#what a way to make a livin'

[lauronk]

I wish you'd write a fic where ellie was stressed with a job and joel was able to talk her through it and calm her down

this is not because I am stressed with my job hahahaha what

the spinny wheel of destiny picked yours! and boy what a choice because i have also been mad stressed at work lately.

wishing joel comfort upon anyone and everyone stressed at work lately!

what a way to make a livin'

length: ~1.9k words tags: joel & ellie; modern au; father-daughter relationship; shitty customers; retail work; no beta we die like david

All Ellie can think of right now - with this woman hollering in her face - is that gif of Emily Blunt from The Devil Wears Prada. Red eyes, stuffy nose, clicking around on the computer screen and murmuring under her breath “I love my job, I love my job, I love my job.” Like it’s a mantra that she has to remind herself of, like if she says it enough times it’ll be true.

I love my job.

Except Ellie doesn’t really love her job all that much. She likes it, sure. It gives her a great discount on art supplies, helps her save up a little extra pocket money. Her coworkers are pretty cool too, always a bonus.

But she doesn’t exactly wanna be an art store clerk for the rest of her life, and people like this woman are exactly why.

She seems to have finally run out of breath, standing on the other side of the counter with her chest heaving and her cheeks scarlet, fury in her eyes. Ellie’d zoned out somewhere around it’s only missing one page and it’s barely a week past the return window and so now she stares at the woman a little blankly.

“Well?” She demands.

It’s right there, on the tip of Ellie’s tongue - Sorry, ma’am, I haven’t listened to a word of your bullshit, and I’m not doing your fucking return - but Jace had told her she was one more customer complaint from being canned. So she swallows it, pastes on a smile that probably looks more like a grimace, and forces out through gritted teeth, “Let me get a manager for you.”

She doesn’t get paid enough to get yelled at.

Jace, though, does, and more than that she loves getting to tell customers off; her face practically lights up at Ellie’s frustrated “She wants to return a used sketchbook purchased four months ago” and bolts to the register like she’s been told there’s a stack of cash there. Sure enough, after about a minute, the woman’s throaty yelling can be heard once again.

A customer in the paint aisle gives Ellie a commiserating look as she settles down onto the ground to take over Jace’s restocking.

“People can be such assholes, huh?” He says sympathetically, right as he takes a slurping sip of a McDonald’s drink and then sets it on top of a stack of canvases. He leaves it there too, and Ellie’s seized with the urge to pick it up and chuck it at the back of his head as he walks away.

You’re not any fucking better! She wants to scream at him.

Instead, she just scoops up the empty cup and tosses it in the trash, detouring to the bathroom to wash her hands afterwards.

Sketchbook Lady and Cup Man have both left by the time she reemerges, and Jace is strolling towards her with a vaguely triumphant air.

“Got her down to store credit for a quarter the value of the sketchbook,” she says happily, plopping back down onto the ground with the boxes of paint tubes. “And told her that if she abused any member of my staff next time she came in here I’d take her picture from the cameras and put a banned notice on the front windows for everyone to see.”

Ellie sighs tiredly, giving Jace a small smile. At least, if nothing else, she’s got a cool fucking boss.

One who’s watching her now with narrowed eyes, hands moving on autopilot as she labels and shelves the tubes. “Why don’t you go in the back and work on today’s shipment. Think we got nine boxes needing unpacking and inventorying back there.”

Ellie doesn’t even try to argue it - she just turns on her heel and strides off.

—

By the time she leaves three hours later, Ellie’s sweaty and exhausted, her head pounding with pressure behind her eyes. She’s supposed to get dinner with Dina and Jesse tonight, but she shoots them a text in the group begging off. She can’t, she just can’t, she’s too goddamn fried right now to socialize even with her best friends. So she just goes home. No music on the stereo, just a quiet podcast she’s only half paying attention to.

She doesn’t really feel herself relax until she’s pulled into her driveway.

Joel’s not home yet - his truck’s not in his driveway - so Ellie toes off her shoes by the front door and flops facedown onto the couch. Dina and Jesse like to poke fun at her for being almost twenty-one and still living at home with her dad, but Ellie loves it. She always jokingly replies that it’s cheaper that way, or that she doesn’t have to do her own laundry, or that Joel’s a better cook.

But really she just…hasn’t felt ready to move out. She’s been living with Joel since she was just shy of fifteen, the first home that she’s ever wanted to really stay in and had the feeling returned. All her foster homes before that were a mismatch, and then in a last ditch effort she got put with this cranky old fuck who Ellie had been sure was going to turn her out within a month.

He hadn’t though - he’d been the first person to ever really look at Ellie and see her.

Sue her, she wasn’t ready to move away from that yet.

Ellie gives herself ten minutes to decompress on the couch - with a few muffled screams into the cushions for good measure - before dragging herself down the hall to her bathroom and making herself take a scalding shower. Normally she cranks some music while she does it, but her head is still pounding and right now all she wants is some blessed quiet.

Fifteen minutes later she’s clean, in pajamas, and back on the couch with a bottle of water and her feet propped up. There’s a text on her phone from Joel saying he’s picked up takeout from Casa Colombia - Ellie’s stomach rumbles as soon as she reads it - so he’ll probably be home in another twenty minutes.

Hopefully by then she’s feeling less like peeling her skin off.

It’s ridiculous, Ellie knows that, letting herself get so worked up by a couple shitty customers at a retail job. She’s dealt with worse before, but some days it was just more frustrating than others - a constant stream of people who don’t see her as a person, simply a robot to find stuff for them or stand behind a register. And even the nice ones can get overwhelming when there’s so many of them. Just constant, non-stop interaction with people.

Ellie groans, letting her head fall back against the couch. All the stress that she’d managed to melt away with the hot shower and quiet time has come speeding back as she just sits here and wallows in her stupid, useless thoughts. Maybe she should’ve turned the television on to distract her.

The sound of the garage door opening greets her, and it lifts a weight off her chest.

Joel’s home.

“Food’s here!” He calls down the hall, and there’s a few thuds as he shucks his boots. Ellie doesn’t move, instead craning her head around to see him emerge, bags in hand. He’s grayer than he was when she moved in with him, wrinklier too. But he’s still Joel, still emanates that sense of safety she’s never been able to find anywhere else.

Still her favorite person in the world.

His brow furrows when he notices her sitting there, already in her pajamas - plaid pants and a (definitely not stolen from him) overlarge t-shirt adorned with a faded Cowboys star. He stills, head tilting as he looks her over. “‘Y’alright, kiddo?”

“Long day,” is all Ellie replies for now, pushing herself to stand so she can walk over and take the bags of food from his hands. Joel presses a quick kiss to her temple as she does, a gesture that never fails to fill her with warmth, before he heads to the cupboards to pull down plates.

They set the table and eat in silence, other than the occasional remark about the deliciousness of an arepa or the perfect seasoning on the churrasco. Ellie appreciates that about Joel, always has. He’s not one to talk about his own feelings, and so he doesn’t push her on hers. But when she wants to talk, he’ll be all ears. Probably have some good, weird southern wisdom too, something like you’ve got horse sense or just because a chicken has wings don’t mean it can fly.

Both things she’s heard him say in utter seriousness.

They both eat everything Joel’s brought home, and then Ellie handles the clean up and dishes while Joel goes to his room to shower and change. By the time he comes back in his own pajamas - which she definitely didn’t get him just because they matched hers - Ellie’s resumed her position on the couch, though with much less tension in her shoulders.

Amazing how much a good meal and quiet time with her favorite person can make the world seem like a good place again.

Joel lowers himself to the couch next to her with a sigh, a heavy hand patting her knee. “Gonna tell me what’s got you all up in your head?”

Ellie sighs, leaning over until her head is resting on Joel’s shoulder. “Just one of those days.”

She feels him shift, and then his cheek is resting against the crown of her head. “Tell me about it?”

The gentle question - one Ellie knows she could refuse to answer, say she doesn’t feel like talking about it - asked in his rough twang, does the same thing it has since she was a teenager. It makes her open her mouth and the words come flowing out.

She tells Joel about Sketchbook Lady and Cup Man and the person who’d hung up on her and the older man who’d kept staring at her chest and the woman who had practically tossed her payment in Ellie’s face and the perfectly nice lady who wanted to tell Ellie her whole life story while purchasing one pack of coloring pencils and a single tube of red paint.

