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nehi-soda · 17 days ago

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Bite the Hand that Needs You -

trailer park!joel miller x female! reader

Explicit; Minors DNI 18+ only.

Summary: Your sharp tongue gets you into trouble.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: DUB CON, established relationship, unprotected p-in-v sex, rough sex, oral sex (m receiving), profanity, size kink, spanking, breath play, praise kink, dd/lg undertones, unspecified age gap, humiliation kink, dirty talk, creampie, possessive behaviour, pet names (babygirl, darlin,' good girl). No outbreak, older boyfriend!joel, redneck!joel, trailer park trash!joel. No use of Y/N. Mood board for aesthetics only; reader's features aren't specified other than Joel can pick them up.

A/N: This was inspired by an opening scene from No Country for Old Men, featuring Llewelyn Moss (who, as I read, served as inspiration for Joel) and Carla Jean.

The trailer door slammed hard enough to rattle the loose siding, the hiss of the cheap hydraulic arm dragging out the sound until it snapped shut. Joel stomped inside, his boots heavy, leaving clods of dirt and god knows what else on the already dingy linoleum. He looked like he’d crawled through hell. Grease streaked his arms, dust clung to his sweat-soaked shirt, and his face had that particular scowl—the one that meant trouble had followed him home again.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, barefoot in a short ratty old nightdress. A cigarette dangled from your lips, trailing smoke toward the low ceiling fan that clunked with every uneven rotation.

“Jesus, Joel, what’d you get into this time?” You didn’t bother hiding the bite in your tone. “You look like someone dragged you through the back end of a damn cattle chute.”

He didn’t answer. Just grabbed a beer from the fridge, twisted the cap off, and tossed it onto the counter without even looking at you. You hated when he did that—just skated past your questions like you were a mosquito buzzing in his ear.

“Hey,” you snapped, louder this time. “Don’t just walk in here all covered in—what the hell even is that? Mud? Blood? What the fuck have you been doing?”

He took a long pull from the bottle, the muscles in his throat working as he swallowed. “I don’t need to explain myself to you,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly.

“Like hell you don’t,” you shot back, pushing off the counter and squaring up to him, not caring that he had at least a foot and a hundred pounds on you. “You come in here looking like death warmed over, tracking shit all over the floor, and I don’t get an explanation? Fuck you, Joel.”

That got his attention. His eyes, sharp as broken glass, cut to you. “What’d I tell you about that mouth?”

You rolled your eyes, the cigarette dangling precariously. “Oh, here we go. Mister Big Man can’t handle a little attitude. What’re you gonna do, Joel? Lecture me?”

His lip curled, just enough to show his teeth. “You keep runnin’ it, I’m gonna take you in the back and shut you up real damn quick.”

“Big talk,” you fired back, though your pulse kicked up hard at his proposition.

He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the spur tang of sweat and dirt on him. “You don’t wanna test me tonight, darlin’.”

“Don’t I?” The words slipped out before you could think better of them, your chin tipping up in defiance. You’d been pushing his buttons all week, and some stupid part of you wasn’t ready to stop.

Joel moved fast, his hand shot out gripping your jaw, forcing you to look up at him as he plucked the cigarette from between your fingers, taking a long, deliberate drag. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around your face. “That’s it,” he growled, low and rough like the rumble of an engine about to stall. “Get your ass in the bedroom. Now.”

You didn’t move, half out of defiance, half because the heat between your legs had turned your knees to mush. “Make me.” You spoke quietly between squished cheeks.

Joel's eyes darkened as they did, a feral spark igniting in their murky depths. Before you could spit another defiant word, he hauled you up as if you weighed nothing, slinging you over his shoulder like a foreman might toss a sack of feed. You clung to the flannel on his back in tight fists like a defiant child.

“Joel, goddammit—” you kicked and screamed, but the sharp crack of his palm against your now exposed ass cut you off mid-protest, the sting lingering just long enough to make you bite your tongue.

“You got yourself in trouble, baby girl,” he growled before he carried you through the narrow hallway, shoving open the door to the cramped bedroom with his boot, the hinges creaking in protest.

He didn’t bother with the light. The room was dim, lit only by the faint orange glow of a streetlamp outside the room’s one grimy window, and the yellowed net curtain barely gave you privacy. Shadows clawed at the walls as he kicked the door shut behind him, the small space feeling even smaller as he threw you down onto the mattress, the springs groaning under your weight. You scrambled up onto your elbows, glaring at him even as your body betrayed you, thighs clenching together in anticipation. “You’re such a goddamn caveman,” you spat, but your voice wavered just enough to make him smirk.

“Still feel like runnin’ that pretty little mouth, huh?” he asked, his shadowy broad frame towering over you like the monsters your dad would say were all in your head when you couldn’t sleep at night as a kid.

You swallowed hard, your pride warring with the way your body burned under his gaze. “Yeah,” you shot back, though your voice trembled just enough to betray you. “What the hell are you gonna do about it?” A shiver raced down your spine, pooling heat low in your belly as your legs subconsciously parted exposing your lacey panties you could feel were already soaked through.

Joel’s lips curved into a slow, predatory smirk as he reached out, tangling his hand in your roots and dragged you off the bed in one swift motion. "Don’t worry, darlin’. I’m gonna put it to some fuckin' use,” he spat. You stumbled off the bed and to the floor with a yelp, the threadbare carpet offering little comfort for your knees.

“You keep pushin’ me, and this is what you get,” he growled, his voice low and menacing, vibrating through the small room. His grip on your hair tightened, tilting your head back so you were forced to look up at him. His other hand went to his belt, the leather sliding free with a sharp hiss.

You opened your mouth to spit some smartass retort, but the words stuck in your throat as your brain seemed to switch off when he pulled his cock free, hard and heavy, the sight making your breath hitch. He didn’t ask, didn’t wait for permission—Joel never did. His hand on your hair tugged harder, guiding your mouth open as he lined himself up, the head of his cock brushing against your lips.

"Suck it."

You parted your lips, hesitant but burning, the heat in his gaze daring you to disobey. The second your mouth wrapped around him, Joel groaned low in his throat, the sound rough and raw as his hips bucked forward. He didn’t ease into it—he pushed in deep, hitting the back of your throat with a force that made your eyes water.

“That’s it,” he hissed, his hand fisting tighter in your hair as he set a brutal pace, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth with relentless precision. "See, we get on so much better when you just shut the fuck up and be a good little slut for me."

You gagged, your hands gripping his thighs for balance as he used you, each thrust driving the breath from your lungs. Tears streamed down your face, mixing with the spit that dripped from the corners of your mouth, but Joel didn’t stop. He was relentless, his groans and growls filling the room as he forced you to take every inch of him. You tried to garble insults back at him for being so patronising but your mouth what too full of his cock.

"Shhh now, baby, just take it like a good girl."

And suddenly, he pulled you back and pushed you up against the end of the bed, caged in by his legs; your head pinned between the edge of the mattress and his cock being rammed down your throat.

You were a fucking mess, a pretty mess, but your makeup ran like a pornstar in one of those movies they rented in the back of every seedy truck stop—eyes all glassy and vacant.

“Fuckin’, shit", he moaned, his voice thick and strained as his fingers tightened in your hair, keeping your head pinned right where he wanted as he rutted his hips forwards. "Fuckin' perfect like this. Chokin’ on it, takin’ me so goddamn good.”

He pushed in balls deep and held it there. You slapped his arm and thighs, your desperation leaking through in frantic jerks when he cruelly pinched your nose and cut off your oxygen supply for a little too long.

“Uh-uh,” he muttered his voice low and mocking, “Not yet. You can take it. You’re my good girl, ain’t ya?”

