the crypts on the morrow, after breaking our fast?"

You blink in surprise. "I—yes, I can. Are...are you certain?" You imagine it a private and sacred place where outsiders are not entirely welcome.

He nods. "I am."

"I will see you, then, in the morn," you say quietly.

He steps closer to you, forcing you to lean your head back to meet his eyes.

He seems to consider you for a moment, as if debating something internally, before he brushes a soft kiss over your forehead. "I shall see you then."

You watch as he steps into his room, softly shutting the door behind him, while your heart pounds in your chest, and blood rushes to your cheeks, warming them.

That had been most...unexpected.

You enter your own room then, pressing your back against the door, knowing sleep will not find you anytime soon this evening.

[moonlitdesertdreams]

Take the damn shot

A/N: Ohhhhh I've spiraled. Going from Mandalorian fics to writing about a radioactive cowboy with no nose within a couple weeks of each other is totally healthy :) Tags: Fallout, Cooper Howard, Cooper Howard x F!Reader, Cooper Howard x You, Ghoul x Reader WARNINGS: Canon-Typical language and violence. Summary: A single quiet day in the saloon is all you wanted. But somehow, your Ghoul partner is pulling his gun and you're covered in another person's blood. Honestly, it's just typical.

Word Count: 1.7k+

(GIF Credit to @djo)

The Ghoul hates to admit it, but he needs you.

In the same sick and twisted, goddamned way he needs the Vials to stay sane, he needs you next to him. When poison air grows thick and the scorching sun sinks beyond a brutalized horizon, you’re always at his side. Day in and day out, you stick around. Full of piss and vinegar, ready to take on the fucked up world you’re all stuck in.

And Cooper’s not one for generosity anymore, but he gives you credit a lot of the time. He knows he can be nasty, and you don’t mind one bit. In spite of his callousness and general disregard for safety, you put on a chipper attitude and tug him (sometimes physically) along to the next town.  Outwardly innocent but filled with a mutual hatred for Vault-Tec and what its influence had done to the world and yourself, you’d quickly become his diamond in the rough. 

And you shine particularly bright in the shack of a building the Wasteland called a saloon. You’ve made careful friends with a couple of gray-haired biddies- presumably the owners-  in the back of the room, and chat happily with them. Cooper sits off to the side behind you, a bottle of the local brew dangling between his fingers. He’s content for the first time in a while; ass in a creaky rocking chair and boots kicked up on an old milk crate. The brim of his hat is pulled down to hide the majority of his face, but eyes wander lazily from you to the front door. 

Cooper didn’t think many things were nice any longer, but listening to you prattle on with the women warmed something in his dead heart.

“You’re awfully pretty for this place.” The older of the two women, sporting a single eye and an impressively neat beehive style, compliments you. “Gotta be out of the Vaults with that skin.”

The Ghoul tenses, knowing the mention of your 200-year prison would strike a nerve. 

“Yeah. I’m from before the war, actually.” You say it plainly and chase it down with a swig of liquor. “Fuckin’ Vault-Tec.”

The Ghoul’s familiar with your story, from you finding out about the plan to drop homemade bombs on American citizens to your confrontation with the executive group in Vault 31. Little did you know, you’d be sneaking in with no chance for escape. Cooper tightens his fist at the thought of Hank MacLean shoving you carelessly into a cryopod and slamming the button to lock you in. You’d relayed the story to him with watery eyes, and that’s something he absolutely loathed. He had enough personal beef with Hank that your trauma added to his ever-growing list of things to be absolutely pissed-the-fuck-off about.

Finch and Sparrow, as they were so comically named, clutch their pearls in sadness as you tell your story. They fawn over you, and Cooper makes out a few ‘fuck them Vaulties’ and a ‘well as much as it sucks, we’re glad you made it this far’. You sniff just barely and wipe your eyes. 

“Thanks, ladies. It means a lot.” 

The conversation turns back pleasant for the most part, and you’re enthralled as the women pull you into the town gossip. Cooper begrudgingly gets up to piss, comfy as he was, but stops at your side to hand off his bag first. You take it with a nod, more interested in the rumor mill than his whereabouts for the moment. He swaggers to the back door of the saloon, where wind whips sand against his jeans and patters the leather of his boots with tiny rocks. 

Voices drift out the door from inside as Cooper yanks his zipper back up. 

“Is it true what they say ‘bout Vaulties?” It’s a man’s voice, gruff and demanding in comparison to the happy lilt of yours. “Heard your story and always been… curious.”

“If you listened, you would know I ain’t no Vaultie.” Your reply is instant, but the edge in your voice has Cooper stepping a little faster down the short hallway. He reemerges to the sight of a suspiciously dressed man leaning against the wood beam beside your table, a little too close for comfort. 

“Sure you are, darlin’. I can tell by lookin’ at’chya.” The man’s face is half-covered by a bandanna, and a pair of sand goggles are pushed up on his forehead, “Like they say.. everything’s… softer.”

There’s suddenly a hand landing on your shoulder, and Cooper sees red. His gun is pulled before he knows it, leveling at the man’s forehead. 