It’s still draining, reliving all the seemingly trivial interactions she’d had, but this time it’s like unloading a weight from her shoulders. By the time she stops talking, finally done, Ellie feels like she could just pass out right there against his shoulder and sleep dreamlessly.

“‘M sorry you had such a day,” Joel replies quietly, readjusting them so his arm’s around her shoulders, and he squeezes ever so slightly. “I bet you'll probably have more shitty ones though, sorry to tell you. But just remember that you're good at your job and they're lucky as hell to have you, baby. And you can handle some shitty assholes. 'F you can't, just let me at 'em.” Ellie chuckles softly, burrowing a little closer to him.

They're both quiet for a few minutes, and Ellie's just about to suggest popping a movie in and digging into the ice cream in the freezer when Joel speaks. “You’re off the next two days, ain't you?”

“Yeah.”

His hand comes up to cup the back of her head, tilting her so he can press a quick kiss to her forehead. “Why don’t you ‘n me take a little day trip or somethin’? Go down to San Antonio, hang out at the Riverwalk. Or we could go out to Fredericksburg?” He offers the last suggestion a little hopefully, and Ellie grins.

“You just wanna go back to the World War II museum,” she teases.

“...No.”

Ellie giggles, eyes slipping shut when his dull fingernails start to scratch over her scalp. “Fredericksburg it is, then.”

thanks for reading!

if you sent a prompt to my inbox, i promise i am still planning to do them all. but i also wanna get the next chappy of if you can wait finished and posted soonish too, so it might be a moment before you see another. and i will once again leave it up to the spinny wheel of destiny.

love y'all!

[sophsicle]

People like u are the reason the marauders fandom is ruined

thank you for recognizing all my hard work

it's tough destroying a fandom

and not enough people appreciate that <3

[morningstar-chronicles]

guys i'm so tired

[nonbinarytoast]

Do you think the OIAR employees work a 9 to 5?

[sunny-rants]

retail will have you squatting in the most random places imaginable

[nightmaretist]

TIMING: Current PARTIES: Wyatt @loftylockjaw & Inge @nightmaretist LOCATION: Art Walk SUMMARY: Inge is walking the art walk. Wyatt recognizes her from his dreams. He responds very well. CONTENT WARNINGS: Cops, implied past domestic abuse.

Inge was a creature of the night, more and more these days. As the world grew sunnier and its days longer she found herself growing more agitated. But she was no recluse — though she was a being who thrived best when the sun was down, she would never become someone who hid in the shadows while it was daytime. So she wore glasses with tinted lenses and clothes that covered her glistening skin (or at least attempted to, some of it was made of sheer fabric) and went out. 

Getting back into the swing of teaching after her semi-absence (due to a burn out on paper and sword related injuries in reality) was not going as smooth as she’d like and yet another day was over and done with. She moved through downtown now, to run an errand or two and judge the art walk murals with no holds barred. 

It was, for all intents and purposes, a normal spring day.

Until – and there was an until, as there always was these days – her eyes fell on another pedestrian. She’d seen this man before, but it was often just when he was sprawled in bed, tied up in his sheets, or walking through her nightmarish traps. Inge had encountered this problem before, but precedence did not mean she was prepared for it now. To see a sleeper in the waking world, to be confronted with someone who had only seen her in their dreams was always a gamble — and it was a risk, most of all. People were unpredictable when their nights were restless. She had known this from personal experience once. Maybe she still did.

She turned to look at the mural, hoping that en profil she’d be less recognizable. Her eyes took in a larger-than-life Dolly Parton as she resisted the urge to turn and walk off.

—

He was on his way to Xó’s place, knowing that she needed him as much as he needed her right now. He hoped that he could pick himself up off the ground after the previous night, that he could get his shit together well enough to be the support that she needed, but it felt like a daunting task. His mind was fuzzy and thoughts disjointed as he walked, weaving his way through the evening’s foot traffic.

His gaze raked over the crowd, not seeing much. His attention was unfocused, wandering, not looking for anything in particular as he followed the familiar path to his friend’s home. People were looking up at the murals, admiring how nice they were, but Wyatt did not appreciate them in that moment. He was trying to appreciate how his eyelids did not feel too heavy, how the fifteen minutes he’d let himself sleep in the car after parking in town had given him a small boost of energy, hopefully enough to keep him on his feet for a few hours and give Xó the attention and care she deserved. 

Only… maybe it hadn’t. He stopped, breath catching in his throat. It was her. It was her. He’d know her face anywhere, even though he couldn’t see it in full. She was a regular fixture in his nightmares, and sometimes he felt… her presence felt orchestrated, like she was the one pulling the strings. But he didn’t know her! How could she be? 

… this was a dream. This was another dream. Fuck, he was still asleep in the car. Had he forgotten to set his alarm? No, no, no. If this went on for too long, it would turn strange. The arrival of the red-haired stranger only guaranteed it, guaranteed that he would be soon enveloped by fear, gripped by horror, strangled by panic. He felt his breathing quicken, heart thundering in his chest. He wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t run this time. She wasn’t even looking at him. This was different, but it still felt the same, somehow. She wasn’t looking. He would… he would confront her. It wouldn’t matter if this was a dream, probably. He wasn’t a dream expert. But he had to do something before the birds came. 

Striding over to her, the shifter had no pretense. He had no tact and no plan on how to handle this. He was asleep, what did it matter? Nothing mattered. Nothing except… except getting at her. Maybe if he killed her in his dream, she wouldn’t show up again. Maybe it would just feel good, and that was it. He could stand that. He needed something to feel good. 

“You,” he snarled, closing the distance between them. The people nearest them reacted to the growl by stepping back, eyes wide. “Who are you?” His panic rose, his heart beat faster, and he let out a desperate yowl, “Who are you?! Why are you here?! What do you want?!” He reached for her, a thirst for violence in his eyes. There were exclamations from the townies enjoying the art walk, and the empty space around them grew in size. 

—

The artist was egocentric. It was impossible not to be, in a way. To kill one’s ego and still make art that was worthwhile was something that Inge thought impossible and so in every piece she made there was something of her embedded. For her physical, earthly works, this meant not so much besides that – in her opinion – her work was better for it. 

But in dreams? In dreams she was so arrogant as to appear herself, to be a witness of the horrors if not a perpetrator. In dreams she was powerful and limitless, able to transform herself into some kind of monster. She could give herself claws or wings, feathery skin or a sharp beak, and she had done that in the dreams of Wyatt. Wyatt, who existed to her only in his bedroom, asleep and pliable, and who should not exist out here.

It was not the first time she was recognized by a sleeper. There was a precedence that had failed to make her wise and cautious enough to avoid running into the issue. So when Wyatt marched over, she felt her body tighten. She cursed the sun for shining. She cursed, somewhere deep inside, her own arrogance. But she did not run.

Not when he snarled, not when people stepped aside, not when he reached for her. Then, she stepped back, letting an expression of shock wash over her. It was genuine. It was played. It never really mattered any more, whether something was real or played up. What mattered was that it was convincing. “What do you mean?” Her voice was shrill and sharp, tucking her arms around her body. Inge was no fool. She’d been on this earth for over seven decades. A muscular man approaching a shorter, weaker-seeming woman like this made alarm bells sound. “I don’t want anything — I don’t even know you.”

—

Liar. She was a fuckin’ liar. There was no way he was mistaking that face, even if it wasn't haloed by onyx feathers, even if it lacked a beak that clacked and snapped with her laughter and still rang in his ears when he stumbled and fell back into consciousness. He knew that face. He feared that face. 

But… she was recoiling. This was new. A new way of making him feel uncertain, unsteady. Was he awake or asleep? He could never tell anymore. But her presence, even if she was acting afraid, had to mean he was asleep, right? It had to. It had to, that was the only explanation. So he didn't really care what this looked like. He ignored the shouts from people who feared for the woman's safety but who were too afraid to lay hands on him themselves. They were nothing. They were ghosts. 

