#<<< monster boyfriends story title hehehe

[naffeclipse]

A Tease

Reader x Grease

Commission Info

I am rattling @o-cinnamonstickz for commissioning one of my monster boyfriend OCs and letting me go absolutely feral with this guy! Grease is such a menace and the poor reader must sweetly suffer him. After stealing a break while on a late shift, the reader will run into Grease behind the diner, and one tease will lead to another.

Content Warning for suggestive themes.

———

The customer smiles as he hands you back the black check presenter, his mouth spread a little too wide to show off his molars. You feel the money tucked within, but with an inward groan, you fear there is no tip. You wish him and the few others eating with him a good night. Maybe you’ll get lucky and one of his friends will pity you and dump a few quarters on the dirty table.

As they all throw down their napkins and scurry away, out into the night of Hebron, you step back to the cash register. Feeling the inside of your apron pocket, you brush against the worn and half-crumpled box of cornstarch hidden within before snagging your pen to tuck behind your ear.

With a few taps and clanks, and a little slam to get it to open properly, you deposit the cash for the meal. Stealing a glance over to the table, you find the dishes piled high, the clear cups half filled with watered-down soda, and not even a dime in sight.

Great. Just lovely. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and huff through your nostrils. Where did the virtue of tipping go? Is it just tourists or is it simply everyone that steps through the diner doors who forgoes the practice?

Such questions will only leave you with a headache pounding away at your temples. Biting back a few choice words due to their rowdiness and the not-at-all-subtleness in looking you up and down, you slip the bill into the towering pile that has collected throughout the day.

It’s close to the end of your shift, right? You keep yourself from staring at the clock in the diner too frequently lest the hands get stuck in one place, endlessly ticking without spinning. Everything seems stuck in time here. 

The Hebron Diner, aptly named after the town Hebron, in which you and this poor restaurant reside, is a vintage theme with black and white photos of old cars driving between the trees and sepia pictures of scenery from the nearby national park. You’re growing to hate the lilac coloring of the tables, stools, and booths, and your own stupid waitress attire is drenched in the same hue. Your apron is white—a poor choice, considering how well it shows the stains of burger grease and ketchup. 

You return to the table and begin gathering plates. One hardly touched his fries and you think the other merely played with his country-fried steak. Only an hour to go and then you’re free to rush home and scrub off the smell of fast food from your skin and hair. As the darkness holds over Hebron and its neon-dusted but quaint main street, your hope for the end of a long shift grows. 

You bring the dishes back into the kitchen. Darren, the cook, seems content to clean the grill while the diner remains open but inhabited by hungry customers. 

“Hey, would you mind taking out the trash?” he calls over his shoulder, never even looking up from the faint steam that sizzles over the grill top. “I’ll keep an eye out, let you take a break for a minute if you do.”

“Deal,” you answer without hesitation. You still need to wipe down the table, but you’ll do that after your break. You’ve earned one. 

Dropping off the dishes, you look to Darren for directions on which garage. He jerks his head in the direction of the trash bag sitting in a gleaming silver can, and you quickly tie it up and lift it from its container. Without another word, you breeze outside towards the dumpster. 

Darren scratches your back, you scratch his. You don’t talk to him much, but your habitation as coworkers is seamless as butter on fresh hotcakes. 

The coolness of the night washes over you, chasing away the heat and stress of the diner. A faint street light shines into the employee parking lot filled with cracked pavement and the remnant odor of grease traps. 

The dumpster is located on the other end of the small lot, unfortunately. The light doesn’t quite reach there and deep potholes collect water and whatever may fall into their depths. Your heart skips a beat, your fingers white-knuckling the tied-off garbage at your side.

There are monsters out there. You never thought of such things since you were a child, but the world became a lot bigger and unknowable, and this town became a lot smaller and strange since you discovered the truth. There are things in the dark that hide with mouths full of teeth. They like to watch you. They hope to follow you home and catch you where no one will hear you scream.