The tears streamed down your face said otherwise, but he finally decided you could breath again and pulli out of your throat completely just as the black spots start to dance at the edges of your vision, and you gasped, sucking in air in great, greedy gulps. A line of spit connected your lips to the tip of his swollen cock.

"Good job, baby. You got me nice and hard." he cooed.

"Fuck you," you spat with absolute disdain.

"Aw, I love you too," he mocked, giving a couple light slaps to your wet cheek.

And before you could catch a break, he dragged you to your feet and back onto the bed, pinning you to the mattress with one hand gripping your wrists above your head and the other slid lower, dipping into your panties and teasing your needy little pussy with a sick tenderness as if he wasn’t just skull fucking you. You wanted to scream at him, hit him, claw at him, fuck him, but all you could do was gasp and moan and writhe and buck your hips against his hand.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice gravelly and full of contempt that somehow made your pussy wetter. “Mouthy as all hell a minute ago, now you’re soakin’ my damn hand. You gonna tell me you don’t like this?”

“Shut up,” you hissed, but the tremble in your voice gave you away. You twisted under him, trying to pull your wrists free, but his grip tightened, and he just laughed at you.

Your legs twitched involuntarily as his thumb found your clit, circling with maddening precision. Your nails dug into the cheap polyester comforter, dragging it up in your fists. “You’re such a piece of shit,” you hissed, but it came out more like a whimper.

“And you love it,” Joel growled, his lips brushing your jaw. He smelled like sweat and beer and the faint metallic tang of blood, but it was intoxicating. “You’d be bored stiff with anyone else, and you know it.”

You hated how right he was, hated the way his words made the fire in your belly burn hotter. His teeth grazed your collarbone before he bit down just hard enough to leave a mark. He yanked your slip dress up, rough fingers sliding over your bare skin, pulling a gasp from your throat. His mouth was on you a second later, flattening his tongue and suckling on your pebbled nipples.

“Goddamn it, Joel,” you squirmed, your body arching into him despite your better judgment.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he muttered against your skin, “Say my name like you mean it.”

He pulled back just enough to shove his jeans down lower. You watched, chest heaving, as he fisted his hard length.

“Turn over,” he ordered.

You hesitated and his is jaw ticked, his patience clearly hanging by a thread. “What, are you too cock drunk or somethin’? I said turn over, 'm gonna fuck you proper,” he growled, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing and ripping your panties off in one swift motion.

"Goddamn, baby. You may have a stupid mouth, but you've sure got sweet little ass," he said, his hand coming down hard on your ass, the sharp sting making you yelp, cutting through the haze in your head.

The mattress springs groaned again as he pinned his full body weight against your back and shoved your knees apart, the cool air hitting your bare leaking cunt.

And then he was inside you, the sudden stretch making you cry out. He didn’t give you a second to adjust, didn’t give you the chance to catch your breath—he just started slamming into you.

Your cries were muffled by the pillow you buried your face into as he gripped your hips and fucked you deeper into the mattress, the springs bouncing you back onto his dick. You relaxed your lower body, embracing the way he was using you like his personal fuck toy.

“Don’t you dare stop talkin’ now,” he growled, “You got plenty to say when you’re givin’ me shit—what about now, huh? Tell me how good it feels.”

You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but then his hand slid around to press against your clit, and the sound that came out of your mouth wasn’t anything close to coherent.

"Fuck, feels good-" you choked on your words.

“That’s my girl,” he muttered, his voice smug with triumph.

You didn’t stay quiet—not when he tilted his hips just right, not when his rough fingers dug into your hips, not when his cocked dragged against your sweet spot. Trembling gasps and moans you couldn’t suppress escaped your lips and tears streaked your face as you clutch the sheets in white-knuckled fists.

Jesus, the neighbours will be bangin' on the walls thinkin' I'm killin' ya' again," he murmured, his voice dark and gravelly, almost taunting.

“Hey,” he mutters, his voice low and raw, but not soft. Joel Miller doesn’t do soft. His thumb brushes roughly along your cheek, smearing the evidence. “What’s this now?”

You bit your lip, stifling a cry and buried your face but the tears kept coming, hot and humiliating, pooling on the pillow beneath you. The pleasure was too much—his rhythm, the heat of his skin. You didn’t want to cry, didn’t even understand why you were, but it was like every nerve in your body had snapped, leaving you open, raw, and helpless beneath him.

“I’m not—” you started, but the words dissolved into a broken sob when he angled his hips just right, grinding into you with a precision that was almost cruel. Your legs trembled, thighs burning as you tried to hold yourself together, but it was no use.

“Not what?” he growled, leaning closer, his chest pressing against your back, the full weight of him pressing you further into the bed. “Cryin’ all over my dick?” He laughed bitterly, the sound vibrating against your spine. “I can feel how tight your little pussy gets the harder you cry.”

His vulgar words were enough for your eyes to roll back, and you felt that white-hot sensation flood your body. “Fuck—Joel, I'm gonna cum-." you whimpered.

Your whole body tensed every nerve lit up at once as the tension coiled tighter and tighter, impossibly so, until it snapped with a force that stole the air from your lungs. The sobs tore out of you as your orgasm crashed over you, leaving you violently convulsing beneath him. Your cunt clenched around him, dragging him over the edge with you, and he groaned low in his throat, his hips stuttered as he spilled inside you.

The room was silent for a long moment after, the only sound was your ragged breathing and the faint hum of the ceiling fan. Joel finally rolled off you, collapsing onto his back beside you with a grunt.

“Still think I’m a piece of shit?” he asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Absolutely,” you said, but there wasn’t much bite in your tone. You were too spent to fight anymore.

“Good,” he said, his hand reaching out to trail lazily over your back. “Means I’m doin’ somethin’ right.”

You shuffled up leant against Joel’s chest, still trying to catch your breath, the stale air of the trailer thick around you, the scent of sweat and sex hung like a smothering blanket. He lit another cigarette, always Marlboro red, dragging deeply before exhaling a cloud toward the ceiling. His arm remained loosely draped over your waist.

“See, all you needed was a good fuckin,’” His voice was course but there was a smugness in his tone that you’d kill to wipe off his face if your body didn’t feel so wholly used and spent.

You tilted your head just enough to glance up at him, your lips curled into a half-sneer.

He chuckles, deep and low, the sound vibrated against your skin. “You got your answer. I don’t explain myself to anyone.”

Your frustration flared again, simmering beneath the haze of pleasure that still buzzing in your veins. You shoved at his chest, but he didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. “You’re a goddamn nightmare, you know that?”

Joel shrugged, taking another drag. “Maybe. But you ain’t goin’ anywhere, are ya?”

The bastard. He was right, and you hated him for it. Hated the way his arrogance got under your skin, hated how he knew exactly what to say to keep you tethered to him like a moth to a goddamn flame.

“I should kick your ass out of here,” you murmured half heartedly.

He smirked, his hand slid down your hip, gentle fingertips grazed over the bruises he’d left there. “Yeah? And who’s gonna keep you warm at night?”

You didn’t answer, too tired and content to fight. Instead, you nuzzled into his chest and watched the smoke dance out of his lips, staring at the cracked ceiling and wondering how the hell you ended up wrapped in the arms of a man who’s nothing but trouble, yet everything you couldn’t seem to let go of. If you told him you’d die here if you’d stay, he would hold you in his arms, and he’d love it that way.

divider by @adornedwithlight

*Some lines taken from Nicole dollanganger songs (Heart Shaped Bed, Runnin’ free).

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller one shot #game joel miller #tw dubcon #trailerpark!joel miller

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that-weird-thing-in-the-woods · 4 months ago

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See though the mist

Heyy I’m back with part two now let’s go!