“Bullshit,” he hissed, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He wanted to grab her, he wanted to close his hand around her slender throat and strangle the air from it, for all the good that'd fucking do. He couldn’t dampen his temper, even if his actions meant nothing here. Being angry was better than being afraid. So he reached out again, fingertips brushing over her pale skin briefly before being jerked back. Pain bloomed on his jaw, and the shifter frowned. He glanced over, seeing some ghost in a dream with his fist raised, yelling something about calling the cops. Wyatt laughed, ignoring the interruption and focusing his piercing gaze back on the woman. But before he could snatch her up and rip her to pieces, there was another weight on his back. Hands gripped him tightly, and more pain erupted in his gut. There were more of them now, nameless specters, all attacking him and trying to drag him to the ground. Was this part of the nightmare? The shifter let out a furious, bellowing yowl, swinging his own fists to try and scatter the men, but they were many. 

“I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you!” he howled at the woman, successfully knocking one attacker to the ground only for two more to take his place. They were not fighters like he was, but together, they were a significant challenge. He sank to the ground after a kick to the back of his knees, but his gaze never left the woman's face. Anger turned to desperation as he realized he wasn't going to be getting back up, not with all the hands holding him down. Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes and he grimaced through them. “Leave me alone,” he shouted at her. He just wanted restful sleep. Nothing more. This phantom woman, this fixture in his nightmares, had to have something to do with it. And if she didn't, if she was just a figment of his imagination, then begging for the impossible was certainly not something he was unfamiliar with. “God, just leave me alone!” 

—

And so prey became predator became prey. Wyatt saw his nightmare in the flesh and finally reared his head and it was Inge who seemed the most easily harmed. It was a rush. Even in the waking world she held the upper hand, for once. She watched his temper flare and rage and she knew there was a chance that those hands would reach her body and do damage — but they were in public, and she’d recently been run through by a sword so a punch to the face was not the worst kind of violence to be anticipating. 

He did touch her, just the once, and there was the audience. Inge didn’t usually perform with an audience but today was an exception and today the audience was on her side. She, the hero — Wyatt the villain. It was a kind of power she wanted to embrace and hold onto forever, this feeling of being untouchable even when caught by someone she had … well, not harmed, but certainly haunted. She let out a yelp at the display of violence and she had to work – no one ever applauded her for her hard work – to keep herself from smiling.

Where had this been, this level of control over a scene in the factory? In the bunker, hell, even in her classrooms? Inge took a step back, her back hitting the wall behind her. Dolly Parton smiled over her as she watched the shifter remain in his human, fallible body and seem beside himself. (She had – once, long ago – she had been beside herself, pulling at her own hair and marring her skin with her nails, feeling like the world was a cloud and the only tangible thing was the fear from her dreams or the promise of them. Long ago. Not now, though.) She watched with awe – that could be fear – as people rushed to her aid, those simple humans who saw a scene and did not dare to think twice. She watched the swings of violence, the way he’d only really brushed her skin and done not much more.

She stared at him, meeting his gaze all the way through as she pressed herself up against Dolly, as if she was backed in a corner rather than a witness to her own success. If this had been in a quiet corner of town or even in the woods where his house stood, she’d be dead — but in stead he was on the ground. Tears in his eyes. Inge hadn’t felt this level of control in quite some time and she welcomed it. She looked at him and shook her head, as if denying his request. And then she shook it harder and harder, eyes searching for one of the onlookers, one of the simple humans that had approached her. “I don’t know — I don’t even know him, he just —” Teeth burrowed into her lips and she was glad that her eyes were naturally wide. “I don’t know him.” The sound of whooping sirens made her head turn. Humans really were so very predictable.

—

Despair gripped Wyatt, even though part of him believed he was no closer to relief now than he had been before spotting her. He heard the sirens and thrashed violently in the grips of those trying to restrain him, bowling over a few of them but still failing to get his feet back underneath him. There was a commotion somewhere behind them, he could hear shouts and the approaching footsteps. 

He stared her down, gaze swimming from the tears, not believing her act. “You know me! Stop lyin’! Goddamnit, stop—” More hands joined the ones already on him, and he was shoved unceremoniously forward, chest colliding painfully with the pavement below him. His arms were wrenched behind his back and cuffs tightened around his wrists. He felt panic swelling in his heart—was this real? Was it real? Who was she? Why did she appear in his nightmares? He was—they were—fuck—

Getting hoisted to his feet by people trained to handle brutes like him, Wyatt squirmed uncooperatively and was told to comply or face more severe charges. Charges! Hah! This was some fuckin’ bullshit. 

The woman and her crocodile tears faded into the crowd as a different officer went up to talk to her and Wyatt was steered away from the scene. Someone shoved down hard on his shoulder as they forced him into the back of a squad car, shutting the door quickly behind as he started to scream and rail against it. He could shift. He could rip through these stupid cuffs like they were tissue paper, could chew through this door like it was warm butter, and go find that bitch and bite and shake her like a chew toy, but a quiet fear that this was real kept him from it. 

Xó wasn’t going to be very happy about this. 

—

It was an easy role to play, wasn’t it? A role from a former life, long gone but not quite forgotten. A role her body remembered. The small woman, the easily made-into-prey woman, the woman with wide eyes who feared a man taller and stronger than her. Inge didn’t need to tap into any kind of inspiration, she could just dive to the root of existence and draw from that. Like any good artist would, she reinterpreted a feeling she had once felt and made it into something else.

Perhaps the performing arts were hers to explore next.

Wyatt was arrested and remained human, which was good for him and good for her. She knew that the future would bring trouble, that this would not be the last time they would meet eye to eye in town. She’d have to avoid places where she could be caught by herself in the daytime, which was a safety measure she was already practicing anyway. As long as they had the public, she held the cards — or so she hoped.

An officer went up to her and she moved her attention from the onlooker to the female officer, who asked her if she was doing okay, if she could explain what had happened, if she wanted to press charges. Inge let her gaze travel to Wyatt in the car, trashing and the cop looked over her shoulder, then bored her eyes into Inge’s, tugging at her elbow as if to get her away from the scene of a traumatic would-be-crime.

“It’s — I don’t know him,” she repeated, “He … seems real troubled. It’s – he didn’t hurt me.” Inge was well aware that she could be hurt. She knew Anita’s diet, and though she doubted she had much nutritional value, she was far from immune from being bitten down on. But for now she was unscathed. “I don’t … no, no, no charges. It’s — well, I hope he can get the  help he can, you know? He seems very troubled, like I said.” 

The officer was taking some notes, kept asking some questions, asked if Inge needed any support and it was surreal, watching that one cop car drive off and the crowds scatter. But it happened, and though this was all unfortunate, though her sleeper had found out his nightmares had a cause and she was the root of his problem, she still felt that rush of control and power. The officer slipped her a card with her number and name and she took it, ensuring her that she’d take it easy and she left the scene of the crime, Dolly Parton watching her leave as a small smile crept on her lips.

[ender-manly]

9 to 5 Blues

[megarx]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥  open starter

location: outside sk8es

meg's head lolled about as she held the large ‘COME JOIN THE SK8ING FUN’ sign in her arms. it practically dwarfed her. skating, she was fine with. waitressing and cleaning up fallen fries, she was fine with. but being a human billboard ? if only hades could see her now. 

 she skated a few feet up the path, and then back down again, skidding to a halt in front of them. meg held up the sign to prevent them from moving forward — “ talk to me and look excited. i’ll get you free tokens for the arcade. or a coffee. take it or leave it. ”

[suz-ball]

My dog has taken over my job and frankly she is doing better at it than I ever could

[peapod20001]

I hate trying to describe like. A characters voice and accent and shit cus I!! Don’t know the words for things!!! 😭 but anyways idk if these are entirely how he sounds but you kinda get the vibes of how Rory sounds with these songs here-

You get the vibes right?? You get what I’m goin for???? 🥺??

[barbiebiddie]

sleepy loaf

[kindacreepy-kindaugly]

I don't know what to do with myself without my unrealistic daydreams but

I'm havin trouble thinkin of anythin cause suddenly my reality went beyond anythin I ever fantasized about

Weird

[paarksunghoon]

DEEP HONEY | SUNGHOON

SUMMARY: the last thing you want to do is interrupt sunghoon’s time with his friends, but your doting boyfriend has always said he’ll be there whenever you need him. when a shift at work leaves you hanging by a thread, he and his friends are there to patch your soul back up.