Is your paranoia striking because you’re alone now? The darkness is thick and inky, wrapping around the edges of the weak streetlight.

No. Stop being a child. Heaving the trash bag up with a soft clatter, you grind your teeth. The night isn’t what scares you. You push yourself forward, one foot after the other, until you catch sight of one of the potholes. It brims with dark liquid shining iridescently. It stands between you and the dumpster, and you catch an unmistakable ripple across its surface. There is no breeze tonight.

Your breath catches in your throat before you roll your eyes. A name is on the tip of your tongue, ready to call out, but you stop yourself.

A wicked grin crosses your lips. A juvenile idea infiltrates your brain and you run with it. You set one hand on your hip before arching a brow, staring down at the oil puddle. Does he really think you don’t know he’s here?

Dropping the trash bag into the puddle, you promptly sit on top of the black material—not allowing logical thoughts such as the fear of something sharp poking you or the general distasteful smell reeking from it stop you—and throw the puddle outwards in a thick, black splash.

You recline back on it, hands on your knees, as you shift your hips slightly to sink into what feels squishy and crumples slightly, perhaps old food and cardboard boxes. Gross. You ignore it and keep sitting pretty. Underneath you, the puddle begins to bubble and froth. The iridescent sheen of purples and blues and yellows flash in a way you haven’t quite seen before. 

Then the thought lingers a little too long before it manifests into something searing with embarrassment. You might as well have plopped yourself into a demon’s lap.

No. You hold firm. This is payback. He’s stalked you, hunted you down, and grabbed you. The least you can do is embarrass him with the rotten cherry being a trash bag on top of him. You lounge as if it were a throne.

Then a growl emerges from below you. Goosebumps roll over your arms until every tiny hair pricks. Your heart begins to thump hard and fast like a rabbit fleeing from a fox.

You spring off of the garbage bag as if burned. Breath caught in your throat, you whirl back to face the sleek ripples of the oil puddle. 

The black liquid rises, funneling into the figure of a man, lithe with muscles and powerfully sleek not unlike a tiger. The trash bag is ripped upwards in a grip of indignation. Your gut clenches as claws, iridescently gleaming and dark, sink into the thin black material.

A creature of living oil. A demon. Grease.

Two dark tendrils drip down from the top of his head, the tips resting at his shoulders. A long, sleek, and wicked tail snaps behind him. His face is flat with a sharp jawline, lacking a nose but his mouth bears bone-white teeth. Two pale blue eyes, centered with black pupils, pierce you in the darkness of the parking lot as if he might devour you whole. You’re reminded so vividly of a tiger before it strikes.

“How disrespectful,” Grease snarls, his silky and dark timbre carrying a slight threat underneath it. “I’ve come to see you and you put trash on me. Must I remind you who I am?”

You shift on the gritty pavement from one foot to the other. The candle flame of mirth inside of you is not yet extinguished. A small voice warns you in the back of your mind that you’re pushing your luck, but you are nothing if not a glutton for punishment.

“I know who you are, oil boy,” you say, much braver than you are. “You’re not as slick as you think you are.”

His grin widens.

“Oh?” He steps forward, his shoulders lowering like a cat about to bounce. The sway of his tail is excited, thrilled for a chase. “Neither are you, little nymph.”

A brief burn infiltrates you at the nickname he’s unfortunately bestowed upon you. Your brow furrows as you take a step back. A powerful concoction of adrenaline and confusion floods your veins, interrupting the flow of your thoughts as a primitive instinct to survive takes hold.

“What…?” Your tongue is too heavy.

He tilts his head, revealing a terrible mouth filled with shark-like teeth. Fear spears your heart.

“If you want to sit in my lap, you merely need to ask.” He cackles a heinous sound of black glee.

Red heat fills your face, coloring you in both rage and embarrassment. No, no, this is backfiring. You should have known he would have twisted it in his favor. He’s so seductive and intimidating. You forget which part of him is more dangerous: his teeth or his words.