As Danny woke up he expected to see a clod white ceiling like he has been for the past … week or so..? Yeah that’s about the right amount of time right? How long had he been locked up in that cold white room that smelled of chemicals and the metallic blood smell and the sounds of their screams…wait that was him wasn’t it huh….

….oh wait where is he Danny thinks with suddenly clarity and a bit of panic and sits up and that turns out to be a bad idea as a jolt of pain goes through Danny “ok bad idea bad idea” Danny saids voice a bit strained by the pain and falls back on to his back that when Clockwork in all his Cyptid ass glory “Hello Daniel how are you feeling?” Clookwork ask “like I’ve been hit with a bus” Clockwork just nods

A few hours later

Danny’s walking next to Clockwork as they walk to….somewhere and as they get closer to a forest? “So where are we going? You really just gave me bandages and some new clothes which thank you” Danny liked the new outfit it was white and hangs of his shoulders ( due to not really being fed by the GIW) and goes to his ankles and he’s pretty sure this counts as a dress but it was comfortable and a lot better than his old clothes that were covered in his own blood ( he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to wear tight clothes like that ever again ) anyway they get to the edge of the forest and that’s when Clockwork specks up “Now Daniel I am unable to take care of you-“ Danny was about to interject and say he didn’t need to be taken care of but Clockwork holds up a hand to stop him and continues “ but I know someone who can be of help to you and your unborn child” Clockwork says as they walk into the forest it takes a few minutes….or 30 times weird in the forest Danny finds himself with clockwork in front of a castle.

The castle itself looks extremely overgrown and taken care of just enough so the greenery doesn’t take the castle down with its weight but still very overgrown, Danny and clockwork walk into a large part of the castle it looks like where the throne should be but it is probably under the gigantic tree that is so big it goes through the roof and it’s surrounded by a large lagoon with many different types of water plants and if look into it you can see the trees gigantic roots that are bigger than him and isn’t that humbling

As Danny looks around his eye catch a beautiful black snake with green eyes ( Danny’s always thought snakes were very cute) that is wrapped around one of the branches of the tree and it seems the snake sees him to as they start to slither down from their branch but Danny can’t really think about it to long as a gigantic snake ( not as big as the tree but big ) and its head was outstretched out to them but the rest of its body was still in the tree an then a voice come from the snake “…Hello Clockwork…”

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It’s been years since Vesper and Clockwork have seen each other after Vesper needed his help with the castle some humans thought it would be a good idea to try to set it on fire to get the land and to kill the snakes

As the castle was burning down with all of us snakes inside that when clockwork came and said he would help keep the humans out and exchange Vesper own him a favor not that he minded to much if the castle and the Den was safe that good enough for him

but he was not expecting that when clockwork would came to get the favor is that he would bring a hatching why isn’t it with their mother and Den??? But as clockwork explains the hatchings ( he now knows as Danny) situation after all he feels is

PURE RIGHTEOUS RAGE

How dare these humans hurt a HATCHING ( that is with a hatching himself) and from the other snakes hisses ( yells in snake) they are outraged as he is, it would not surprise him if the others in the den have already decided this boy is now one

And he is in agreement with them

And that’s it for part two! Sorry if the words are weird if your see any of my stuff you can tell I have bad grammar

Anyway hope you guys liked it byeee

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TAGGS

@thatoneweirdshipper @phantasama @siluver @fucking-brains-out

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crystlizabeth · 1 year ago

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Her ༉‧₊˚.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Stallion!Wife!reader

Summery: nobody expected Simon to walk into the ball with his women. His women who stood at 6’4 next to him in her red bottom’s.

Warnings: slight suggestive themes, cursing, reader is blackcoded! As always not proofread!!

.˚₊‧ ── ��⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ‧₊˚.

Simon had mentioned and even talked about his wife multiple times, shit the team has even seen pictures of her. Yet when Johnny and Kyle watch him walk into the hall with her damn. Her arm linked with his as she stood next to him standing the same height as him, yes she had heels but danm was all those two boys could think their jaws dropped. And like I’m the pictures she was pretty, gorgeous to be expected, her confidence radiated off her. The black silky dress she wore falling down to her feet but stood off the floor a slit on the left side, her hair long falling down to her butt. Yes her hair she bought it that lace was secured and transparent shit she looked good and she knew it. And Simon on her arm shit.. nobody could touch her or her man.

“Close y’er mouth.” Price elbowed Kyle in the side.

Kyle looked over at his captain then back at the couple who made their way over. Up close Kyle would be lying if he said he wasn’t just a bit intimidated, she stood tall and next to his lieutenant yeah he might piss himself.

The boys turned their attention towards Simon and his wife her arm still intertwined with his her hand holding Simons bicep. Her nails freshly manicured and with the looks of it Simon didn’t mind spending his cash on her just from the look of her rings, engagement and wedding. Johnnys eyes met hers first after being introduced,

“I’m John, but LT calls me-“

“Johnny,” she chuckled a bit her lips curling into a toothy smile, her voice was smooth and on the deeper side.

Johnny smiled a bit wider not minding the look from his Lieutenant. “Yeah, so he talks ‘bout me yeah?”

She nodded moved her hair over her shoulder “mmhm he dose, I heard a lot about you.” She spoke taking Johnnys hand shaking it.

He watched as Simons hands snaked around your waist, his eyes looking back up to his LT a cocky smirk on his face only for Simons to roll his eyes.

Price and Kyle introduced themselves a bit of conversation continued before Johnny couldn’t take it and more and finally ask her “How Tall are you?”

“Bro.” Kyle groaned becauseto him you cant just ask that.

She smiled her eyebrow raising “You look like you’ve been wanting to ask me.”

Johnny nodded “I have but I gotta be polite ya know.”

“I’m 5’11- 6’0 foot on a good day.” She answered leaning into Simon.

“No f’ckin way.”

She nodded, “Alright McTavish you can stop slobbering all over my wife yeah?” Simon spoke his hold on her hip tightening.

She watched as the two men began to bicker nothing foul but just fun. As the night went on people started to leave and eventually Simon said his goodbyes as did she.

Walking out the clod air hit her arms so she cuddled up to Simon as they walked “Told you they like ya.” He said.

“I wasn’t to worried I’m good with people, did you see their faces when I walked in with you. Did you not tell them.” She asked.

He shook his head opening the passenger door of his truck, “Didn’t feel the need to.” He said his hands falling on her waist. His head tilting and he looked at her his eyes going down them back up he looked like he could devour her right there.

“You lookin at me like that but we both know danm well there ain’t enough room in that back seat for us.” She teased pulling on his belt.

“I’ll make room trust me.” He whispered pressing his body against hers her boobs spilling over the top of her dress.

“Mmhm you said that last time and I ended up with bruises.” She hummed her hands running up and down his arms.

Simon smirked, “one day.”

“Fo shore.” She laughed, leaning forward her lips meeting his.

His fingers dug into her flesh pulling her closer as her hands held his face kissing him.

“You can have all this when we get home. Just keep yo hand to yo’self yeah? You think you can do that big boy?” She teased biting her lip her dark eyes looking at his face. Simon breathless with snugged gloss on his face.

“Yes Ma’am.” He nodded.

“Good.” She finished kissing his lips once more before tapping his hands.

Simon lifted her into the seat, his hands soon starting on her heels taking them off putting them in the back seat. He kissed her calves “Thank you baby.” She smiled stretching her feet.

“Always love.”

Simon was down bad for her. He would do anything and everything she asked but he also knew she would so the same.

.˚₊‧ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ‧₊˚.

I know this isn’t much but I have plans for Stallion!reader and ofcc take requests from y’all what do y’all wanna see?

Tags: @hollyjollybakanigga, @twdhtgawm !!