NOTES: felt some type of way and naturally i need a hug from sunghoon. best i can do is write about it.

PAIRING: sunghoon x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 2.6K

WARNINGS: angst, typical rough day stuff and typos, probably.

MASTERLIST

***

Your car comes to a complete halt when you situate yourself on the curb of Lee Heeseung’s apartment. The rumble of the pavement beneath your tires ceases to amplify the slight movement that naturally shakes your car seats and you sit in the driver’s side like you’re a zombie.

The muggy atmosphere from the heat attempting to displace the freezing air makes your skin feel sticky and gross as you turn your engine off. The overhead lights temporarily blind you as you stare ahead into the dark night and feel the tension building up in your body.

Your jaw clenches and your cheeks become warm with the sheer amount of frustration seeping into your bones. The cold sweat you harbor makes you feel hot and freezing at the same time. The coolness of your glass window does nothing to quell your body’s temperature.

The familiar two-story house beside you is where Heeseung lives. He rents the bottom property and has lived with Park Jongseong ever since you all collectively started the last year of university.

You don’t necessarily want to be here. Coming to Heeseung’s apartment because you feel like you might combust at any minute seems like an invasion of privacy. Your boyfriend Sunghoon had let you know that he was sleeping over at his friends’ apartment tonight and you had no qualms with the proposition. He deserved to have his time with his friends too. Although it seems that your mind has its own agenda and you find yourself in front of Heeseung’s place in no time.

You step out of the car and lock it. Your feet carry you around the hood and you step onto the hard sidewalk with a slight wobble. The air is chilling, throwing a stark shiver down your spine as you huddle in your arms for warmth. The jacket you have sprawled on the backseat looks at you with concern.

You’re a step away from ringing the doorbell but your finger hovers the white button as tears well up in your eyes. The feeling of desperation and burden weigh on your chest as you listen to the muffled laughter that comes from Heeseung’s living room. Sunghoon hadn’t seen his friends in a few weeks between classes, work, and you. The last thing you want to do is impede on his time with his friends when you’ve spent the better half of this month glued to his side.

But you can’t help it. Your nose feels like it could be burning from the cold and the weather forces you to ring Heeseung’s doorbell when it ripples through your shirt. You hear him padding to the front door and can make out his figure from the bottom, his shadow blocking the light from inside.

Heeseung opens it just slightly ajar to assess who’s standing outside his apartment at this late hour. When he opens it, seeing you standing in the cold with red eyes and no jacket makes him panic.

“Y/N?” he asks. “What are you doing here?”

You think he might close the door with the look of confusion on his face but he opens it wider to allow you into his apartment. He shuts it quickly behind him and notices your chattering teeth, eyes softening at the sound when you look up at him. Heeseung watches your eyes begin to water and puts a hand on your upper back to soothe your emotions, but it makes you spill a few tears.

“I-I’m sorry for coming here,” you hiccup. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay, Y/N. You can always come over if you need something.”

You speak faster than you can think. “Today was so awful.”

Heeseung purses his lips and tells you to stay put. You watch him retreat into the living room and stare at the wall clock in front of you until you hear Heeseung say, “Hoon, your girl’s here.”

Sunghoon hears the worry in his friend’s voice because he stands up from the couch like he’s on a mission. With his eyebrows furrowed and heart beating in his chest, Sunghoon follows Heeseung to the front door and is immediately presented with you.

You look nothing like the happy-go-lucky girlfriend he said goodbye to before heading over to Heeseung’s. This morning, you’d woken up next to Sunghoon and he’d given you a tender kiss before heading to spend the day with his friends. Now, your eyes are swollen and your cheeks are stained with salty tears.

His heart plummets when he sees you standing in Heeseung’s doorway with no jacket on. You look helpless in a way he doesn’t see very often. Your knees buckle in your pants and the goosebumps on your arms are prominent to his eye.

Sunghoon wastes no time and envelopes you in a hug, pulling you into his chest until your face is situated in his neck.

“Baby?” he asks, feeling your hot breaths against his skin. “Talk to me. What happened? You’re so cold. Where’s your jacket? Did you bring one?”

His deep, honey-like voice that utter sweet concern only makes you cry harder. You try to keep your chokes and sobs as quiet as possible but the hiccups emitting from your throat make it impossible. You try to ignore the fact that Sunghoon’s friends can likely hear you weeping, instead focusing on your boyfriend’s warmth.

His arms encircle your body, one hand protectively around your waist and the other secured behind you. Sunghoon’s hands cup the back of your head and he strokes his fingers through your head lovingly.

“I had a bad day.” Your broken whispers makes Sunghoon’s heart sink even further. He pushes your hair out of the way and kisses your temple with plump lips.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Rethinking the events that led to your arrival at Heeseung’s place only fuels your tears and you shut your eyes, burying yourself further into your boyfriend’s neck.

Heeseung, helplessly standing around the corner, walks closer to tell him the two of you could use his bedroom. Sunghoon rubs the small of your back and slowly walks towards the room, guiding you inside without so much as a word spoken. Heeseung closes the door behind you two and Sunghoon immediately perches the two of you on the edge of his bed.

“My baby.” Sunghoon lifts your head and pushes the tears underneath your eyes away with the pads of his thumbs. “What’s got you upset, hm? Are you hurt?”

“No,” you choke. “I’m not hurt.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Sunghoon pulls you into his chest and further onto Heeseung’s bed when you give into him. He lets you cry against him, not caring that his shirt is becoming damp as the seconds pass by. His palm soothes the entirety of your back and he kisses the crown of your head, periodically squeezing you tighter when his heart breaks at the sound of your sobs.

“Life is so hard,” you say into his chest. “I feel overwhelmed and scared.”

“Scared of what, baby?”

“I don’t know. Everything? I had the worst shift at work today. A customer ordered a hot coffee but I made it iced by accident and instead of letting me remake it for her, she involved my manager and was making a scene in front of everybody there.”

“I’m sorry.” Sunghoon whispers against your temple and kisses it again. “That’s frustrating.”

“My manager tried to get her to leave but she was pushy. Usually I could handle that but I’m overwhelmed with school and my senior project that I just broke down when the manager sent me home.”

“Your manager doesn’t think you’re at fault, right?”

“No,” you shake your head. “Nothing like that. He said I looked like I needed some rest and told me to take the rest of the night off.”

“Thank God.” He squeezes you tighter. “I’m sorry you had such a bad day. You shouldn’t have to put up with mean people who get mad at you for making a small mistake.”

“Everybody is so fucking mean, Hoon.” You roughly push away the tears from your eyes with the heel of your palm. “I’m tired of everybody expecting so much from me. Between work, school, and my parents asking me what job I’ll have after graduating, it’s all too much.”

Sunghoon coos. “You’re so precious, you know that? You’re dealing with so much and you’re allowed to cry about it. I’m sorry everything is affecting you like this.”

“Sorry for ruining your boys night,” you sniffle. “I feel awful that I took you away from your friends.”

Your boyfriend shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. I’d come to you in a heartbeat if you called.”

His words only make you cry harder. Sunghoon is the perfect boyfriend. He dotes on you like you’re the only woman he’s ever loved in his entire life and lets you know how beautiful you are any chance he gets. He gets along with your friends and family, welcomes you into his own life, and makes you feel like you can achieve anything whether he’s in the picture or not.

Being with him has made you feel safer than you have in a long time. His arms provide the kind of comfort you’ve always been seeking and despite the amount of frustration and sadness in your body, it seems to be melting away with every kiss Sunghoon puts on your forehead.

Heeseung knocks gently and opens the door just slightly. You feel silly being held like a baby in front of Sunghoon’s friends who you’ve met only once before. It was at Heeseung’s house that you first met the three guys Sunghoon is closest to after they made an effort to invite you over to a night at the local dive bar before coming back to watch a marathon of Marvel movies. Your love for Iron Man catapulted the start of your friendship with Heeseung in particular and Sunghoon was starting to love how well you fit into his life.

“It’s been a while and I wanted to check in. You doin’ okay?”

You sniffle and hold onto Sunghoon’s arm. “Bad day. Everybody sucks.”

Heeseung laughs. “Preaching to the choir.” You immediately realize you neglected to take your shoes off when entering the apartment and scold yourself for bringing dirt onto his hardwood floors.