“Ah, just how I like you, all pretty and pink,” he purrs deep in his throat. His black tongue, oily and black as midnight, swipes over his teeth as if he just found dessert.

Forget this. You twist on the balls of your feet, pushing off the cracked pavement in a dead run for the back door of the diner.

It’s over before it’s truly begun. Long, slick claws snatch you by the arms. Grease rips a gasp from you as he whirls you around and pins your back to the wall. You glare up at him, a breath rattling into your lungs. 

“Let me return your little favor.” His voice coils within you. Your heart beats against your ribs, wild under his devouring gaze. “A little tease for another.”

The sleek tip of his tail finds your ankle and begins winding up your leg. You bite back a yelp at the squeezing, staining pressure from the tendril. A chain to ensure you can’t run.

“I wasn’t teasing you,” you protest, but it’s a lie. A filthy lie that is only met with a sinister chuckle from Grease. 

“Don’t be so coy. It’s not a good look for you.” 

Fighting words long to fly off your tongue but his own emerges from his jaws. Dripping black saliva coats it like thick honey. Your eyes widen. He leans in closer with a monstrous grin. The tendrils upon either side of his head twist up gently and press into your cheeks, securing you into place as you suck in a sharp breath. Your palms press flat against the wall at your sides. He bends low to find access to your neck.

The cool, slick caress of his tongue on the curve of your throat draws out a shiver. It fills your chest and rolls down your spine. Tenderly exploring your skin, the tip of his tongue licks slowly upwards before disappearing from underneath your chin with a cool trace. You gulp.

The fiend. You would curse him if you weren’t half-paralyzed underneath his mouth. Your fingers inch toward your apron pocket.

“On second thought, why stop with a tease?” Grease slips back just enough to capture your gaze and watch you squirm. A threat of blush is bearing down upon your defenses. “You deserve more. A proper… tantalizing…”

He finishes his thought with a too-wide smile and his tongue flicking out of his mouth, closing the precious little distance between your lips. The gallope of your heart roars in your ears. You can’t name the roiling in your middle. It is too hungry, too excited for an oil demon’s touch. 

Still, you lean forward in the slightest, just to catch him the slightest bit off guard. His tail loosens from your leg. His eyes widen, but he presses in—

You snatch the box of cornstarch out of your apron and whip it in front of you, spilling out fine white powder onto the oil demon. He screeches in fury. Backing away from you as the cornstarch latches onto his chest, he writhes and hisses, claws raking at the substance gluing up his sleek form.

“You—! You—!” He howls but all you can do is steal one breathless sound before sliding out from underneath him and grabbing the door handle. Twisting it, you fling yourself into the kitchen.

You twist back to slam the door closed but catch a sharp, pale blue glare, frothing with a promise so vile, it ignites your core into a hot bubbling mess.

Grease will make you pay. But not tonight.

You lock the door and fall back against it. Deep gulps of air heaves through your chest. You slowly push your hair away from your sweaty face.

You got away. For now.

[roach-circus]

I'll Follow The Sun--Bri x Reader

a/n: I’m currently in a hurricane, (no worries, I am safe!) and I thought I would use it as an inspiration to do a cute storm bit. Thank you to @ineloqueent for helping me out a bunch again, she proofread and helped me a bunch with grammar, this fic definitely would not be as wonderful without her! I’m quite happy with the way this one came out, and although I know the plot is a bit cliche, it’s one of my favourite tropes and I think it’s kind of cute heheh ♥️♥️

warnings: There are a few curse words, but it’s mainly pure fluff and a bunch of angst, and also wayyy too many Beatles references because I like referring to music in my stories. (I promise it’ll be a different band next time!)

word count: 2.75k

Bright cracks of lightning erupted from the cloudy sky, and rain was beating down harshly onto the pavement outside.

