This Was - Blog Posts

pairing(s): Pirate!Ateez x Fem!Reader

genre: Fantasy!AU, Pirate!AU, Angst, Fluff

warnings: Some mature language, violence and weapons, blood, major and minor character deaths, brief bouts of misogyny, alcohol, depictions of drowning and hanging, mentions of trauma and past abuse, mentions of piracy and murder, Pirate!Ateez are simps ngl

word count: 24,4k

synopsis: There was once a little mermaid who desired nothing more than to be as free as the creatures who walked the land above. But no matter what the little mermaid sacrificed, the world refused to recognize her as anything but a being of the sea. It was only after she dissolved into sea foam, becoming one with the rising horizon, did she finally achieve true freedom. 

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i can’t decide who’s more of a “hand over mouth as i pound you in the back seat of my car so no one knows i’m fucking the loud mouth cheerleader” is that more eddie or steve 🤔

gotta be eddie dude, steve's more of a "kiss you to shut you up" type, but allow me to elaborate on the first for a moment (and by a moment I mean nearly over 1.5k words)

(warnings: smut obv, blood mention, drug use mention, hair pulling, overstimulation, crying during sex/dacryphilia, breath play, extremely vague/not serious breeding kink)

[part 2 here]

"Shh, shh," he soothed, though you could hear the wide grin curling his lips, "don't want anyone to hear, now do we?"

Honestly, though, this was your attempt to stay quiet— digging your teeth into your lip so hard you tasted metallic, gripping the faded leather seats until your nails nearly tore through them. It wasn't your fault that it felt so good, that the weed had made your head all spinny and your insides all tingly and that his dick was slamming right into that spot that made your toes curl. No, that was all his fault; he gave you the joint and he promised it would 'awaken your senses', even if maybe neither of you anticipated exactly which senses it would awaken.

"Don't want anyone shining a light in here, right?" he continued, even though you could barely keep track of what he was talking about. "Don't want them seeing you on your hands and knees getting fucked and screaming like it's the best thing you've ever had, hm?"

"F-fuck, Eddie," you winced, gasping loudly when he tugged on your cheerleader-uniform-mandated ponytail. You breathed through your teeth, wishing you had the strength to tell him not to be so rough, not to fuck you like this... like a whore. But god, this is exactly what you wanted from him, if you were being honest, even if you hated yourself just a bit for liking it so much— for needing it. He dug his fingers into the hair at your scalp, surely ruining your half an hour of styling efforts from earlier tonight, and pushed your head back down against the seats; god, he was really rubbing it in, huh? You almost thought he'd be grateful, that he'd be delicate and careful with you because, well, the opportunity to fuck a cheerleader does not come by for a guy like him. But no, he was putting you in your place, and you were biting your lip to keep from begging him for more.

His free hand held your hips and suddenly his pace changed-- from hasty and rushed to slow but hard, slamming into you and knocking you forward with a loud groan. He did it again, and again, and you cried out louder with each thrust right into the deepest parts of you. "Oh, sweetie," he cooed condescendingly, "are you having trouble keeping quiet? I'll help you, babe— m'gonna shut you up, don't worry—"

He spoke so roughly that he sounded furious, leaning down over you to press his lips up to your ear, and suddenly the hand in your hair slipped around and covered your mouth. He gave you another one, so deep your eyes rolled back in your head, and you finally let it all out— it was muffled behind his hand, anyway, and it felt good to moan as loud as you wanted without it being actually as loud as it would be otherwise.

You weren't quite sure what to think: he was fucking you rather disrespectfully, but the intensity of it, the way he groaned deeply into your ear and mumbled little praises under his breath, the way he held your waist tighter and tighter— you could almost call it passionate, if you didn't know any better. Sure, not exactly sweet, but it could be worse.

Well, actually, it couldn't be better. It was perfect. It was Eddie fucking Munson, and you couldn't quite wrap your head around that yet, but you didn't need to because it felt goddamn perfect.

"Good girl, fuck, goooood fuckin' girl," he hissed into your ear. "Oh, you're still so loud, even with my hand on your mouth— need some more help, babe?"

He squeezed your nose shut with his thumb and the side of his finger, and suddenly you had no air at all; you didn't even care, you didn't need air anymore, you just needed this. It made the numbness that much better, made your eyes well with tears and your throat burn but you wanted more more more— you wanted everything.

"Ohh, fuck, are you coming?" he laughed proudly, fucking you faster right as it hit you. You hadn't even noticed until he said it, but, yep, you were clenching inside and your back was arching deeper and you felt the tears keep flowing over his hand. "Oh my god, that's good— you're so fuckin' tight, Jesus..."

It just kept getting bigger and bigger, it kept twisting in your core and you weren't sure how much more you could take. He let go of your nose and you took a deep breath in, hearing the most deranged noise break out of your throat and peter out in your mouth with his hand keeping it inside. You were crying out his name, at least you were trying to, but it was all just incomprehensible sobs muffled under that thick, clammy hand with the gaudy silver rings that you could taste on your lips.