“Shit,” you say, pulling your legs higher so they’re farther from the surface. “I’m so sorry Heeseung. I’m sorry for barging in.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Take them off, I’ll put them by the door.”

You oblige. Sunghoon holds you to balance your body as you hand each sneaker to Heeseung, who doesn’t look at you weirdly or scold you for interrupting his time with your boyfriend. Instead, he smiles at you and lets you know Jongseong and Sim Jaeyun, another one of Sunghoon’s friends that you met during the movie night, are outside and concerned for you.

“We don’t have to go out if you don’t want to,” Sunghoon tells you as Heeseung closes the door behind him for a second time. “But they really like you and I know they care about you.”

“I only met them once,” you hiccup, toying with the hem attached to the bottom of his shirt. “How could they possibly like me?”

Sunghoon laughs and kisses your cheek. “I talk about you all the time. I’m pretty sure they’re sick of hearing me talk about you and would rather hang out with you instead.”

“You do?”

He nods. “Mhm. I have the best girlfriend in the world, you know. They had a lot of fun getting to know you and were planning on inviting you to a barbecue Jongseong’s having next weekend.”

“Really?”

Your doe-like eyes makes Sunghoon’s heart melt. He nods and kisses your nose. “Yes, baby. They love you. Not as much as I do, but a close second.” Hearing you laugh makes him breathe easier.

“I still feel bad for ruining your guys’ night,” you say with a pout.

Sunghoon eases your mind and presses a tender kiss to your lips to displace said pout. “We’ve all been there. If you’re uncomfortable, we can go back to your place and sleep?”

You shake your head. “This is your night. I don’t want to interrupt and make things awkward.”

“Why don’t we at least get you some water. You don’t have to say anything but at least drink something so you’re not dehydrated.” You don’t want to get up and face the embarrassment of the other three boys seeing you cry, but you know Sunghoon is right. After all the crying you’ve done, you’re feeling parched.

You nod and stand from him, all while he still has one hand in yours. Moments like this make you appreciate Sunghoon even more than you already do. He’s willing to do anything for you at the drop of a hat and it gives you butterflies when you remember this handsome, generous man is your boyfriend.

Jongseong and Jaeyun look at you with concerned eyes when you meet them outside. You try to speak but your mouth keeps opening and closing as you find the words to say.

“I’m okay,” you tell them. “And I’m sorry for ruining your night.”

Jongseong hands you a glass of water. “Don’t sweat it, Y/N. Everyone has bad days.”

“Yeah, but you guys haven’t seen Hoon in forever and this was supposed to be your weekend.” Your sincere apology and the cracks in your voice make Jaeyun’s eyes water too.

“It’s alright,” he tells you sincerely. “We love hanging out with you. You should stay and we can watch movies. We were gonna do that anyway.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“Jongseong and I want you to stay,” Heeseung says. The two of them nod. “You shouldn’t be alone when you feel like this.”

“Fuck,” you say, voice cracking to the point where it makes you laugh. The four boys laugh as well and feel the relief in the air around them. “You guys are too nice.”

“We were gonna order takeout too,” Jongseong says, pulling his phone out. “We were thinking maybe fried chicken but Hoon says you love Thai food. Why don’t we order stuff from the place around the block and eat it family style?”

“Oh, you don’t have to change it for me.”

Jongseong waves you off. “Nah. We all love Thai. Any excuse to eat it.”

“And don’t think about paying us back,” Jaeyun says with a genuine smile. “I’ll pay for it.”

“We’ll split it by four,” Heeseung adds.

Jongseong lets you put in your order and everybody else follows suit. Sunghoon has you tucked underneath his chin as the whole ordeal happens and kisses the side of your face every so often.

“Feel better?” He asks, mouth against your ear. His warm breath is comforting, as to remind you that he’ll always be there for you.

“Much better.” Your voice is no longer brittle from your cries. Sunghoon smiles.

“My sweet baby,” he coos. “You’re so pretty when you cry.”

“What about when I’m not crying?”

“Still pretty.” He squishes your cheeks with his hands and pressed a kiss to your fattened lips. “Adorable, even.”

Jaeyun looks at the two of you and laughs. He can only hope that he’ll feel like that with someone someday. It compels him to say something.

“You guys are stupid cute.”

Sunghoon says nothing. He smiles at his friend and squeezes you tighter. Having him to lean back on makes you feel like you might be the luckiest girl in the world.

***

comments and reblogs would be appreciated! xx

[thefluffybennett]

all i do every day is go to work, come home and cry abt work and then sketch my fursona…like it fuckin bites but on the plus side i think my drawing skills have improved a lil

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART FIVE

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, not much for this chapter, but as always, be cautious! a/n: so sorry for the wait, this chapter isn't as long as the others but i'm in the process of moving! i'll be moved in by late next week, so when that happens, i'll finally have more time to deliver longer parts and be more active! <3 masterlist

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

“You let her get away.”

“S’not like I meant to, Cap,” Soap defended, scowling to himself.

The four men stood in Price’s quarters, all shoulders equally tensed and expressions grim. While Gaz and Ghost remained quiet thus far, the intensity rolled off of them menacingly. Soap could practically see the sourness fill the air.

“But you did,” Price reiterated, slamming his palm on the table. It shook the room, quill holders rumbling and threatening to spill onto the floor. “We already take a risk havin’ her on our ship until she grows accustomed to livin’ here. How could you be so careless?”

“Can ye blame her?” Soap spat back. The men fell silent with Price narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “The poor lass watched the four of us burn her village down. Then we took her in like a fit of scoundrels. I don’t blame her for runnin’ off the way she did.”

Price kept his mouth shut, pressed in a firm line. His shoulders were squared, an argument threatening to spill out, yet he didn’t encourage it. After all, Soap had a point, but they weren’t supposed to care. It was a simple part of being savages.

“She’ll understand eventually—“

“But she won’t,” Soap cut Price off, leaning his hands on the table to match the Captain’s. The two of them stared long and hard at one another. “We don’t even understand, so what makes ye think she will?”

“Soap,” Ghost warned. Soap’s gaze flickered over to the masked man, whose eyes were darkened with warning. Gaz shifted uncomfortably from beside him. “Watch your tongue.”

Soap opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, Price raised his palm, requesting silence. The look on his face was unreadable, but the sign of authority was clear.

“You need to get your head out of the trenches, Soap,” Price warned. “Carin’ for her will only have you throwin’ yourself overboard, and that’s not somethin’ I can save you from. We needed a medic, and she was in the right place at the right time. That is all.”

“So ye don’t have the slightest bit of sympathy for her, s’that right, Cap?” Soap asked, eyes narrowing in on the Captain.

“There is no place in this world for sympathy,” Price responded meekly. “Let alone for her.”

“And for us?” Soap questioned, gesturing to the other two men in the room.

“You are my men,” Price grunted. “She is an unlucky woman that came from rags rather than riches. That is to no fault but her own. You forget your place, Soap.”

Though Price had remained calm, Soap could see the building aggravation. It was in the way the Captain’s hands clenched atop the table, his eyes glossed over with a heated fire from being rebutted.

“It seems yer forgettin’ yers as well, Captain,” Soap muttered bitterly.

The atmosphere was so thick, it was suffocating. Not a single man said another word, caught in a deadly stare down. It was a rarity to challenge Price’s authority, let alone over an unfortunate woman who they had ruined all on their own.

If Soap’s words affected Price, he didn’t make it known. Rather, his irritability was evidence, and he appeared to be fighting off any resentment towards his own crew.

“Get out,” Price uttered, voice low, but the notion was clear. “All of you.”

Nobody argued. Rather, they filed out one by one, Price’s door slamming on the way out.

Ghost grumbled when just the three of them remained, stalking off to his own quarters for the night.

Gaz joined Soap in watching the masked man leave. It wasn’t until he was fully out of sight did Gaz speak.

“You have a point, Soap,” Gaz said quietly, slapping a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Good luck makin’ Cap see that.”

Gaz gave him another squeeze of his hand before sauntering off himself, leaving Soap alone on the upper deck, the summer air suddenly feeling frigid and bitter.

The cell was suffocating you all over again. You missed the feel of a bed, the soft furs that lined Price’s bed that showered you in comforting warmth for the night, the flood of fresh air in your lungs.