You truly disliked storms, the monotony of them always brought you to dark places of your mind. Your week had been a bit rough, and your boyfriend was visiting some family members who lived an hour or two away, until tomorrow. So all you could do now was to sink further back into the plush leather couch, the lower half of your legs hanging off of the side.

Attempting to focus on “Baby’s in Black” in between loud bursts of thunder, you switched out the receiver on your turntable to increase the volume. You returned to the couch, as the record player began to play “I’ll Follow The Sun”. You hummed along; this was one of your favourite songs on the album. When you were younger, it would lull you to sleep and it reminded you of those times now, when you needed it most.

As the song progressed, your thoughts began to wander, to return to those dark places they tended to visit in the dullness and loneliness of a storm. You knew that it was entirely irrational, but still you worried, What if the people in your life did not truly love you? What if no one enjoyed your company? What if they were all simply pretending?

before you could be completely sucked in by your destructive thoughts, you sat up. You took a few deep breaths, counting to seven as you inhaled, counting to five as you held it, and counting to eight as you exhaled.

You stepped over to your turntable and carefully removed the record which had stopped spinning, placing it back into its sleeve. Ambling over to the oak-wood coffee table that homed your telephone, you wondered. You needed to talk to someone.

You contemplated calling your friends, but it was far too late at night to do so without waking them. You thought about calling your mother, but it then occurred to you that she was not the person you wanted to speak to right now. You wanted to speak to your boyfriend. He was the most understanding out of everyone you knew. And you could really use that right now.

Dialing his number, you crossed your fingers in the hopes that he would pick up. You felt a rush of relief and joy when you heard, “Hello, sweet Y/N! What’s going on?” “I’m just feeling a bit lonely, Bri. You know how I get during storms.”

“There’s a storm by you?”

“Yeah,” you replied, nodding though he couldn’t see you. “it’s quite dreary over here. I’m alright though, I’ve just been doing my best to avoid the dreadful thoughts that usually come ‘round.” You laughed lightly in an attempt to ease the tension, but you knew that Brian wouldn’t believe the pretense.

“Say, Y/N,” he began, “do you have anything to occupy yourself for approximately one hour and thirty-four minutes?”

“Yes, but Brian, you don’t have to come back now. I’ll survive. you enjoy your last day with your parents.”

“I’ll be right over!”

“Bri, no-” you were cut off by a click on the other end of the line.

You would’ve loved to see him, but you also knew that he deserved to spend that time with his family.

You decided to return to your music to pass the time, choosing an album with a few more upbeat numbers. Carefully, you placed Help! onto the record player, fitting the needle on top. As the first song (conveniently titled “Help!”) began, you immediately started to feel more cheerful. Instead of sitting back down, you bobbed your head to the music, pacing around your living room and stepping to the beat. Soon, this transitioned into snapping to the beat, your arms swinging from side to side, as “The Night Before” played. You went on dancing, your level of enthusiasm increasing with each song that played, until both “Dizzy Miss Lizzy” and you fell silent. Not wanting your little dance-session to end, you swiftly removed the record from the table, and replaced it with, “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”. As the song of the same name chimed in, you clapped along to the beat, spun about to the rhythm.

Thirty-five more minutes passed by like nothing, as you continued dancing to the Beatles. You hadn’t had the time to listen to this much music in months, and it was doing wonders for your mood. You hardly noticed the thunder and lighting continuing outside, a majority of it drowned out by your singing.

But as you heard a few light knocks on the door, you knew Brian had not been lying when he abruptly ended your phone call.

You quickly, but carefully removed the record and placed it in its sleeve, and then placed that on the set of drawers near the door to your flat. You unhooked the lock, and pulled the door open.

He was standing with Scrabble in one hand, and a large bag of popcorn kernels in the other.

“Well, don’t just stand there, come inside, it’s pouring!” you declared jokingly as you motioned for him to enter.

“Thank god, it’s insane out there,” he said, brushing past you as he came through the doorway and stooped to remove his shoes. He then shook his head rapidly in an attempt to remove some of the water that had soaked into his hair, as though he were a dog.