#ghost cod #ghost mw2 #simon riley x reader #ghost x black reader #simon riley x black reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley cod #ghost simon riley #cod simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #cod simon riley #x black reader #black fem reader #black reader #simon riley #stallion!reader #Simon Riley x Stallion!reader

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theredofoctober · 2 months ago

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MANNA- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: GATEAU

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon/rape, abuse, past child abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, death mentions (including of a young people), Stockholm Syndrome

Read after the cut

---

As the night goes on, made odd by the truths held above your head, Hannibal sends you into the kitchen for the wine Will has forgotten there as though you are his little maid to be so imperiously commanded. Grumbling under your breath you slope into that other room, thinking to spit down the neck of the bottle to lend it the flavour of your displeasure.

Your gaze falls first upon a vast chocolate gateau resting on the sideboard, its rich aroma stirring awake your appetite, the pangs of which you now rarely know.

At this you feel an acute disgust at your body’s failing. No doubt some human matter has found its way into this creation, likely by blood to bring salt to its flavour, but even if by a rare chance it hasn’t you cannot stand that you desire it after all the years you’ve abstained from dessert.

Still, even as you scorn yourself you reach with one finger across to the cake and scoop from it a curl of icing, shuddering as it glazes the roof of your tongue with its silken sin.

Guilt rides over you at once: the totting up of numbers, the phantasmic sense of weight already building on your bones. In a panic you smooth over the gap in the cake left from your burrowing finger with a nearby clod of icing, hoping it won’t be noticed when Hannibal comes to cut a slice for supper.

The kitchen door opens behind you, making you jump and wipe your guilty hands together as Will appears in the frame.

“You were taking a while,” he says. “Thought I’d check on you.”

“What do you care?” you reply with a haughty toss of your head. “You’re barely here anymore. Don’t pretend to give a damn now you’re back.”

Will shuts the door behind him and leans against it, his arms folded.

“I thought you wanted me to put my full efforts into this case.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you should just abandon me.”

With an unpleasant laugh Will says, “I’m sure you and Hannibal get along just fine on your own.”

You think cynically of your elder captor assaulting you against his front door, biting at your flesh. A lean coyote in a gentleman’s clothes.

“You don’t like the idea of him fucking me when you’re not there, do you?” you ask, and Will shrugs, refusing you an honest reaction.

“I’m just aware of what I’m missing, that’s all.”

It occurs to you to question how often he thinks of rutting you in those elongated hours apart, or if it is only Hannibal that inhabits his mind in ire and yearning alike. Will may not have forgiven him the harm he’s done, but he certainly cares for him still.

Perhaps it is the homosexual angle of the romance that prevents him from viewing it as such; if only women have otherwise enchanted him what sense can he make of this new lust?

“Well,” you say, “if you want we can swap places. You stay home with Hannibal and I’ll play detective with the FBI.”

“Funny,” says Will. “I like our arrangement the way it is.”

You look at him doubtfully.

“So you’ve really never considered it? You and him together, the way I am with him?”

“I consider you and me together,” says Will, and he steps towards you, driving you against the kitchen island until its edge impresses a horizontal groove into your back. “How I’m starting to forget what you taste like.”

Your breath jars in your throat, and you’re ashamed by the airless, claustrophobic sensation of desire that his words elicit.

“What would Uncle Jack think hearing you talk like that?” you ask.

Will smirks.

“Not everything I do is for Jack’s approval.”

He loops an arm around your waist, his palm grazing your skin through the smoke of your dress.

“Maybe you should be thinking about him,” you say, wriggling against the hammerhead of Will’s forceful want. “I don’t think he’d put you and dear, dear Daddy onto the Lover case if he knew that you were raping me.”

“Are we?” asks Will, and there is laughter of such an easy cruelty in his eyes that you wonder how you ever thought him good.

“Yes,” you say. “You are raping me, even though you love me. Maybe even because you do.”

Your voice is frail with emotion, no longer teasing. Will touches your cheek, and even that light touch is something evil, knowing of your weakness for him.

“I never thought I’d hear you say that,” he says. “Not about me.”

You shake him with both hands, unhinged with a sudden desperation.

“It’s messed up, but I’m right, aren’t? You love me. Say it. Just say it. I need to hear it.”

With an abrupt motion Will hoists you up onto the kitchen counter, your unmoored limbs flailing around him.

“How about I show you?” he says, and reaching up under the gauzy skirt he pulls your underwear down to your ankles.

How often he disappoints you, refusing to free you, refusing you the words you beg of him.

Will kisses you from your hardened mouth down your clothed body to your unclothed cunt, and his lips are like a roaming spark beneath which you flinch in revulsion and response.

Your hands weave through the thick of his hair, and you kick at his shoulders briefly before the motion of his tongue makes you still.

The sight of Will glancing up at you between your thighs, the stirring of his mouth against the bead on which he strings you out—

You moan, yet through you, as always, is the disgust of having your flesh expressed of its need like juice from a persimmon, that he to whom you’ve grown close engages in this incest, and has you indulge in it, as well.

No longer can you envision an existence with him where that element were not part of it, nor one absent of his envy.

Even as Will devours you it is Hannibal whose taste he seeks, hunting the remnant he’d left in you that morning against the shower wall, hoping there is some trace not rinsed down the drain.

Against Will’s claims you know there is some sleeping shred of him that thinks of the hand, the mouth, the carefully trained form under the designer suits, and resents that you—his subordinate, and unwilling at that—have experienced all in place of him.

You muse upon how it will be if ever Will gives in to the cravings of man, envision him shunting you off into some corner to observe as they make violent love like the dispute of brother gods.

This, in conjunction with the roll of Will’s fingers and tongue-tip upon you, conducts a new music of pleasure, and afterwards an anger that he has transformed you so utterly as to be this easily aroused.

Scuttling your hand across the kitchen island you feel for the wine bottle, toying with the notion of striking Will over the head with it, and wonder if you’ve gone as bad as him to feel joy at the thought of his red brains and the red wine of his warm blood across you.

You’d never do it, yet the thought comes back and back unbidden. Hannibal has beckoned it in with his talk of killing, the resurrection of the poorly buried dead.

It’s as your fingers wrap around the glass that Will says darkly, “Don’t you dare.”

His face is turned against your thigh, its expression stern, though not entirely serious.

“I wasn’t doing anything” you protest.

“You were thinking it,” says Will. “That’s enough.”

Then his jaws are on you again, and pleasure crushes you flat as though between the earth and a stone.

He loves you, you think, in the midst of it. The only man outside your family that ever has, and he has treated you with greater cruelty even than Leland Frost. Yet you cannot resist affection of any kind, and so as Hannibal rightly guessed it is no longer entirely unrequited.

Self-loathing takes over in your orgasm’s decline, and you push Will away with the soles of your feet, not wanting to sully your hands with him.

“I’m bored now,” you snap. “Take your wine in yourself.”

You thump down onto the kitchen floor, swerving Will as he reaches for you with a testy jerk of your shoulder.

“Little One,” he says, and then he corrects himself with your real name, so rarely heard from him now that you are touched that he thinks of its use.

Still you leave the room, finding yourself on the bitter verge of tears.

In sleep you have one of those particular dreams that read more of latent prophecy, a canon yet to give itself birth. In a scrub of forest you crouch over the nude body of a woman, pulling from the open mouth of her gut glittering organs upon which you feast with a scavenger’s appetite.

Will and Hannibal oversee this feast in approving silence, their figures a second darkness in the night.

Why they do not share in that meal you do not know; perhaps they have eaten already of their own kills, observing with full bellies as you follow suit.