Part of you felt like you took it for granted. The bitter part of you, though, knew that you deserved to have those things without being in the possession of a pirate.

The shoes Soap left you taunted you from the corner of the cell. They mocked you, called you ungrateful. It painted you with an uncomfortable guilt that settled deep in your bones.

You shouldn’t feel bad for a bunch of savages, but what kind of savages would think to surprise you with shoes, even picking out ones that you might like? You couldn’t speak for the others, but Soap had shed a light of humanity in a time where you needed it, and you had fucked that up.

Now, you wanted it more than ever. The cell was cold and unwelcoming, and you missed the taste of freedom you were given so shortly.

It felt as if you were back at square one. For the first day, nobody came to offer you food like before. Your stomach grumbled with a might that had you coiled over, silently crying into your hands. The second night was torturous, and it felt as if your own stomach was beginning to feast on itself.

The third night, however, was when you were finally graced with sympathy.

What greeted you, or more so who, had taken you by surprise. Expecting Soap or Gaz, or even Ghost to degrade you for being so stupid, you were instead faced with the Captain himself.

Price stood with a steaming bowl of stew and another bowl of simple rice. The sight of it had your mouth watering and your stomach gurgling in desperation.

“Hello, dove,” he offered, his tone surprisingly soft compared to the spitefulness he held days before. It still held authority, one you didn’t think would ever rid itself, but it wasn’t as angry as expected.

You gave him a nod in response but said nothing. A touch of dread crept up your spine. He was all too calm to you, who had nearly sent his men to unforeseeable death.

Price balanced the two bowls on one arm so he could unlock your cell door and step inside. Once in, he carefully placed the bowls on the ground in front of you where you sat, taking a cautious step back.

As much as you wanted to devour the food without. a second thought, you remained frozen and stubborn. You stared at the bowls of hot food before shifting up to look at him. When he gave you a nod in confirmation, that was all you needed to begin eating.

Eating was the nicer word. Demolishing was more accurate.

You didn’t bother to eat with the spoon given, rather you used your hands to grab a fistful of rice and guzzle it down. Grains of rice stuck to your face around your mouth, showing an embarrassing display. You were so hungry you didn’t care.

“Slow down,” Price ordered. You paused in your eating, glancing up at him. He didn’t look angry, but he did look a bit disturbed at your desperation.

Flustered, you swallowed the food down, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Picking up the spoon in the stew, you ate it with eagerness but allowed yourself some decency.

Price was silent as you ate, standing with his arms crossed, watching. You were too enraptured in the meal to care, even if you look distasteful. The food had never tasted this good before, and you weren't sure whether it was because you were starving, or because somebody else cooked.

You imagined the pirates in the kitchen together, chopping vegetables and meat to place it in a pot, using an array of spices. Arguing over who got to do what, disagreeing with a choice of meal for the day.

It gave them a small sense of normality in your mind, even eliciting a small laugh from you. Price’s face contorted in confusion, wondering what could possibly be funny, especially in times like this. You, locked in a cell, given the worst hand the world could’ve given you, finding something joyful enough to laugh through it.

“Would you like to tell me why you’re laughin’?” Price gruffed.

You swallowed down your food, peering up at him from where you sat on the floor. “I was just imagining Soap and Ghost arguing over who gets to cook,” you confessed, looking back down at your food. “I apologize. It is not funny.”

You could feel Price’s stare. The air was silent, tense, before he ultimately broke it. “Ghost is the one that cooks,” he explained. “Used to be a butcher back in his day.”

“A butcher?” you repeated, pondering. The mask Ghost flaunted made him mysterious and concealed. You would’ve never imagined him as a butcher, though the more you thought about it, the more it clicked. “That seems to make quite a bit of sense, actually.”

“Does it?” Price hummed with the telltale sign of amusement. It was hardly evident. “Yes, I believe it does. Explains why he’s so good with a knife, aye?”

You grimaced at that. Ghost was certainly good in combat, that was something you could see from the jump. You just didn’t want to envision who and what he uses it on.

“I believe we got off on the wrong foot,” Price began. The words took you by surprise. “Might have ruffled too many of your little feathers too soon.”

“That is a severe understatement,” you muttered. Price shot you a look, successfully shutting you up.

“We do not normally have others on our ship. If we have treated you with hostility, then I apologize. You must understand the walls we have built up, you see,” he explained.

“Then why have you taken me if you are going to treat me as a mere rat?” you asked. He sniffed, feigning disinterest. “I thought you appointed me as a medic. It does not feel as though you are true to your word. Is there perhaps another reason for kidnapping me that you are not telling me?”

Price was quiet, eyes wandering off elsewhere. He appeared in thought, as if debating something heavily in his mind.

“No,” he finally said, hesitating. “You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I do not apologize for taking you, but I do… sympathize. Perhaps I should’ve been kinder.”

“Perhaps,” you repeated, albeit a tad bitterly. Price was unfazed by the subtle resentment you held. He didn’t seem to care at all. He was a hard man to read, even harder than Ghost. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and that was dangerous.

Price cleared his throat, the aura of awkwardness smothering him. It was evident to you that he wasn’t used to being kind and having to resolve with someone. You briefly wondered what made him change his mind.

“You are right,” he continued. “We took you in to be our medic. Medics cannot work in a cell.”

Price took a step back to leave the cell, yet the door remained open. He gestured for you to step out, to join him. You were weary, slowly standing from your spot and taking a skeptical step out of the cell.

“I will give you the choice in who you wish to stay with until we can arrange a space for you to sleep.” Price began stepping up the stairs that led to the upper deck, so you silently followed. “If you wish to stay with me again, that is fine. But if you wish to stay with Gaz or Soap, that can be arranged as well.”

“No Ghost?” you asked in, dare you say, amusement.

“Unless you would like to be strangled in your sleep, I would not advise it,” he responded.

“That was a jest, Captain. I know how to pick my battles.”

Price paused in front of the doors to the upper deck, turning to you. He stared for a long moment, before you saw the tiniest of smiles play at his lips. It was buried under his facial hair, but from the slight crinkle in his eyes, you knew.

“You’re quite the wise bird, I’ll give you that,” he mused, before opening the doors. “Up you go.”

The moonlight soaked into your skin the moment you stepped out of the brig. It was inviting, basking you in the warmth you so craved. The air was crisp, and you breathed it in heavily through your nostrils, your body immediately faltering in relief.

Oh, how you missed the outside. Though your stay in the brig was much shorter than when you first arrived, it was still just as alleviating to get a taste of being human again.

“You will stay with me for the night,” he explained, guiding you across the creaky decks. “The others are already in their rooms. Tomorrow, you can decide who you prefer.”

You gave him a nod in acknowledgment, following him quietly to his quarters. When you arrived, the familiar scent of musk and cinnamon invaded your nostrils. For a pirate, it was a comforting smell, and you found a strange solace in it.

“I’m sure you wish to bathe, yes?” he asked.

A bath sounded heavenly. To wipe the grime and sweat off your skin, to feel clean again. You would’ve jumped into the dark sea if it meant bathing.

“You do not mind?” you questioned, suspicious.

“You’ll be sleepin’ in my cot for the night. I’d prefer if you were unsoiled. No bad blood, aye?”

Price’s boots were heavy against the floors as he made his way to the back of his quarters, where a lone curtain hung. Pulling it back, he exposed a wooden bowl, large enough to fit you, but certainly a squeeze for him.

A barrel stood behind the bath, and Price made haste to lift it with ease. Water began to pour out of the spout, slowly but surely filling the makeshift tub.

While he worked, your eyes wandered to glance around his quarters. When staying in it previously, you didn’t have the gall to be curious. Now that the two of you were on good enough terms to be acquaintances for now, you allowed yourself to be a bit nosy.

The walls were littered with pinned up maps, all varying in land. You hadn’t a clue where everything was, so none of it made sense to you. However, upon looking over to his desk, you saw another map, one unlike the others.

This one was written on with the ink of a quill. You weren’t sure the location, however, it seemed to be a mixture.

Over some of the islands graphed on the map, a large X was drawn in its place. They were crossed out with the ink, covering up the names printed over the location, deeming it impossible to read.