“Hey!” you exclaimed as the rainwater from his hair sprayed the both of you. “You’re getting me all wet!”

“Well, I think my curls suffered enough abuse in the ‘60s. The least I can do now is to keep them dry.”

You both giggled a bit. “In all honesty, thank you so much for coming and visiting. You really didn’t have to do this.”

“It’s no big deal. I wanted to get away from those old folks anyway.”

You both were silent for a moment. Then Brian asked, “How do you feel about a sleepover?”

“That sounds fantastic,” you smiled, “I’d love to! But we can’t sleep yet. I see you’ve brought Scrabble.” You knew all too well that a game of Scrabble with Brian could last for days on end.

“Oh, of course, we won’t be sleeping until someone reigns supreme,” he said, gravely serious. “That someone will most definitely be me!” you declared, and he chuckled.

The two of you headed into the living room, and you flicked the switch to turn on the lamp. It flickered on. then it flickered back off. And then the entry-room fell dark as well, and soon after that, the rest of the bulbs illuminating your house.“Well shit. The power’s shot.”

“Wow,” Brian mocked, “I had no idea. Have you got any candles?”

You nodded. “Definitely, and I know I’ve got a torch or two as well, I’ll go find them.”

You attempted to reach your closet, but you were initially unsuccessful and ended up tripping over god-knows-what before tumbling to the ground. Brian held out a hand to help you up, and you thanked him and took it, regaining your balance and pushing the unidentified object out of the way.

Eventually, you made it to the closet and retrieved a torch for each of you and as many candles as you could find. You lit them, and placing them strategically about the house, you were able to navigate with a much more favorable outcome.

You then made your way back to the living room with your torches and several candles.

“Do you want to set up the game while I pop these?” Brian asked, holding up the bag of popping corn.

“Of course, although there isn’t much to set up,” you responded. “Here, let me grab you a pot.”

You followed him towards the kitchen.

You pulled a stainless-steel saucepan from a corner cabinet and placed it on the stove.

“I’ll leave you to it,” you called to Brian, as you began to head back to the living room.

“Bags going first!” he shouted from the other room as you knelt down on one side of your coffee table and opened the Scrabble box.

You smiled. You didn’t really have a preference of the order that you would play in, but you unfolded the game board, placed it on the table, and pulled seven letter tiles for yourself. You heard sizzling pops as you arranged your tiles on your tray and set up a scoring paper with each of your names written, and the smell of fresh popcorn wafted from the kitchen. A minute or two later, you heard footsteps, and Brian came up behind you, placing a large plastic bowl of buttery popcorn to the side, and wrapping his arms around you.

“You ready, darling?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled by your hair.

You smiled softly. “Absolutely. Come sit,” you patted the spot on the other side of the board.

He sat on his knees across the coffee table from you, a small grin tugging at his lips as well, and you handed him a small grey pouch containing the rest of the tiles. The game started out rather relaxed, but as it went on, the will to win in the both of you rose. You became more and more competitive with each passing minute, determined to beat him.

“C-A-P-I-T-A-L,” you said aloud, laying down the tiles. “Dammit, Y/N, I was going to take that letter!” Brian exclaimed, as you marked twenty-two points under your name on the scoring notes and cackled.

“It’s only fair considering the monster of a triple word score you unleashed, with- what was the word-”

“Equinox!” Brian said, proud of his accomplishment.

“Yes, that one,” you responded, a little defeatedly; it was because of that word he now retained the higher total score.

it was all in good fun, though.

You reached over to your popcorn, threw a piece into the air, and successfully caught it between your lips, although you shifted several of the tiles in the process. You attempted to realign them into their original organization, but you accidentally switched around a few letters, so that two of the words to now read, “pqualize,” and “excorcise”.

Bri, it seemed, found your panicked effort to fix the words quite humorous, because when you looked up after rearranging the tiles, he was giggling with a bright smile across his face. You thought to yourself then how lucky you were to have him with you.