It does not strike you in this dream to loathe the thing you do, for to eat is to survive, and so to meet the approval of your masters. With eagerness you crawl up the cool length of the cadaver, ripping up carpets of meat as you go.

Only when you reach the face, upturned to the dish of the moon, that you recoil with a spasm of horror and recognition of it. You know this woman, yet cannot in sleep recall her name, nor conjure the place from which you remember her.

“Did I kill her?” you ask, for this, too, you do not know.

“No,” says Will. “Not with your own hands.”

“Your proximity to her was enough,” says Hannibal. “All those who have been even in passive orbit of you may fall foul of death. We have told you this, Little One.”

You stare into the dead woman’s sunken eyes which appear in their stillness like replicas of glass.

“But if I didn’t kill her, and you didn’t either, then why am I eating her?” you ask.

“I fear you will go mad in losing those you love,” says Hannibal. “So you must consume and accept the dead as part of you, as I have. That way both mind and memory will last, if not intact then transformed as you are by the sating of your hunger.”

“It won’t work,” you say. “I don’t believe that. That’s your religion, not mine.”

“You’ll learn to embrace your madness, then. After all, each of us three would be consigned to an asylum for our habits by those that don’t understand us. But I would always understand you, Little One, no matter what condition your broken mind was reduced to, in the end.”

Then your captor’s hand presses down on the base of your skull until you're forced to lap at the dead woman’s blood.

You awake half hanging off the side of your bed, your body having mimicked the acts of your dreaming self as it has not done since you were young. In those years you’d often jarred yourself awake by attempting to speak aloud or to gesticulate to some ephemeral figure.

That you’ve resumed this abandoned habit disturbs you far more than the content of your dream, and in a panicked rush you start out of your bedroom into the hallway, turning not into Will’s chamber—which tonight is occupied by his sleeping form—but into Hannibal’s.

The door swings open under your frantic touch, and a startled figure sits upright in the shadows, as disbelieving of you having come to him as you are yourself.

“What’s happened?” asks Hannibal. “Are you feeling alright?

“I had another dream,” you say. “I’m scared.”

You find yourself sitting on the end of Hannibal’s bed, the first time you have done so willingly. His face is an amazed blank, unable to translate the meaning of this new and impulsive action.

“Your nightmares are likely a side effect of reducing your medication,” he says, at last. “I should have warned you. I apologise; it’s my mistake.”

With a hoarse laugh you say, “What do you have to be sorry about? Everything that ever goes wrong... you know exactly what to do. You take care of me even if I don’t want you to. You’re always so sure of yourself.”

Hannibal switches on the bedside lamp, his face solemn in the belt of its light.

“That is untrue. I have many flaws and failures; you’ve seen for yourself that I’m not always as in control as I’d like to be.”

The attack with the knife, he means, or his tampering with Will’s mind, both grave mistakes, so few of which have occurred throughout your stay that only they, of all, occur to you. That Hannibal is a killer, a defiler of flesh living and dead does not present itself despite its obvious nature, for even in this he is unerring, cunning and clean.

“I’m going to let you down,” you say. “You think you can fix me, and I know how hard you’re trying, but I’m not okay. It’s going to get worse.”

Hannibal runs your cold fingers between his own until they warm.

“You say this because recent developments are frightening you. Because you assume the good that will come of submitting to mutual love will not last. You would rather propel yourself into a fit of anxiety than permit yourself the slightest happiness.”

You turn him a look of reproach.

“You know why I can’t.”

“Because we are killers.”

“Yes.”

“But you love us still.”

Tugging your hands from Hannibal’s own you say, “If I did I’d be a terrible person.”

“We can’t help who we care for in this life. That you are able to love against the bounds of your morality isn’t evidence of personal failure.”

Yet surely it must be, you think, is in fact a marker of how greatly you’ve given in to him.

You say nothing of this aloud, however, only inch across the bed into Hannibal’s arms, kissing him in the hope of ridding your mouth of the taste of blood from your dream.

“There’s time for this tomorrow,” he says, gently, drawing away; clearly he thinks you’re seeking sex, an invitation you’re amazed to see him decline. “It’s very late, and I have patients to see in the morning. Rest now. You’ll feel better for it.”

You sleep nestled against him, his palm on your belly, which for once you neither mind nor think much of, merely consoled by his presence there with you.

The following week you are suspended between shame and self-pity, aware that you have fallen by a missing rung on the ladder of pious restraint into collusion with the men that you’re unsure you can arise from.

Will becomes as present in the household as work and commitment to his dogs will allow, the continued, quiet feud with Hannibal still complicating the evident need to remain at his side.

With you Will is tactile, sensual, smothering you with the weight of his covetous desire.

"You need to talk to him about what happened between you," you say to Hannibal one night, your head in his lap as he draws another portrait of Will as some tragic hero. "He's driving me crazy. I wish you'd just hash it out together or something."

"He's lost trust in me," says Hannibal in a tone of martyred sadness. "That can't be rebuilt inorganically. In time I hope his anger will pass."

It's on the tip of your tongue to suggest that he unburden all of his wrongs in one grand gesture, but thinking the better of it you return to placid silence.

This new method of survival you have taken on, though considered wise even in your early days of imprisonment, is so indistinguishable from genuine attachment that you could not confidently distinguish the two from one another.

Amy would be disgusted with the woman you've become, pining for the approval of predators, one of which has struck up a friendship with her own attacker. It is a dark blessing that through hypnosis she has forgotten this, will read of you in Tattle Crime and frown at the strange pang she feels at the notion of you shared by the named men.

In this way you become your own accuser, sparing no empathy for the difficulty of your plight. As others would judge you so you judge yourself, are brutal in the manner your keepers have sought to discourage.

Rebellion comes in strange forms, as of late.

You while away your days in windows frosted with the turning of autumn into its pale sibling, writing the first coherent entries of the journal you've long been unable to manifest. Your prose is clumsy, your handwriting without any particular art, but in this alone you gain some tangible accomplishment and distraction from your conflict.

Knowing Hannibal surely reads your diary you consider caution, but upon realising there are few secrets left between you both you write honestly and without fear of being bent across his lap.

“WEDNESDAY—

I haven’t been allowed to talk to my parents in so long that I can’t even hear their voices in my head anymore. I guess I’m realising that I’ve been picturing strangers ever since I came here, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

Do I even miss them anymore, or is it other, made up people I just tell myself I miss? Were they ever real to begin with?

They call it solipsism, the theory that nothing actually exists outside your perception. I read that it one of Hannibal’s books— George Berkeley was the name of the philosopher. I hope I spelled his name right.

Since I was little I had this fear that I was the only real person in the universe, that everyone else I ever met just vanished the second they weren’t in front of me. I still feel that way, I guess.

My bad memories are the only proof that I’m not alone, as much as I’m afraid—or sometimes find myself wishing—that I am.

I just remembered a day my parents took me shopping around Christmas one year. We went to this huge shopping center, and it was so busy and noisy that my Mom got really worked up and started snapping at everybody as if it was our fault the whole city picked that day to buy presents too.

I guess I did something wrong— maybe I wandered off, or I said something she didn’t like. But suddenly she yelled so loud everybody around us turned to stare at us except my Dad, who looked away just like he always did. Messed with his glasses. Pretended he saw something interesting in a store window when we all knew he hated shopping and was just dying to get out of there and go home to the TV.

Five minutes later Mom tried to hold my hand like nothing ever happened. Like she forgot what she just did, or didn’t realise that it upset me. Then when I wouldn’t let her take my hand she got mad all over again, and I could tell it hurt her feelings.

I’ve always wondered how she justifies those moments to herself, or if she shoves them down so far that she can just pretend she’s never in the wrong.

If I did imagine my mother, why would I make her that way?