God, was it ever gonna stop? This feeling, this light show on the back of your eyes, this whole-body spasm that danced under your skin— was it gonna let you go back down to Earth any time soon? Or was this just your new normal, was this just some other state of existence that Eddie had knocked you face-first into, with no plan to rescue you?

It was too much, it was far too much, but you could already see yourself tomorrow morning, staring at the phone, trying to decide how long to wait until coming back for more.

"That's it, baby," he encouraged you, "scream for me, just like that— nobody's gonna hear you, promise."

He couldn't promise that, but he didn't need to. He could fuck you in front of whoever he wanted if it was always gonna be like this; he could fuck you in front of your grandmother and you wouldn't stop him— you were whipped. Like, whipped whipped. Like, 'pearls and heels making a roast dinner if he asks me to' whipped. Like, 'we are so doing this again' whipped.

You heard him gasp, a sound almost like a wince or a cry, almost like it hurt— and you could relate to that right now, certainly. "Fuck!" he grunted. "M'close, I'm so close, babe..."

You were way too proud of that; it wasn't much of an accomplishment or anything, you heard that guys come pretty easy and in your experience so far it was mostly true. But you felt good, you liked knowing he was going to come because of you, you liked hearing that composure falter for even just a second— and, if nothing else, you were looking forward to taking a fucking breather, because you needed it.

"God, no fuckin' way I'm pulling out," he laughed thinly, "s'too good, babe— I'm gonna come inside, you ready, honey?"

You nodded, as best you could, and heard his own moans get higher in pitch slowly until they stopped all at once and you felt it, warmth filling you and just slightly soothing the ache inside you. He gave you a few shallow thrusts, sudden and seemingly involuntarily like a twitch, and dropped his hand from your mouth with a sigh. You gasped, hearing the hint of a moan on each of your breaths even though it was over now; he pulled out and fell back on the seats dramatically, resting his hand on his forehead like a maiden in an old-timey movie about to faint. You couldn't help but giggle, impressed that he could keep up his theatrics at a time like this.

"Oh, shit," he whimpered, "you really took it all out of me. Literally. Jesus. Y-you're on the pill, though, right? Cause I can buy you something—"

"S'fine," you croaked, clearing your throat when you heard how broken your voice sounded. "Yeah, don't worry about it."

"'Don't worry about it,' she says," he narrated while he raised an eyebrow, "yeah, that's not ominous at all— nine months later you're knockin' on my trailer door with your curly-headed new mini-me and a whole lot of questions—"

"Shut up," you laughed, rolling your eyes. You adjusted your panties to hopefully catch some of the mess before you left a puddle on the seats, then pulled your uniform skirt back down and finally leaned back with a long sigh. The radio was on— you forgot about that— and you heard Black Sabbath mixing in with the sounds of Eddie's belt jingling while he got himself back into his jeans.

"Our babies would be cute, though," he grinned.

"Okay, actually shut up," you frowned, smacking him on the thigh. "I should go— the team's probably wondering where I am—"

"Oh, no no no," he chided, "you're not getting away that easy."

He yanked you down quickly and wrapped his arms around you.

"You owe me at least three minutes of cuddling," he demanded.

"Eddie, I—"

He grabbed your head and pulled it down into his chest, stroking your thoroughly-mussed hair. "Shh, shh," he interrupted you, "get comfy, I'm not letting you leave for a while— feel free to fall asleep, whatever, it'll be cute."

"This is so not how I thought this was gonna go tonight," you grumbled.

"What, you thought we'd smoke up and call it a night?" he wondered. "So did I, but you were givin' me those eyes—"

"No, I mean— what?!" you squawked. "Eyes?! I was not giving you eyes."

"Uh, yes you were, missy!" he insisted. "You were all, Eddie, make love to me, I need you," he imitated a smoky-sensual voice.

"That's what you call 'making love'?" you snorted. "I'd hate to see you fucking. Gonna put a girl in the ICU."

"Oh, babe," he grinned, looking down at you, and you looked up at him from his shoulder expectantly, "I'm just getting started."

(part 2)

The Memory Circuit [III]

Get In Line, Mister!

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⎉: @chaotic-orphan Let me know if you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist!

TW: physical assault, attempted sexual assault, substance use, internalised trauma, psychological breakdown, imprisonment, coercion, manipulation, surveillance, systemic abuse.

Line dividers by @sister-lucifer!!!!

The bar has no name anymore—just a fizzing strip of neon clinging to a rusted beam above the door. Inside, the red light pulses like a hammer, and the air is thick with oil, sweat, and something vaguely metallic, like old blood on iron.

Bok sits at the edge of the bar. One foot hooks around the stool leg, anchoring him. His other boot taps lightly against the floor, in rhythm with the bass that shakes the walls.

His glass is half-empty. The liquor is acrid and sharp, coating his throat like engine fuel.

A man drops onto the stool beside him. Loud jacket, richer than the rest of the room. A slick grin follows.

“You working tonight?” the man asks, voice pitched low.

Bok doesn’t answer. Just lifts the glass to his lips, sips.

The man leans in closer. “You’re too pretty to be sitting here alone.”

Fingers trail up Bok’s thigh, casual. Bok stiffens. The glass in his hand trembles. He shifts his weight, the stool wobbling slightly beneath him.