However, two locations were circled rather than crossed out. One was in the middle of the sea, not a piece of land or island in sight. The other was circled around a small island, tucked away from the Mainland, its name unknown. Beside it, a scrap piece of paper sat.

“The one who heals the ill and poor

shall be the cure to all demise.

Washed away to land and shore

shall be the looking glass for ocean eyes.

Find the one that you shall seek

to end the curse of Shadow’s Peak.”

As you finished reading, a large hand came into view, slamming over the poem. Price loomed over you, leaning against the table.

“Go and bathe,” he ordered. “I will leave you alone to do your bidding and return when you’re done.”

Jostled by the surprise appearance, you offered a meek nod, sauntering off to the tub. As Price left, he rolled up the map as well as the poem, tucking them under his arm and leaving no trace of what you witnessed behind. He had something to hide, it was clear, but you couldn’t decipher the meaning of the passage you read.

Perhaps he was simply a writer. It would explain why he seemed defensive that you saw it, but it wouldn’t explain the map. He also didn’t seem the type to sit at his desk and meddle with written poetry. He was a Captain, and his priorities lied with the men on his ship and the thievery of neighboring villages.

Now left alone in the quarters, you willed yourself into the bath, sinking into the water. It wasn’t warm nor cold, but it was relaxing anyway, biting away the tension in your muscles. You were in desperate need of it, and you were grateful you and Price were at a standstill where he allowed you the pleasure.

While you tried to rid yourself of what you saw, it kept creeping in in waves, burdening you with questions unanswered. Even after you scrubbed away the caked dirt until your skin was raw and changed into clean garments that Price tugged out for you, the sense of unease never went away. You felt tainted, like a lingering darkness was coursing through your veins and oozing from your skin.

The garments you wore were large. They overtook your body, swallowing you whole, but they were much better in comparison to the rags that hung from your body, dirtied with nasty impurity. You didn’t know how to feel about the Captain after everything, but he was showing you humility, and that was enough for you right now. It was the best you could make out of being kidnapped by the four of them and thrown in a life of chaos and uncertainty.

As you tucked yourself into Price’s cot, you took one last glance to the maps that remained on the walls. None were like the one you had seen, not a scribble nor blotch tainting the paper. The one Price held was special, and you knew you’d be fighting tooth and nail in order to find out. Until then, you could let yourself relax. After all the torment you’d been through, you deserved a moment of peace before everything imploded once again.

[baronessvonglitter]

Like a Good Girl Should

mom's sleazy bf!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: 2.7K

Summary: Your mom's sleazy new boyfriend Joel Miller is the last person you'd ever want to be alone with.. so how did you end up on his lap getting punished?

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, sleazy!Joel, dominant!Joel, using panties for masturbation, mention of dad in prison & brief prison r@pe joke, slut shaming reader's mom, mild violence, dubious consent (at first), spanking, thigh spanking, pussy spanking, rough fingering, threat of fisting, squirting, masturbation, ejaculation on body, no use of y/n, pet names ('daddy' and 'sir' for Joel; little girl, baby girl, darlin', sweetheart for reader), no specific age for Joel mentioned but there's still an age gap as reader is in college. (If I've forgotten any, please let me know!)

Author's Note: AKA I've got a hankerin' for some spankerin'!

I've had this fic on my mind for a week and now it's finally out. I tried to make Joel as sleazy as I could without being a total nightmare. Thanks to everyone who showed interest when it was a seedling of an idea. I'm honestly looking forward to writing whatever my next kink hyperfixation will be!

JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

divider by @saradika-graphics👑

You fucking hate Joel Miller.

He's the asshole who moved in a few months ago.

With your dad in prison, your mom lamented the loss of a man around the house, until one night she brought Joel home with her after meeting him at a sleazy beer joint. And he never left.

He's offensive in every way: he doesn't pick up after himself, doesn't help out with the chores, drinks milk straight from the carton, and walks around in the morning in nothing but his briefs, proudly showing off his god damn morning wood.

Not that you've looked..

And every night it's the same hectic squeaking of your mom's bedsprings, the same quick, loud shrieks followed by moans that crescendo in pitch until it all falls silent, only to start up again fifteen minutes later.

Not that you listen.

He makes no secret about ogling you, making suggestive comments on your clothing (or lack thereof). You count the days until you have enough saved up to move out while you're still attending junior college.

When your mom's working the late shift at the diner down the road, you do some cleaning up while Joel sits on his ass watching some stupid 80s action movie. You gather your clothes and put them in the washer, one by one, making sure the right things are inside out, and that pant legs aren't twisted up.

You find your favorite pair of panties, hot pink silk, the first nice pair of panties you purchased yourself at a fancy lingerie store. Horror makes your stomach sink when you look closer at the crotch of the panties, seeing a glob of what you're one hundred percent sure is cum.

Joel.

You confront him about it and he doesn't even bother to deny it. He simply kicks back on the sofa (fully clothed for once) and tells you you should take it as a compliment.

You should take him jacking off into your favorite pair of panties.. as a compliment.

Seeing red, you tell him to fuck off, to get out, that you'll tell your mom what he's been doing, but he gets up and towers over you, backing you to the wall.

"You ain't gonna do shit, little girl."

"Try me," you dare him.

The look on his face makes you wonder if he'd rather kill you or devour you on the spot.

"Get the fuck out," you whisper, eyes blazing with fury.

"Listen, little girl, and listen good: I'm here whether you like it or not, so get used to it. As long as your mama wants a piece of this," he cups his crotch as you look away in disgust. "Then I'm stayin'. And as long as I'm stayin', it's my rules that run this place, you hear?"

"You can't tell me what to do!" You shout back indignantly.

He scoffs as you say that, irritation flaring at your defiant tone. He shakes his head, continuing to glare at you. "Oh, yes I can, darlin'. As long as you're livin' under my damn roof, I can tell you to do whatever I want you to do, whenever I damn well please."

"This isn't your fucking house!"

"I'm the only man here, ain't I?"

"Then I'm moving out!"

"No you're not! Don'tcha even think about it!"

"You gonna stop me?"

He lets out a dangerous rumble as you challenge him, his eyes narrowing, practically daring you to push him. "Try it and see what happens."

In your room you grab a duffel bag and cram some clothes and necessary items in there. Already Joel is storming into the hall, his boots loud against the wooden floor.

"You gotta be kiddin' me," he shakes his head.

"Told you I'm leaving. Don't know why you won't believe me."

"Where ya goin'? To that lil' drug dealer boyfriend of yours?" he sneers.

"So what if I am?"

"The hell you will. If you let him anywhere near you, I'm breakin' his damn legs."

His eyes go wide as you storm past him and head for the front door. His hand shoots out and grabs your arm before you can get too far. "Oh, no, ya don't," he growls, grabbing and jerking you back toward him. He grips your upper arm tightly as he spins you around to face him.

"Let me go!"

He scowls, keeping you in place in front of him. "No, I'm not lettin' you go, darlin'. Not until you quit bein' a brat and calm the hell down."

"Don't call me a brat!"

He grins at this. "Then stop actin' like one. You've been runnin' your mouth ever since I came here, and now you're makin' threats ya can't follow through on and bein' an uptight little bitch."

"Go to hell!" You spit at him, a glob of your saliva lands on his cheek and he wipes it off with his fingers, putting them them in his mouth to suck it off. You watch with mild disgust even as you're a little turned on.

"Oh, I should put you over my damn knee and tan that sassy little ass of yours until you behave yourself, darlin'."

You cross your arms. "You don't have the balls!"

A smirk crosses his face. "You can see for yourself, darlin'." He cups his crotch, drawing your eyes to him even though you don't want to.

"You really think I'm not gonna put ya over my knee and paddle that cute little ass 'til it's raw?"

"You wouldn't!"

A smirk creeps over his face at the uncertainty in your voice, his hand moves down to your hip, fingers digging in the flesh. Your breath catches in your throat as you feel your panties dampen.

"Nah, you're pussy's speakin' for ya. I can see it already, you soakin' up those lil' shorts of yours."

You're too turned on to risk speaking, struggling against him because it's the only way you can fight back, prove him wrong.

"There's no escape from daddy, darlin', You're stuck. And you're gonna be punished until ya behave yourself."

You growl, "You're not my fuckin' daddy!"