Anyway, I think this whole solipsism thing is why I don’t buy Hannibal’s idea of absorbing life, even if it’s just a symbolic gesture. If I can’t see you then you might as well be dead, so really the thought that something would be left of that person after their heart stops beating makes no sense to me.

Only my dreams are real. Realer than I am. But if they’re repeating what Hannibal keeps telling me then what does that mean?”

"FRIDAY —

“I spat out some of breakfast into a napkin today. Daddy Hannibal took me upstairs and hit me with some kind of leather flogger till I said I was sorry. I wasn’t, though, and he knew it. He told me I’d never get to go to nice places with him if I kept behaving in that way, and that would be the real punishment.

I keep forgetting that’s what he and Daddy Will want at the end of all this. To take me out of the shadows of this house into their light.

Haven’t they thought about how weird it’s going to look to everybody? What will they tell people? That I’m their daughter? Their inappropriately young girlfriend?

They’ll have to take me somewhere nobody knows us and no one really cares. Places we can be different people except to ourselves. But maybe we’ll become the people we pretend to be. I’d like that to be true.”

It’s as you’re finishing this particular entry that you overhear voices in one of the many hallways— Hannibal’s, and that of Jack Crawford, who’s been invited to dinner again. Perceiving a hushed secrecy to their dialogue you return to your talent of eavesdropping and sidle up to the nearest door.

It’s Jack you hear first, partway through some muttered sentence.

“—Heard about the fibre sample Beverly picked up on in Lillian Greyflower’s file.”

“A thread from a hospital gown,” says Hannibal. “Yes. She had Turner Syndrome and was undergoing frequent medical checks to monitor her health.”

“She wasn’t the only one,” says Jack. “Bryce Mulligan was struggling with Kidney Disease, Anaïs Foreau was a premature birth— all the Mask Murder victims had conditions that affected their weight and height in some way. None of them were much over five foot tall.”

So these are the details Will did not wish you to know, cautious of spooking you with the implications of the discovery. Your illness is the reason for the Lover’s interest in you: as many differences as there are between you and his first set of victims this is the one great likeness to have drawn him in.

“The killer’s first muse herself was in poor health,” says Hannibal, “and with stunted development for her age. I suggest you search missing persons records for a white, blonde female under the age of eighteen, last seen accompanying an older male family member; I believe she disappeared around the time the Mask Murders began. Look specifically for girls with growth disorders, genetic, and chronic conditions.”

“We need to narrow down a state,” says Jack. “The murderer is clearly a travelling man.”

Then, clearing his throat, he adds, “Speaking of the Lover, have you—”

Hannibal intercepts the question briskly.

“Not yet. As things are now I couldn’t possibly disturb the peace by announcing such unpleasant news. I will attempt it as soon as I can.”

Lost as to the meaning of this abrupt turn in the conversation you strain your ears, frustrated when the men’s voices lower so far as to become incoherent. Only Will’s footsteps approaching behind you compel you away from the door.

“Stop it,” he says. “You want them to catch you like that?”

Turning around, you stick out an irreverent tongue at him.

“Who says they were going to catch me?”

Will scoffs, scarcely masking his amusement.

“Quit screwing around. Go sit at the table. We’ll be eating soon.”

The dinner you find awkward in the deliberate avoidance of the Lover case, small talk expanded into impossible complexity across the courses. Having seen death in its multiples you are both angered and entertained by the senselessness of your fathers thinking you too delicate to endure what you have learned.

Jack’s hesitation you understand, being that of the three men only he thinks you wholly innocent. Your keepers, however, are purely concerned with avoiding the resulting unseemly outburst, and in this you are reminded that no matter what affections you’ve developed to protect yourself from a prisoner’s despair a prisoner you still are.

Glowering at them both under your lashes you crush a slice of ‘fish’ under your fork, watching it take the shape of the tines. It’s as you’re observing this process that an idea occurs to you, brought on by the visitor in the room. A chance to communicate to Jack that he dines with a cannibal, that he has eaten of the same people for whom his officers seek justice—

Stuffing the morsel of fish into your cheek you say, “I’m full. Can I be excused?”

Jack glances at Hannibal, his brows angled, and you realise that he discerns something overfamiliar in your tone or body language he isn’t sure enough of to interrogate.

“You’re free to leave whenever you like,” says Hannibal. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Thanks for joining us,” says Jack, and you offer him a weak smile before rushing out into the living room where your journal and ball point pen remain.

Tearing a leaf out of the back you write

‘TEST THE MEAT!!! IT’S HUMAN!” in a hasty scrawl and spit the fish you’d kept from dinner into your hand.

Your heart clatters in your chest like a train across some treacherous road as you dart through to the hallway. On a rack hangs Jack Crawford’s overcoat, the pocket of which you intend to deliver your grim parcel to.

This is the answer to the question of your freedom, the sole proof required to unlock the criminal mystery of the Copycat.

Upon reading your note Jack will take this meat to the lab where all forensic discoveries are founded, and in the makings of its DNA will realise what creature he has dined with, and what he has been tricked to eat at his table.

He will get you out of this house, give you back to your parents and end this horror you’ve been bent to fit by moulding hands. Hannibal will be imprisoned or institutionalised, perhaps Will too, if he’s discovered to know more than he suggests of his companion, or if your relations are found out.

There will be no more men and women eaten in the grand house of death, and no more will you be abused and infantilised, or forced to take your fill.

Things will be as they were before your abduction, a known unhappiness which from having lived before you know that you can bear.

Yet even as you reach into Jack’s pocket the negative aspects of this plan suggest themselves to discourage you from this rash and unplanned act.

You think of the Lover’s crimes going unsolved and continuing around you, closing in until you too are taken and locked into a doll. Even if the killer does not dare to capture you in your infamy there are the choking attentions of the press to think of, the humiliating questions as to what you have been made to do as concubine to your insatiable men.

Leland Frost would likely make some comment on it, as thoroughly as you’d attempt to avoid him, his eyes bright with a jilted humour.

“Guess you’re not my girl anymore, cher.”

“Shut up,” you whisper aloud. “I never was.”

The cold grease from the meat soaks the skin of your fingers, and your stomach turns over at the smell of it.

All your doubts have surely been injected by Hannibal’s hypnosis to dissuade you from escape, for even as you dismiss those that have already come to mind more follow, each more unpleasant than the last.

After all, these previous concerns assume the success of your attempt to rally Jack to your side. He has been groomed by Hannibal to think you mad, and a conniving lunatic at that, one poised to invent scandal and atrocities abound if it means you’ll be released from treatment.

Upon discovering the note and meat making filthy his beautiful coat Jack is unlikely to follow the command you’d penned there; rather, with a pitying look, he’ll deliver it to Dr Lecter, bringing down, unwitting, another brutal lesson from your keepers upon you.

But even should Jack believe or humour you and process the sample as is your design there is no likelihood of Hannibal submitting quietly to arrest. He is a killer, and as such will fight every man against him until none stand.

Then he will turn upon you in whatever fashion he decides, and the attempt will be for nothing, one you may not even live to regret.

The risk of failure is not worth the pursuit, you decide, and resign yourself to retreat from the hallway and from the temptation of hopeless escape.

As you turn into another room you collide with Will, who has followed you from the table.

“Sorry,” you mumble, and attempt to sidestep him, your full hand held partially behind your back.

Will takes you by the shoulders, pushing you lightly up against the nearest wall.

“Wait,” he says. “I know you’re up to something. You’d better admit it now before you’re in even more trouble. Don’t bother to lie; there’s no reason for you to be loitering out here unless you were doing something you’re not supposed to.”

When you don’t answer his gaze falls to the fist tightened upon your shame, and the set of his mouth steels.

