Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Characters: Walter Marshall
Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)
Part of the Backwoods AU
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.
You finish your tea in tenuous silence. With an agreement between you, there isn't much left to say. You really don't know what to say or do. All the implications pile on you as your mind races.
A wife? A good wife. What does a good wife do?
Support her husband. Love him. Show him affection...
That last thought tingles in your cheeks. You peek over at Walter as you hug your empty mug in your hands. What does he expect of you? Not just in your marriage but tonight? You haven't wed just yet.
He meets your eyes, brushing his hand over his curls. He slides forward on the cushion as your shoulders slope down. He still looks angry.
"Done?" He asks, not waiting for your answer before he stands.
"Yeah, I... I am, thank you."
He approaches and takes the mug from you. He goes into the kitchen without another word. You peer over at the windows, rain still battering the panes. You sniff and stand with a shiver as you search around, your clothes still showing damp patches.
"The truck..." you mutter.
"What about he truck?" Walt frightens you and you turn to face him, wrapping your arms around yourself. He stops to shut off the space heater.
"It's down the road. I couldn't get it all the way here..."
"We'll worry about that tomorrow," he grits.
"Right... tomorrow?"
He blinks, "you can stay. It's safer."
He nears and offers his hand. You stare at it, it seems so big. You slowly unfold your arms and put your hand in his. He squeezes, firm but not unkind.
"Are you tired?" His tone softens.
"A little," you feel a yawn trying to break free and put your chin down.
He leads you around the couch and back into the entryway. He ushers you towards the stairs as the cold air creeps up your legs. You climb up beside him, crowded on the staircase.
"Well, we'll get you tucked in then and we'll figure everything else out tomorrow," he affirms.
"Yeah, sounds good," you wilt out.
We. Not I, not you. We. Together.
He hums and says nothing else. He takes you down the hallway to a room at the end. He flips the light switch. There's a four-post bed on a brown rug with a green quilt is draped atop the layers of bedding. A desk stands in the corner, cluttered and full. Several sweaters hang from the back of the chair, much like the soft wool he wears no.
He leads you to the bed and throws back the blankets. He tugs you towards the edge and lets you go. You climb up and wiggle your cold toes. Before you can reach for the covers, he tosses them over you.
Wordless, he backs away. He rolls his broad shoulders as he turns his back to you and nears the long dresser against the wall, a basket on top of it heaped with clothes. He pulls his sweater over his head, further mussing his curls. As he reveals his thickly muscled back, you look away.
You guess you never thought much about how he looked. You always just saw him as strong and big, but you never delved that deep. Your eyes trail over as he undoes his jeans and steps out of those. He dumps them into the basket of laundry and leans on the dresser as he peels off his socks.
He turns to you, in a pair of boxers, and you shyly flick your eyes to the ceiling and lay back against the pillows. The image of the hair across his burly chest has your insides brewing. He's older than you but can't be that old.
He goes to shut off the light and you sense his shadow in the darkness, lurking closer and closer. You nearly gasp as his weigh shifts the bed and cool air seeps under the covers as he slides beneath them. You're nearly shaking with uncertainty.
You're going to sleep in the same bed. That's not unusual... technically, you're engaged so it's expected. He lowers himself down beside you and you squeak as he grabs you. He pulls you towards him, guiding an arm beneath you as he angles you onto your side.
You let him. Maybe you want this or maybe you're terrified. Either way, you can't deny him. You have a deal.
He curls his other arm around your middle as you lay flush to him, your short figure nestled against his large one. His chest rises and falls calmly against your back as your own heart hammers frantically. You close your eyes, folding your arm around his as you rest your small hand on his thick fingers.
He's as hot as a furnace. His body heat quickly chases away the lingering cold in your flesh. It soothes you in a way you don't expect. You feel safe despite your vibrating nerves.
"Good night, lamb," he kisses the crown of your head.
His deep voice rolls through you, a new sort of chill flowing down your body.