The man chuckles. “You shy, sweetheart?”

What was meant as a term of endearment lands like a blow.

The man reaches up, runs his fingers through Bok’s damp hair. His hand tightens—bunching it in his fist.

Bok exhales slow through his nose. His knuckles whiten around the glass.

“Come on,” the man murmurs, leaning in close enough to smell his cologne. “I know what you are.”

Bok stands suddenly, too fast. The stool scrapes loud across the floor. The man grabs him by the back of the neck this time, tries to yank him near—but Bok spins, shoving him off-balance. He stumbles into the bar, curses sharp.

A fist flies. Bok ducks. His palm hits the counter for leverage. Light hair falls into his eyes—he shoves it back with slick fingers, knuckles at the ready.

The man lunges again. Bok pivots low and slams his elbow into the dude's ribs. The sound is wet, guttural. The guy staggers, then roars and swings—

This time it connects. Bok’s jaw snaps sideways with the force. Pain explodes down his neck. Ink spatters across the bar.

People are shouting now. Moving back. Watching.

Bok wipes his mouth, black smearing across his palm. His chest heaves. He steps forward—gets in one good hit, right to the man’s throat.

Then they’re grappling—hands, fists, elbows. The man claws at him, snarling. Bok’s hair is grabbed again, yanked hard. His body slams into the bar, ribs cracking against the edge.

He tastes salt and metal. His ears ring. And still, his body moves.

He’s not trying to lose.

Bouncers shove through the crowd. One grabs the guy. Another seizes Bok, jerking him backwards. Bok tries to loosen himself, but they’re already hauling him.

"Out."

The door opens. The city screams.

And then they throw him.

He hits wet concrete with a grunt, shoulder flaring white-hot with pain. The door slams. The music vanishes like a heartbeat cut short.

He lies there for a moment. Breathing.

Rain spatters down, cold and biting. Night blooms in slow spirals around his knuckles, washed away by gutter runoff.

His chest rises, falls. Again.

I almost let him.

His jaw tightens. Teeth grind.

A tremor takes him, small and violent. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Ink and water run down his arms.

He stays like that, hunched and shaking, for a long time.

No one stops.

The city keeps moving.

¶¶¶¶

Hal stares at the ceiling of the room where they keep him.

Fluorescent light hums, flickering at irregular intervals beneath the sparkling chandelier.

His wrists are cuffed to the chair again, tighter this time. His ribs throb under soaked bandages. Each breath pulls at the place where flesh tried to close around pain.

Ricky is already there, leaning against the wall like he’s waiting for a friend. A file folder sits open on the table—thick, heavy, bloated with things Hal already knows.

“You were one of ours, Hawkins,” Ricky says at last, tapping a photo with two fingers. “Senior clearance. Protocol Valparaíso access. You wrote part of the legislation that governs automaton integration.”

Hal doesn’t speak.

“You knew the regulations,” Ricky continues. “You helped draft the punishments. You were the one who suggested neural tagging in the first place.”

A long pause. Ricky walks around the table, slow.

“And then you go off-grid, shack up with one. A freelance nomadroid. Unmarked. Off-record. Illegal.”

Hal raises his eyes. They’re dry, exhausted. “He wasn’t—”

“No,” Ricky interrupts, voice sharp. “He wasn’t just a droid. You’re right. That’s what makes this worse.”

He drops another photo. This one is of a disassembled model. Wiring exposed. Liquid black pooled around the table where the skull used to be.

Hal flinches. Just slightly.

Ricky leans down, smile thin. “You know what happens if this goes public, right? If your involvement leaks?”

Silence.

“Your clearance. Gone. Your name. Smeared. Pensions, benefits, citizenship? Stripped. Your friend’s address is still listed in the system. Do you think she’ll appreciate a midnight raid?”

Hal’s jaw tightens.

“So,” Ricky says, flipping the folder closed, “we're offering you a free route.”

Another folder. This one thinner. Sleeker.

“Conditional release. You'll be tagged, tracked, watched. You’ll check in every seventy-two hours. And when we find Joyeux—and we will—you will help us. Or everything comes out.”

Hal swallows. He flexes his hands in the cuffs.

Ricky’s smile grows. “So? What do you say?”

There’s no real choice. There never was.

The cuffs hiss open. The chair scrapes as Hal stands.

He doesn't look at Ricky. He just turns, and walks.

¶¶¶¶

Outside, the rain is louder.

Bok leans against the alley wall, a cigarette trembling between his fingers, though he hasn’t lit it. His jaw is swelling. Blood still clings to his collar.

His breath clouds in the cold air.

Behind his eyes, the fight plays again—frame by frame, sensation by sensation. The hand in his hair. The pressure on his throat. His own hesitation.

You’re too pretty to be alone.

He doesn’t feel pretty now.

The cigarette falls from his fingers.

He presses his back to the wall and slowly sinks down. The rain keeps falling. The city doesn’t stop.

His hand touches the edge of his coat, fingers finding a hidden seam inside the lining.

Bok shuts his eyes.

Tonight, he just breathes.

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To  @akari-loves-pudding, my secret santa,

Merry Christmas