“You’d better show me what you’re holding,” he says. “Let’s hope Hannibal’s feeling more forgiving than I am.”

#manna fic #hannibal fic #hannibal lecter #tw noncon #tw abuse #tw rape #tw eating disorders #tw child abuse #tw anorexia #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #yandere hannibal lecter #yandere will graham #darkfic #dead dove do not eat

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writtenbymoonflower · 8 months ago

Note

Hello lovely! I have a pretty weird/specific request. So if you don’t feel like writing it no big deal. I have celiacs, which means anytime I eat gluten(bread and such) my body turns autoimmune. Meaning every time I eat it(on accident but I just got diagnosed we all thought I just had a shitty immune system and a sensitive tummy so it’s been a bit of an adjustment) I end up getting an upper respiratory infection/issues or the flu(body aches and all). Anyways can I have a small story with whichever marauder you think fits it, with clod/flu supplies always at the ready and just not minding that she is ALWAYS sick 🥺 if not it’s a okay I understand 💕💕 just feel free to delete ☺️☺️

hi hunny! i hope you are doing well! remus lupin x fem!reader

cw: mentions of being sick, flu like symptoms

650 words

When the bedroom door opened, you could see the immediate concern written over Remus’ face. Under usual circumstances, he would get home about an hour before you, more if things at work were particularly swamped. Seeing that you were home obviously long before him, wrapped in twisted sheets and looking miserable, was enough to make him panic. Still, he was as gentle as ever when he crouched by your bedside, the back of his hand pressed to your scorching cheek.

“Thought I saw your shoes by the door.” He mused, a deep groove making its home between his brows. “You feeling sick, dove?” You nodded, a wave of nausea going through you from the movement.

“Lunch was catered at work today. My food was mislabeled, I got sent home a few hours ago.” You said miserably, squirming and desperately trying to burrow further to escape the chills. Though that meant you were too warm to be comfortable. Remus cooed sadly at your struggle.

“I’m so sorry, darling.” He said, smoothing your damp hair from your forehead. “Have you taken anything?”

You shook your head. “When I got back I just laid down.” You knew he would to chide you, but he could see how bad you felt. His mouth was downturned, pressed into a sad line as he took in your state.

“Are you aching? I’ll get you some paracetamol.”

You groaned. “I think I’m out.” He ignored you, moving over to his side of the bed. You turned to watch him as he dug through his bottom bedside drawer, fishing out a thermometer and various clattering plastic bottles. He held the reader over your forehead, humming disapprovingly at the beep.

“37.7.” He sighed, setting the thermometer down on your nightstand. “Have you eaten anything since you got sick, lovely? You can’t have these on an empty stomach.”

You shook your head, sitting up. “I don’t know if I can handle any food right now.” He tucked your hair behind your ear, gently caressing your jaw and pouting.

“I can get you some fruit and tea? You don’t need much, just a little something.” When you still looked unsure he sighed, though still eternally patient. “If you don’t have something it’s just going to hurt worse, baby dove.”

You sighed. “I can try.” You smiled, more for his sake than yours. He kissed your scorching forehead. You pulled away fast, feeling a coughing fit overtake you. Remus cooed and rubbed your back as you struggled.

“You poor thing, that doesn’t sound very good.” He grabbed the tissue box and covered your mouth for you. You wanted to bat him away and shriek, but you leaned against his chest miserably.

“I’m sorry I always make you do this.” You muttered. He pulled away, looking at you confused.

“You make me do… what, exactly?” He still stroked your face and head gently.

“I’m always sick and you always have to look after me. It’s not fair to-” You couldn’t finish the sentence without coughing again. He let your fit ease before he rebutted.

“You don’t make me do anything. I don’t, and would not, do anything I wouldn't wish to.” He said intense, yet kind. “And it’s hardly your fault, it’s not like this is fair on you either, lovely girl.”

You sighed. “You didn’t sign up for this.” He looked up thoughtfully for a moment before leaning in close, nearly touching his forehead to yours.

“I signed up for you. All, of you.” His tone was sweet, but left no room for argument.

“Thank you.” You mouthed. He smiled, kissing your cheek.

“I’m going to get you some food.” He said, standing up. “And then you should get some rest.” You resisted the urge to chase him.

“Will you stay with me?” You asked, hopeful.

“That was never in question.” He kissed your forehead again.

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mollywog · 5 months ago

Text

Tomorrow

A prequel to Complicated (can be read as a stand alone) Set the night of the 74th Reaping

She’s wandering home when her ears perk at the sound of heavy footfall approaching. Silently slipping into the shadows along the path, a figure appears several paces in the direction of the still buzzing festivities. The light is low but the broad shoulders and blond waves unmistakably belong to Peeta Mellark. She watches with interest as he meanders alone. Though the path is clear and straight, his feet are unsteady.

She frowns: He’s drunk.

It’s not that surprising, half the kids their age are probably worse off than him, it’s the night of the Reaping after all. With her sister’s first reaping safely behind them, even she had stopped by the celebration, though she hadn’t had more than a sip of white liquor.

She and Peeta aren’t friends, they don’t even know each other really, but she still feels a twinge of disappointment at his current state. She’s always held him in higher regard than the other boys at school.

In the next step he stumbles; Unable to correct his footing in time, he tumbles to the ground, grunting as he lands. He rolls to his back and sits up, cursing under his breath as he inspects his knee.

“You alright?” she says, emerging from her hiding spot.

He startles at her voice, eyes widening as he spots her. “oh, Katniss, hey. I didn’t know you were there.” He pulls himself to his feet, wincing when he puts weight on his left leg.

“You okay?” She repeats, looking him over as she approaches; there’s a tear in his pants just below the knee, but she doesn’t see blood and he was able to stand on his own: all good signs.

“Ah, yeah, nothing hurt but my pride.”

“Good thing no one saw you.”

“You saw me.”

The usually confident boy looks bashful, and she wonders why he would care: She is no one, at least to him. “I won’t tell,” she says in reassurance. His lips upturn in a poor imitation of a smile and she scowls. “Promise,” she adds defensively.

At this, he shakes his head and laughs; unlike the smile, it’s genuine, “I believe you, Katniss.”

Her stomach swoops at the sound and she turns her head to conceal her own smile. “Well if you’re okay...” she trails off, not really wanting to leave, but not knowing what else to say.

“Could I walk with you for a bit? Make sure you get home safe?”

“Seems like you might be the one in need of an escort.”

He chuckles, “maybe so, but I can’t go home just yet… not like this.”

She frowns. Her parents would be none too pleased to see her in his state, but their lecture would be nothing compared to the back of Mrs. Mellark's hand. She shrugs her assent before turning towards the path, looking back to ensure that he follows.

It takes him a moment to register her response, when he does he jogs a few paces to catch up, “I don’t usually do this, you know?”

She doesn’t know: It must be written on her face because he continues, “Drink too much... or at all really,

She shrugs despite feeling a small bit relieved.

“Today was my brother’s last reaping; he wanted to celebrate and was feeling generous... I don’t know, I think he thought he was doing me a favor.”

“By giving you a hangover?” she raises a brow.

“Nah, he wanted me to loosen up. Relax enough so I’d talk to someone.”

She snorts.

“Hey, are you laughing at me?”

“I didn’t suppose you’d need help talking to anyone.”

“It’s a girl.”

Her heart sinks, “You talk to plenty a girls.”

“Not like this.”

She looks down at the plumes of dust her boots kick up as she walks. “So, did you? Talk to her?”

He hums an affirmation.

“And how did it go?”

“Not very well I think. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a drunk… or an oaf, or a clod… probably all three.”

She frowns. A very small part of her thrills at this; Had he succeeded, he might be off with this girl right now rather than here with her. But the greater part of her feels his disappointment. “I’m sorry.”