"Night, Walt," you murmur.
He lets out a noise, somewhere between a growl and a purr, and you feel the tension slake away from his body. It might not be so bad. He can be nice so long as you go along.
Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Characters: Loki
Summary: You return to your childhood home to put the past to rest.
Part of the Backwoods AU
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.
You walk out of the bank, tempted to have your lunch at The Horn. You're certain they'd serve it up nice and foamy in a pint. Never the matter, you were never a drinker. Sins of the mother and all that.
You get into the front seat and sit for a minute, contemplating what to do. If you leave the land as it is, burn that shitheap down, drive off into the sunset, well, who will care about what some dead crone owed the bank? That's not how it works. You might think little of shared blood but a name is a name to the powers that be.
You shove your key in the ignition and turn. Your engine cranks and sputters but doesn't roll over. You frown. You just had it serviced before you drove out here. Oils filled, everything was tiptop, so the mechanic said. No lights, no dinging. You try again, twisting harder, but it doesn't catch. You let go as the car quiets.
A slap on the roof makes you jump and you look out the window at the figure right outside. Thor Odinson bends, grinning at you through the glass as he gives a wink. You don't believe in coincidences, especially not in Hammer Ford. You ignore him and give it another go; third time is the charm.
Nothing. Just a puff of exhaust and rattle. Fuck!
"Ah, don't worry, sweetheart," Thor raises his voice so you can hear him through the glass, "I'll take you 'round Vol's--"
"Fuck off," you hit the switch, ensuring the locks are down.
He laughs, "you know, I don't think I ever heard you speak before."
You shake your head and scowl, peering around. Several people watch but quickly put their heads down and continue on their way. Just like it always was. Fucking cowards.
"I see why he likes you--"
"Piss off!" You flip two fingers up in his direction, "now!"
"What? I'm tryna help you out. Sounds like your transmission," he taunts, "or maybe... you got some gravel in the gas tank. Shit, you know, that'll ruin your lines--"
"God! Would you just leave me alone?" You roar as you hit the steering wheel, "you and your fucking family."
"My mother gave me this cheque..." he reaches in his pocket and unfolds a slip, "has your name on it... and would you look at that? She left the amount blank."
You ignore him and grit your teeth. They think you're that girl who could be sold for a sixer and a couple bills. They don't know anything. They don't know you.
You reach over to the glove box and pop it open. You reach inside and take out the bottle of glass cleaner you keep there. You flip the lock up and he steps back, a victorious hum as you open the door just a hair. You aim the nozzle up and spritz him in the eyes.
"Is that clear enough for you!?" You snap the door shut again and thump the lock down with your fist.
He cries out and wipes his eyes furiously. You sneer as you watch him growl and his. He pulls his shirt up to mop at his face and finally stands, blinking furiously. He sends his fist into the glass, shattering it as you yipe. You shield yourself, reading for the next one, but he merely stumbles away.
"You've done it now," he snarls, "just you fucking wait."
"I will be," you holler, "just you come around and see."
He staggers away, groaning as he continues to fuss with his eyes. You watch him in the rearview before you lean back and stare at the lifeless meters in the dashboard. Rest in peace, mom, you left me a whole lot of shit, didn't you?
🏚
You grab the tire iron and leave your car behind. You have no other choice but to make the long trek back to your mother's shack. You get a few looks from passerbys on the main strip, their eyes lingering on the heavy tool in your hand. You're not stupid or weak like them. You're ready to fight back.
You keep your eyes set ahead of you as you crest the first hill. You always hated how this village only ever seemed to be up. You weave around the country roads and turn off into the trees as the sun dips below the treelines. You're tired and sore but not done. You still have a ways to go.
As you come through the canopy that opens to your mother's house, you feel the coolness in the air tingling in your fingers. The chill in your spine is from more than the late cast of a spring afternoon. You grip the iron tight as you stare up at the open door.