He grins at you, grabs a handful of your hair, yanking it brutally to force you to look up at him. "That's right. Your daddy's in prison, probably gettin' passed around like the little bitch he is. I'm your daddy, darlin', and don'tcha forget it. I'm the one protectin' you, takin' care of you, and now daddy's gonna put you in your place."

He jerks you towards the sofa, pulling you over his lap so your ass is squarely on his thighs, your top half pressed into the sofa cushions at an awkward angle, holding yourself up on your forearms so you can breathe, watching helplessly as he pulls down your shorts and panties in one go, leaving your ass bare to him. He drops your clothes to the floor. The way your positioned he can also see your pussy lips, swollen with excitement.

One arm on your back holds you down, the other trails its fingertips across your smooth, supple skin, giving you goosebumps, causing your cunt to clench, much to your horror.

"You've been very naughty today, darlin', haven't you?" he prefaces your punishment, giving your ass a light swat to punctuate his words.

You're too stunned to move or speak.

He runs his large, rough hand over your ass, squeezing one of your cheeks as he looks down at you, his voice low and stern: "Answer me, baby girl. You know you're supposed to answer your daddy when he asks a question." He gives your ass a sharper smack, the sound of his hand on your flesh reverberating in the room, shameful to your ears.

You give a sharp gasp. "Yes! I was being naughty!"

"That's right. You were bein' a bad girl, a sassy little brat who keeps gettin' smart with daddy." He rubs his hand over your ass, then gives it a few little swats, each one harder than the last, building up a stinging heat on your flesh.

You squirm under each spanking, seeking friction for your aching clit.

"Stay. Still," he orders in a growl.

"Daddy, it aches," you whine, not talking about the spankings. There's a wetness growing between your thighs, glistening, catching Joel's attention like a raven sighting something shiny in the grass. He growls, his touch hovering over your folds, not yet ready to give in to your needs.

"I know it aches, baby girl. But it's supposed to. It's your punishment for being a naughty little brat." He doesn't allow himself to focus on it, his hand grabbing your thigh instead. "Open your legs wider," he commands when you try to squeeze them together to get some relief.

Your scent rouses him when you open your legs just a little. He forces them apart and slaps the insides of your thighs, his dick getting harder when you cry out from sensitivity.

"Does that hurt, baby girl?" his voice is mockingly gentle as he runs his calloused fingers over your inflamed skin. When you nod instead of giving a vocal answer he slaps another palm against your already-stinging skin. "Answer me," he warns.

"Y-yes.." you reply, trying like hell to close your legs, but he keeps you down, keeps them forced apart just enough. "Fuck.." you mutter, eyes closed as more of your desire drips out of you, running down your thighs to his jean-covered lap.

He feels your excitement, the warmth you give off, feels your slick dripping out of you like sap from a tree. He knows if he slides inside you right now you'd be hot, wet, accommodating his fingers, his tongue, his cock, whatever else he wants to put in your little fuckhole. But he has control. He waits you out.

"What was that?" he snaps, giving you another spank, slightly harder than before. "Did you just curse at me, baby girl? I don't think I'm gonna go easy on you if you're gonna keep usin' that filthy mouth for that kinda language."

The dark, damp spot you created on his jeans grows, as does his enjoyment. He's hard as a rock, wishing you were placed just so so that you can feel it. He imagines you rubbing your needy unclothed cunt across the crotch of his jeans, satisfying yourself on just his clothed cock.

"Are you enjoyin' your punishment?" He mocks you once again, lightly brushing his knuckles across your puffy, drooling pussy lips, smirking when you whimper and shiver, trying to lift your hips to his touch. "Shh.. you don't get to be greedy right now, sweetheart. This is daddy's time to teach you a lesson. You're gonna be a good girl and let me teach you that lesson, aren't you?"

"Yes, daddy," you whine. Your entire body is aflame with need, brimming over with desperation. You'll do anything he wants, suck his cock, take his dick in whichever hole he pleases, so long as your frustration is released, so long as you get to come.

"That's more like it," he praises, his hand moving across your sore buttocks, softly touching before landing another stinging slap. "Good girls listen to daddy, and good girls take their punishments without complainin' and cryin'. They just take it, like a good girl should."

The need for friction, your pussy left wanting and vulnerable, brings you to tears, despite his warning not to cry, "Wanna.. be good for daddy."

"I don't know if you can be good.. don't know if it's in your nature. Got a felon for a father and a whore for a mother. I think you're just plain bad.. might need to stay on my lap for a long time." He lands a slap, watching your ass jiggle with the force of it.

"Please," you whine.

"Aw, what's wrong, darlin'? You seem like somethin's botherin' you." Two more slaps, one on each ass cheek before he grabs one at a time, squeezing hard on the flesh, relishing the heat radiating from your skin, and spanking them again. "How's your ass feel, sweetheart? All warm and tender and sore?" He soothes you with his hand.

"Yes.. yes, sir."

He chuckles lowly. "Daddy likes it when you call him 'sir'. You get points for that, baby girl. Now answer my question."

Question..question.. Every time he speaks, his actions override it, but he did ask how you were feeling, if you were sore. "Yes. But I still ache.. inside."

His cock twitches in his jeans and he adjusts himself beneath you. "Still achin' inside, huh? Need some relief? Need daddy to help you out?"

"Yes, daddy." Your fingers grip the couch cushion.

He gives your hair another tug, yanking your head back, forcing you to look up at him. "What did I tell you just now about callin' me 'sir'?"

Your eyes meet his and you swallow, but your mouth refills with saliva. Your mouth is as wet as your cunt, hoping he'll fill one or the other. Preferably both. "Yes, sir, daddy.. please.. help me."

"You're so sweet when you ask so nicely, beggin' me to take care of you." He lets go of your hair, his hand caressing your lower back and ass in a gentle, soothing way.

"But I ain't gonna fuck ya. You're not my type."

What you get instead is another spanking, then another, and another, until your ass feels raw, until it's nearly numb, then Joel presses two fingers deep inside, cramming you with his thick digits. Gasping a shuddering breath, you push back on him, only for him to take them away, spreading your wetness on your backside.

"You're just like your mom.. needy as a feral cat. Can't ever get enough," he grumbles, giving you another smack before inserting his fingers again, spreading your thighs wide as he shoves them in and out, smiling when he hears your cries of pleasure, the way you squeeze around him as if to keep him there. If it was his dick in there he'd have cum already, you're so snug and wet around him.

He removes his fingers again when he feels you close to the edge and your frustrated groan brings a smile to his face.

"Please, daddy.. sir.. Joel.." Whatever he wants you to call him. "Please don't stop!"

"You're gonna have to be quiet or I'm gonna stick my whole hand in this lil' pussy, stretch it out so nothin' else will ever fit."

You're shivering, your body on edge for his touch, and the fucker knows it. And you know he'll make good on his threat. You force yourself to be quiet, only the smallest whimpers escaping your lips once his fingers slide into you again, this time adding a third finger, unable to help it when you moan, "Oh, god, daddy!"

This time he doesn't pull away, keeping his fingers in a steady thrust inside you, using his free hand to slap your ass, mixing the pleasure with the pain. He parts your thighs further, lifting your hips to smack your pussy, grinning when you jolt forward, crying out, not allowing you to close your legs when you get overstimulated, continuing to land slaps upon your sensitive flesh until you whimper another please, daddy.

He mutters something unintelligible, bringing his fingers back to your soaked cunt, your juices creating an even bigger stain on his jeans. Pumping his fingers in and out, he scratches that itch, finds that spongy tissue inside that drives every woman crazy, and he rubs against it, watching you writhe, listening to your ragged gasps and desperate pleas until you squirt, your fluid dousing his hand and his lap until you beg him to stop when you become oversensitive.

He could continue, he could give you more, go all night, but he doesn't have as much patience as he used to. Positioning himself behind your sprawled out figure on the sofa, he takes himself from his jeans and strokes his length urgently, spilling his cum on your still-quivering ass and your drenched cunt.

Satisfied, he smears his cum all over you with his dick while it's still half-hard.

"Ain't that pretty," he comments. "Now, you ain't tellin' your mama nothin', and we can come to some kind of agreement that benefits us both.. right, my good girl?"

Exhausted, empty, you nod. "Yes, daddy."

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