“Hands off the girl.” He growls. 

On closer inspection the man is probably close to the age you appear. Above the bandanna, weatherbeaten skin turns into frizzy ginger hair. He’s wearing a typical duster type coat, and the goggles are leaving red marks in his forehead. Cooper decides he’s taken shits more attractive than him. 

Probably smarter, too. 

“Fuck off, Ghoul.” Is the reply Cooper receives, sending  a flash of white-hot anger through his already irradiated body. “I wasn't talkin’ to you.”

It was all too common, being brushed off. At this point in his life, it actually brings a smirk to his face. Your mouth is even tipping up at the edges, having had many interactions with the can of worms this guy was prying open. 

“Listen man, I think you should let it go.” You warn and try to stand from the broken chair you had been carefully perching on. The red-head doesn’t relent, and pushes you back down into the chair. It wobbles dangerously as Cooper stomps closer. The movement prompts your captor to pull his own gun. It’s a crudely made pipe pistol, but able to shoot flying projectiles into your brains nonetheless.

“Get your goddamn hands off her before I decorate that wall with your fuckin’ skull.” Cooper yanks the hammer back on his pistol, hesitating at your close proximity.

The redhead pulls his bandanna down and Cooper watches you lean away as you recognize the scent and characteristics of a Fiend. His teeth are hanging loosely at crooked angles, and the pock marks around his mouth from scratching his skin open drip blood and serous fluid. His gun is trained on Cooper, but he freezes when he sees the Ghoul shift forward. 

“Ah ah ah. How’d you like me to put a bullet in her instead?” The Fiend tugs you to your feet and nuzzles at your hair as he presses the barrel of his gun to your ribs. “I’d love a taste myself.”

The suffocating need to keep you safe and at his side fills Cooper’s corroded veins as you scowl at the Fiend whose nose is pressed dangerously close to your cheek with rotten teeth bared. Rage ignites from the anger he’s already feeling. 

BANG. 

Cooper’s watching when the red spray of blood washes over half the saloon, but still doesn’t quite comprehend what’s happened. His gun didn’t fire, but the scent of ignited powder fills the air. You fall to the floor along with your captor, and the aforementioned rage boils over. He holsters his gun and scrambles to pull you away in the chaos.  

Thankfully, a quick once-over shows you to have no injuries, but the same can’t be said for your attacker. A foot away the Fiend lies still, about five pounds lighter from the gaping hole in his chest. Gore from his wound is splattered thick across your face and neck. Your eyes are pinched closed to avoid anything unsightly entering them, and you lash out blindly when Cooper grasps your arms. 

“Let me go, you rotten bastard!” The Ghoul catches your right hand before it can hook into his jaw, “I’ll kill you myself.”

“Quit squealin’ sunshine, it’s me.” Cooper growls

While he’s getting a handle on your flailing limbs, a shadow covers the both of you. Cooper glances up at the one-eyed old woman who’s sawed-off shotgun is still smoking in her left hand. 

“I know your brain is shrunken and all, but next time take the shot sooner.” She bites. “And feel free to clean up my damn bar.”

Cooper is torn between staring at the older woman- Sparrow, he thinks-  and trying to contain your squirming. He’s not too fragile to admit he really doesn’t want to take a punch from you right now, so he wipes the back of his hand across your eyes and tugs you to sit up beside him. 

“Cooper?”

He huffs a laugh at your incredulous tone and flicks away the remnants of blood littering your skin “The one and only. Open your eyes.”

They flicker open slowly, and you pout at the blood congealing on your clothes. “I just got these pants.”

Cooper sets a hand on your thigh and squeezes gently. “I’ll buy you a new pair. S’Long as you promise not to get Fiend all over those ones too.”

You thrust an elbow into his ribs at the jab and climb to your feet. Cooper follows with a dramatic groan. 

“Old man.” You tease over your shoulder, observing the carnage from Sparrow’s well-aimed shot. A kick to the corpses’ ribs follows, sending a splatter of blood across Cooper’s pants. You shoot him an insincerely apologetic look. “She’s right, you know.”

The Ghoul follows your gaze to Sparrow, who’s hollering at any remaining patrons that dare tread too close to the mess, damning them for tracking blood around the bar. 

“‘Bout what?” 

You lean into his space, the scent of blood thick in the air. “Take the damn shot sooner.”

Cooper grabs the back of your neck and yanks you forward in a hard kiss. The blood transfers easily onto his lips, and he licks it off while pulling away. “Fucker deserved more than one shot.”

Possessiveness floods his mind and he squeezes the soft flesh beneath his fingers. 

“I’da strung him up by his balls if I got my hands on him.” He mutters, tracing another finger through the blood and popping it into his mouth. “After grabbin’ onto you like that.”

You lean into his chest and let a smile curl the corners of your lips up. “All for little ol’ me?”