You swing around at the kick of a pebble. The iron meets only air as you twirl all the way around. No one's there. You back up, searching the trees. No, someone is there.
A snicker rolls up through the forest. It's him. He's watching you. You won't back down, not this time. You squint into the shadows. Where is that snake?
"Oh my, are we scared?" Loki's hiss crawls up your spine.
You spin again to find another void.
"Don't you remember our game..." he taunts. "Perhaps this time, you might win..."
"Go away!"
"Ten..." He calls out, "nine..."
Your heart races as your eyes tinge. You remember that girl, lost in the trees, listening to him count down, to his pursuit rustling through the leaves behind her. You feel the crash of the ground against your chest and the river water flooding into your mouth. You can't breath as you're trapped beneath another, rutting and ramming, snarling as he snickers in your ear.
"three..." you come back to the present, "two..." you whip around, "one!" You spin the iron and jab it backwards around your side.
He grunts and staggers back as you stumble forward away from his grasp. Loki falters as he grasps his stomach, a clot of red blooming on the inside.
"Shit..." he spreads the fabric, showing the gash. Not deep enough. You hold the iron tighter and raise it again. He chuckles and shakes his head as he looks up at you, "oh darling, you should know by now..." he smirks, "I don't play fair."
Suddenly, you're taken off your feet from behind, a thick arm around your neck and another around your middle. You thrash with tire iron only to be thrown away from the body behind you, hitting a tree so hard you're left breathless. You drop the iron as Loki moves to sweep your feet from under you and Thor brings his foot down onto your chest. You cough as you stare up at the brothers.
Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Characters: Walter Marshall
Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)
Part of the Backwoods AU
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.
"We can't thank you enough," your mother clasps her hands together, "are you sure you don't want to stay for dinner?"
"I gotta get back," Walter huffs, hooking his thumbs in his jeans pockets, "but I'll be back in the morning."
"You will?" You mom bats her lashes in surprise as you glance over from peeling potatoes.
"Yep," he nods as he looks around, meeting your gaze briefly before turning his attention back to your mother, "gonna help the kid with planting."
"What? You can't-- Walter, we... we could never pay you back," she fans herself.
"I'm not asking for anything," he shrugs, "I kinda owe Pat. He's always been good to me."
"Oh my gosh, and he will appreciate it so much," she touches her cheeks as her voice cracks, "we really can't afford to turn away help but you will be stayin' for dinner. It's the least we can do."
"Yes, ma'am," he answers, "but you don't work yourself too hard. You gotta make sure to get Pat back on his feet before you worry about me."
"Oh," she sniffles and dabs her nose with her knuckle, "I'm so sorry, it's been such a difficult week."
"Ma," you come around and offer her a paper towel from the role, your own eyes stinging.
"Anyways, I...I'll go now," Walter says stringently.
"Thank you," you eke out as you hug your mother and she buries her face in your shoulder.
He nods at you as he passes, continuing into the hallway. You rock your mother and crane to watch him go, his broad shoulders stretching the cotton henley. He peeks into the front room as he stops to get his boots on, staring in at your dad, still blank in his recliner.
You tear your eyes away as your mom pulls back and wipes her cheeks, "uh, I'm a mess."
"It's alright, ma," you assure.
"I hope so," she murmurs as her throat tightens, "I really do."
🌾
As promised, Walter returns early the next morning. You're in the kitchen putting on a pot of coffee as you hear his truck. You leave the percolator to boil as you sweep down the hall, yawning into the crook of your elbow as you near the front door.
You open in and stand inside the screen, watching his headlights fade as he shuts off the engine. He steps out, grabbing a beaten metal lunch pail out behind him. It hangs from a thick leather strap; you wonder if he takes it down to the mill for his shifts.
"Morning," he comes up the steps, "Timothy up?"
"He's getting there," you say evasively, "you want some coffee?"
"Brought my own," he shows the thermos strapped to the top of the lunch pail.
"Hm, well, why don't you come in while you wait? Tim will be up soon, I'm sure."