The game continued, and you hardly noticed the presence of the storm.you were too busy laughing yourselves silly , pretending to play phony words and trying to top each other’s fantastically high scores.

“Good game, Bri,” you proclaimed as it drew to a close, no tiles remaining in the pouch.

“Good game, Y/N,” he responded. “How about that score?”

“Ah, ‘f course,” you said sarcastically, both well aware that his total points were much greater than yours. “Quite a close game, if I do say so myself. it came down to two seventy-one and three seventy-nine.”

“And who got which?” Bri mocked.

“Oh, shut up, you,” you responded.

The two of you returned to your couch, Brian still with a slight smirk resting on his face. You began to sink deeper into the plush cushions, but before you could collapse completely, Brian wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you close against his chest. Brian tugged a strand of your hair between his fingers, then asked, “May I put on a bit of music?”

“Of course!” you said, “Anytime. Just be sure to switch out the receiver, the current one is a bit loud.”

He got up and proceeded to stroll over to your music shelf, dragging his fingers over the spines of the record sleeves, softly murmuring the album titles, before settling on one and lightly tugging it from the shelf. You caught a glimpse of his choice: “Beatles For Sale,” but.You hadn’t fully processed his decision as he slid the disk out of its sleeve, placing it on your record player.

As “No Reply” began to play, he returned to his original position, one long arm resting on your shoulders as he pulled you to him again. Light taps to the beat met your skin as he hummed the melody. He turned his head slightly, pressed a soft kiss onto your forehead, and adjusted his neck to allow your head to rest on his shoulder.

Sitting, cocooned in his warmth, had almost distracted you from noticing that “I’ll Follow The Sun” had returned to your ears.

All of your thoughts came flooding back to you, the ones from earlier this night, combined with so many previous ones that it made your head hurt. You were met with a wave of worry and loneliness, despite Brian’s presence. you did whatever you could to divert your attention, but it was to no avail. You let out a slight whimper, and Brian looked at you in alarm.

“Oh gosh, what’s wrong, Y/N, dear?” he asked , his concern audible.

“It’s just… this song, this album,” you let out a small sob. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re a fantastic collection of songs, but…” you weren’t going to try to hide the trouble you were going through this time. “I’m not sure why, but they bring on so many thoughts that I would prefer not to have.” You were only able to stop your tears from falling by burying your face in Bri’s side.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what kinds of thoughts? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t wish to, but if I can help you, I’d love to.”

You lift your face up to explain. “It’s alright. I just always seem to return to this stream of self-conscious thoughts whenever I hear it. Like, what if everyone in my life is just pretending to love me, but in reality they never have, or what if the people around me just hate me?”

“Oh, darling, don’t ever even suggest that.” Bri responded passionately. “I can tell you for a fact that your friends, your family, peers, all love your company and do not feel that way whatsoever, and I wouldn’t let you near anyone who did. They don’t deserve your company.”

You sat together in silence, Brian rubbing slow circles into your arm, until your breathing returned to normal. You placed your head back onto his shoulder, feeling much better after having gotten it all off of your chest. You were so thankful to have such a supportive, kind person in your life. You cuddled closer and Brian reciprocated, pressing tender kisses to your hairline.

“Really, thank you so much, Bri. I can’t believe I get to spend my time with someone as compassionate and caring as you are.”

“Of course, Y/N,” he responded. “I love you.”

Somehow, those words were enough to finally allow your muscles to untense and for you to release a small, contented sigh.

As you felt yourself beginning to doze off, Bri reached over and blew out the candles in your vicinity, and the world around you dimmed. You let your eyelids fall closed, and even as you meandered off into a dream, you could still feel his light breath on your head, his thumb still stroking your arm gently. you knew then he would always be there, even when things seemed to be dark and gloomy, with no hope in sight.

You knew he would always be there, to help you follow the sun.