The Ghoul pinches your bloody cheek. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

-------------------

thanks for reading, much love ❤

Read More: Fallout Masterlist

[rebelspykatie]

Part 2

Part 1

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eddie stands and follows Steve to the door as he’s pulling on his shoes. He wants to stop him, pull the shoe out of his hand and drag Steve back to the couch, but he doesn’t have any right. He’s not entirely sure Steve won’t push him away if he tries to touch him right now, anyways.

“You think I’m straight and I was convinced you were into me,” Steve leans against the door frame to pull his other shoe on. He mutters under his breath, “I should’ve never listened to Robin an-”

“Robin was in on this?” He interrupts that thought. It throws Eddie. They’re such a tight knit group, he doesn’t know how they were so far off track with him.

“We spent hours going through every stupid interaction we had. Thought we had it all figured out.” He huffs and walks back over to the coffee table to pick up his wallet and keys. “I guess we’re both idiots.”

“No, Steve,” he tries to reach out and grab Steve’s arm, but he moves too quickly and Eddie’s left grasping air, “you’re not.”

“It’s fine, I’m used to it, anyways.” Steve scrambles to pull his sweater back on, the cold just starting to seep into the night air outside.

“Can you just slow down for a second?” Eddie stops trying to catch Steve and plants himself in front of the door. “What do you mean, you’re used to it?”

“Are you going to trap me here?”

“Answer the question.”

“This part, Eddie,” he sighs and gestures between them like that means anything to Eddie. “Everyone I’ve ever confessed to or made a move on has had the same reaction.” He looks off to the side, unable to look Eddie in the eye. “I’m pretty sure I’m the problem. Good ole Steve Harrington, too stupid to notice no one is interested in him.”

“Steve, you’re not stupid.”

“Feels like it most of the time.” He pinches his nose again, still not looking at Eddie, more like through him, gaze pinned to somewhere in the middle of Eddie’s chest. “Can you please move? We can pretend like this never happened and I promise I won’t make any weird moves on you ever again. I’m still friends with Nancy and Robin after everything, I can do it with you, too.”

Eddie skips over the whole Robin part of that in his head because he doesn’t have the brain power to analyze anything beyond Steve’s feelings for him. He never saw this coming. No one, boy or girl or anything in between, has ever made a move on Eddie before. He’s the local freak. There’s no way he could have predicted the town’s golden boy hero would make the moves on him.

He takes in how disheveled Steve’s become in the last few minutes. How hastily he’s thrown on his sweater. The mess of Steve’s hair from the hand that’s run through it several times since he got up from the couch. Barely laced up shoes so he could get out the door faster. He’s normally so put together and this, the sight of him so frazzled, frightens Eddie.

They were fast friends after everything happened with Vecna, leaning on each other for support. Becoming inseparable with King Steve wasn’t something Eddie ever imagined, but it was so easy. Neither of them were what each other had built up in their heads from the rumor mill around Hawkins. Eddie’s never had a guy friend as close as Steve. Sure, he had Hellfire and Corroded Coffin, but Eddie’s always been a bit of a loner.

It was impossible to feel alone with Steve as a friend. He had a way of knowing when you needed support, always just there when Eddie felt alone or needed a physical presence when the weight of the upside down was dragging him down. There wasn’t a day in the past six months that Eddie didn’t see Steve, even if it was only in passing or a quick little jaunt down to Family Video, he’s a constant presence in Eddie’s life.

To lose that? Would be like losing a part of himself. Like losing a limb. Losing his home.

And he’s scared. He doesn’t want to let Steve walk out that door, the weight of losing him forever lingering in the air. But he can’t trap him here. That wouldn’t be fair to Steve.

He moves out of the way, taking a step towards Steve, but he sidesteps Eddie and reaches for the door.

“Steve-”

“Don’t worry about me, Eddie,” he doesn’t turn around, but hesitates halfway out the door. “I’ll be fine.”

With the soft click of the door closing, he’s gone.

And that should be the end of it. Closed book. Eddie doesn’t like Steve and Steve needs to move on. There’s not much Eddie can do about that.

But it haunts him.

If you didn’t know Steve, you wouldn’t realize that anything was wrong. He’s acting normal, smile on his face when he jokes with Robin, complaining about the kids being terrors, going to his job.

But there’s something in the set of his shoulders, in the way his smile droops when he thinks no one’s paying attention to him, in the way Robin protectively hovers around him when Eddie is nearby. It’s clearly a facade he’s putting on to get by.

And Eddie aches. There’s a pit in his stomach that opened up that day and it hasn’t closed. Steve avoids his touch and the chasm grows larger, dragging Eddie further into the darkness. Casual hangouts halted. No more divulging of nightmares or fears late at night. A piece of Eddie is with Steve and he’s bereft of comfort. Unsettled.

He lies awake replaying that kiss over and over in his head. Thinking about what Steve said after. There’s no comfort in the way he handled the situation. It feels like he miscalculated, like pushing Steve away was the wrong move and now his life will never be the same again.

Maybe it won’t. Maybe there’s no way for them to move forward and for him to not break Steve’s heart every day. Steve said he was an idiot, but Eddie’s positive he’s got it all backwards. Eddie’s the idiot.

And he can’t stop thinking about kissing Steve.