"I don't mind," he says.
"I hate to leave you out here," you insist, "ma's upstairs with dad," you explain, "pretty quiet in here. Not used to that."
"Mm," he grumbles and bows his head. He grabs the screen door as he steps forward, catching it as you retreat ahead of him.
He enters and you scurry back to the kitchen as you hear the percolator thrumming, the lid shaking noisily. You take out a cup for yourself and one for Timothy. Walter enters and you turn to him as he looks around placidly.
"You're right. It's quiet," he agrees.
You give a shaky smile and go to the fridge. You take out the packet of bacon wrapped in brown paper and put it on the counter.
"I'm making breakfast. Ma and dad will be hungry. You like bacon or sausage?" You ask.
He considers you. You face him, awaiting his answer. He watches you, his expression hard to read.
"You don't have to worry about me," he states.
"I'm not worried, I'm just... offering," you placate.
His blue eyes make you nervous as they bore into you. Like everything else he does, he watches you with intent. What it is, you don't know.
He hums and nods, as if agreeing with something you said. You arch a brow curiously as he tilts his head and drops his eyes to the counter. He steps up to the island and puts his pail down.
"I'll do the eggs," he says.
"Oh, please, sir--"
"Walt," he intones.
"Walt, sorry," you squirm. There's something different about him. He's just as steely as ever but much more... there. You always felt like he didn't see you before.
"No sorries," he waves you off and goes to the fridge, opening the door and searching until he sees the eggs. "You seem like the sunny side up type."
"I do?" You wonder as he plucks out eggs one at a time.
"I think so," he says softly, a grit in his throat.
"Hm," you scrunch your lips up, "I don't mind it. I usually have french toast. That's how I liked my eggs."
"Not really eggs..."
"There's eggs on the bread," you argue, "and cinnamon, and a little icing sugar."
He scoffs and his cheek dimples. It's as close to a smile as you've ever seen from him. He places the eggs on the counter before he goes back for more.
"What about you? How do you like your eggs?" You ask before the tension can grow stifling.
"I take two hard-boiled eggs to work. A slice of rye, carrots, cashews, and dried berries. For lunch, I have ham and cheese. Most days, I miss lunch. Too busy."
He speaks matter-of-factly. He does seem like a man of routine. You never thought very much about what he did beyond his visits, but it makes sense.
"I usually forget lunch too," you grin, "but I make up for it at dinner."
He snorts again, setting down another handful of eggs. "I'll do some scrambled," he rolls one aside on its own, "and some french toast for you."
"Oh, M-Walt," you stammer, "that's--"
"I like to keep busy. Keeps me focused," he says sternly.
"Oh, uh, okay," you relent, "I'll... go get Timothy," you look at the clock, "he said he'd be up ten minutes ago."
"His own fault if he doesn't have time to eat," Walter tuts. "Grown man."
"Sure is," you agree as you breeze around the counter, "be right back."
You get to the door before he responds, "I'll be here, sweetheart."
You're in the hall before you register what he said. You falter and stop at the bottom step before you can ascend the stairs. You look back to the kitchen, staring at Walter's shoulders as he cracks eggs into a bowl.
Sweetheart... you don't think you've ever heard a morsel of affection from the man. He didn't even laugh at your father's jokes. Well, there is a lot going on. He's just being nice because your dad's sick.
Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Characters: Walter Marshall
Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)
Part of the Backwoods AU
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.
Your dad sits in the worn-out recliner, silent as the radio buzzes on an AM station. Your mother places a glass of water next to him but he doesn't acknowledge her. You've never seen him like this. Your dad's always been lively, often talking back to the radio. But now, he's like a shell, just staring.
"The rehab nurse will come tomorrow," your mom nears, "he just needs some rest for now."
You nod and back out of the room, a grim coldness in the air despite the warmth of spring flowing in from open windows. You enter the kitchen as your mother trails after you. Without a word, she flips on the burner beneath the blackened silver kettle. You lean on the square island and trace a finger around a ring in the wood.
"Do they know how it happened?" You ask.
"A clot. They say... things like that are hard to catch," she sniffs, "but it doesn't matter now. All that matters is he's home and alive and... he's going to get better."
"I'm sorry, ma," you frown.
You cup your chin and glance over at the door. When you looked in your father's eyes, it was as if he didn't know you. He just smiled weakly then went back to staring. What happened to man who used to jump down from his tractor to the dismay of his wife?
"We'll have to figure out what to do about the planting," your mother hums and chews her thumb. She pulls her hand away and stretches out her fingers, "Timothy's done a lot but... we'll never catch up at this pace."
"I can help," you offer, "ma, we'll make it work."
"No, I need you in here," she counters, "I'll be taking care of your dad. The hospital gave me all these pamphlets; exercises and all that..." she blows out a heavy breath and flattens her palm to her forehead, "how am I going to do all this?"
"Ma, we'll all help," you offer, "it's okay. We'll be okay. Dad will be okay."
You come around the counter and offer a hug. She latches onto you and rocks you in place. As she holds you, a rumble underlines the chatter on the radio humming from the front room.
You part and look over at the open archway to the hallway. You glance at your mother and give a nod. Visitors already.
You go down to the entry way, wondering where Timothy went. He was just out on the porch fiddling with some car part or another. You open the door and lean back on a heel as Walter greets you with a nod.
"Hey, hope I'm not... imposing."
"Um, dad just got home. He's..." you peek over at the front room, "resting."
"Of course, I figured, I just wanted to drop this off," he holds up the basket in his right hand, "had some extra stuff in my pantry."
"Oh, Mr. Marshall," you accept the basket, "thank you. You didn't have to--"
"Walt," he corrects.
"Walter," your mother's voice carries through the hall as she pads up softly, "oh, Walter, how kind."
She looks at the basket as you grasp the handle and Walter lets it go, the weight nearly bowling you over. You do your best to keep it above ground level.
"Heavy," he warns too late.
"Please, come in," your mother beckons.
"I wouldn't want to disturb him," Walter puts his head down, almost meekly. "Just wanted to bring some stuff."
"No, no, please, I just put the kettle on."
"Uh, alright," he accepts reticently. "Thanks, Maddie."
"Not at all," she assures and turns to sweep back down the hall.
He steps in and bends to untie his stained tan boots. He leaves them on the mat and faces you. You give an awkward smile and take stunted steps with the weighty basket.
"Here," he swipes it back as he catches up to you, "don't hurt yourself."
You let him have it. Your arm hurts. He follows you into the kitchen and places the basket on the island as you round to the other side.
"Black tea?" Your mother offers.
"Sure," he stands sternly, arms straight, stance wide.
She takes down three cups as you languish in radio's buzz. You never said much more than a few words to Walter. Walt. He never says too much either, he was always just a sounding board for your father's yammering.
"God!" The back door swings open and hits the wall, causing you and your mother to yelp as Walter merely looks over dully. Your brother clamours in and skids to a halt.
"Timmy, the floor," your mother reproaches.
"Dang it, sorry ma," he huffs, "I just... the tractor's smoking."
"What?" You and your mother stammer in unison.
"Yeah, black shit all out the exhaust."
"I'll have a look," Walter offers.
"Oh, hey, Walter," Timothy grins dumbly.
"You're so kind, Walter, but we can get Vol down here--"Don't bother with the bill," Walter shrugs off, "I'll get my boots."
Your mother sighs and you shake your head at Timothy. She might just be right. There's no way the three of you can get the spring planting done, especially if he's going to treat the tractor like one of his dinky cars he played with as a kid.
I'm still dumb into shapshifter aus so here's one with mako
He's lived in the woods I move out into for awhile and he ends up showing me how to actually. Survive out in the backwoods and I thank him with gifts from the rare times I go to town. I don't figure out he's a shape shifter until later