He grimaces, “and now she pities me, so definitely not good.”

Her eyes go wide and snap to his as realization dawns.

“I should have known the first time we spoke I’d make a fool of myself,” he adds as if in confirmation.

“Me?” Giddy laughter bubbles up, until a breathy giggle escapes.

He groans, “you’re laughing at me? This keeps getting better.”

“Not at you. I’m just… surprised?”

“You know what; Nevermind. Can we just… forget it?”

But she doesn’t want to forget…

Back when she was eleven, her father had been terribly ill but determined to return to work, her mother disagreed. Her parents had argued that night; they never did that. The fight ended with her mother conceding and making their evening tea. But what her father hadn’t known was that she’d added a double dose of sleep syrup to his cup. He slept straight through his shift, only waking when the siren’s had sounded all across town. A section of the mine had collapsed and a number of his crew had been lost along with it, but thanks to her mother’s deception, her father had not been among them.

She’d watched the families that hadn’t been as lucky as hers struggle that winter: some driven to the bottle, others to Cray, and worse still were the children sent to the community home; their neighbors unable or unwilling to help.

She had been among the helpless crowd until the day she noticed the baker’s youngest son sneaking rolls to the starving children that begged at the merchants’ back doors, despite his mother’s ire.

His kindness had taught her that even at eleven she was not powerless to help. As someone who could depend on two meals at home, she had begun forfeiting her lunches to the children at school who had none. Her father too had taken notice, offering guidance and foraging knowledge to any who dared venture past the fence. It was imperfect but it wasn’t nothing.

Ever since that day, she’s kept an eye on Peeta Mellark with a growing fondness she never imagined he could return.

But he does. She doesn’t doubt his sincerity; those years of watching have only strengthened her certainty of his goodness.

They walk in silence for half a minute as she gathers her courage, “So what was your plan? Before your brother decided to help?”

He sighs, “I don’t know. Offer to walk you home, minus falling on my face. Talk about something other than what a fool I am; like our favorite colors or the best time of year to visit the meadow. And by the time we made it to your door, if all had gone well, ask if you’d want to do it again sometime…”

“That sounds nice.”

“What would you have said?”

“Hmm?”

“What if I had asked you out? If things had gone… better than this, do you think you might have considered it?”

They’ve stopped in front of her porch and she stares up at the house to find it quiet and dark: same as the rest of the street. “One minute. Wait here,” she bids instead of answering his question. Ducking in the house, she silently sorts through her mother’s jars until she finds what she’s looking for, measuring and parceling the herbs with practiced hands, the familiarity helping to steady her nerves.

Reemerging, she’s relieved to find him still there. “Make a tea with this tomorrow,” she says as she hands him the packet, “in the meantime drink plenty of water. It should help the headache that’s coming.”

“Sure thing Doctor Everdeen,” he gives a half hearted smile, “thank you.”

He turns to walk away, but her hand shoots out to stop him, landing on his arm, firm and warm under her fingers. His eyes flit from her hand to her face, holding her stare. Her heart flutters, “What if you ask me tomorrow?”

His brows knit together before shooting to his hairline, “yeah?”

She nods, and because the odds have been in her favor so far today, she pops up to her toes, kissing his cheek, “see ya tomorrow Peeta.”

Complicated | What If

#everlark fanfiction #complicated #this would have happened anyway #TWHHA #in Panem #never reaped AU #Mr Everdeen lives

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mrsjellymunson · 4 months ago

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Hey, Boss

A prequel to Hello, Stranger

Characters: Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley, Jim Hopper, Raymond ‘Red’ Reddington, Mr Kaplan, Dembe Zuma

Pairing: None until the next part (where it becomes Eddie Munson x gn!reader)

AU: Stranger Things AU with elements of The Blacklist

Summary: Eddie falls into a new line of work…

WC: ~3.9k

CW: 18+ MDNI. This miniseries is SFW, depending on your tolerance for dark/violent themes, but most of my blog is 18+ so minors please be aware of this and DNI. Dark humour, black comedy. Allusions to drug use, alcohol consumption, violence, crime and murder. Weapons, bodies and death are discussed. No smut, no reader in this part. This is a Stranger Things AU, the upside down is very briefly alluded to but Eddie doesn’t know about it. No time period mentioned, so if events or technology don’t track that’s why that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. The characters don’t know each other like they do in ST.

A/N: This is the prequel to ‘Hello, Stranger’. The two parts can be read in either order. As in the original part, there are some Easter eggs in here, this time from The Blacklist (obvs), Stargate, and a deliciously niche one from John Wick. Let me know if you spot any!

A/N additional: I would never have believed that I’d be revisiting this story a year after publishing it to add a fun little prologue, but here we are! 😃 The original part was written for a Halloween prompt event last year and was the first lengthy thing I’d shared; I was SO ridiculously nervous about posting it, you have no idea 🫣 Reading it again now, would I change things in the original? Yes. But mainly things like punctuation and formatting, because I think over the last year my writing has become clearer, so I’m kinda pleased that I’d leave the story exactly how it is. For anyone discovering this for the first time, I hope you enjoy!! Please let me know with a comment/reblog/feral spewings in my inbox, I’d love it, srsly 😉🖤

I have an Easter egg reveal post planned for this miniseries, if you’d like to hear about it just ask to be added to my general taglist where you can get notified about all my writing posts ☺️🖤

My masterlist

It’s a chilly October night, close to Halloween, and Eddie’s blasted out of his mind. Gareth got hold of some super strong skunk from a cousin who was visiting from out of state, and that combined with a few cool beers has left him even more buzzed than usual.

Forgoing his van on the insistence of his friends, and wanting to get home to the relative warmth of the trailer sooner rather than later, he’s decided to take a shortcut across Merrill Wright’s fields.

High as all hell, he's staggering as he navigates the pumpkins, managing to avoid most of the obvious orange orbs but forgetting that their tendrils need looking out for too.

He’s already tripped a couple of times, and curses out the vines for both being invisible at night and clearly conspiring with each other to sabotage his journey home. He swears that at least twice he’s seen them move...

Pushing through a thin layer of trees separating one field from the next, he stumbles forwards as an impeding branch snaps and gives way. Moving too quickly to stop himself, he totters forwards, hoping to regain his balance once he’s free of the spindly foliage.

But surprisingly, his feet fail to connect with anything at all, the ground disappears, and Eddie falls face first into… nothing.

Though it doesn’t remain nothing for long, swiftly becoming the harsh smack of hard, and very cold, dirt against his knees, torso and face.

Shocked, confused and more than a little winded, Eddie grunts and rolls onto his side, groaning.

“Oooooohhhhhh fuuuuuuuckk…. What the hell—?”

He spits out a few clods of mud, and possibly part of a worm (sorry, dude), and tries to work out what just happened.

His hair has fallen over his face, and he pushes the waves, now bedecked with a sprinkling of leaves and soil, out of his eyes and looks upwards.

Instead of the expected expanse of the clear night sky, perhaps even a few constellations if he cared to look carefully, his vision seems to have tunnelled, a significant proportion of it now a deep black.

Sitting upright, he briefly wonders whether he’s concussed, or worse, but then the sound of someone speaking garners his undivided attention.

A light, high voice cuts through the night.

“Hey, do you hear something?”

Eddie freezes, eyes wide. He’s not sure whether he’s comforted or more freaked out to discover he’s not the only one in this field at this time of night. This dark, isolated, middle-of-nowhere, nobody-within-screaming-distance field.

Another voice, deeper than the first, replies,

“Like what?”

“I dunno, a grunt maybe?”

“A grunt? Uhh, no.”

“Why am I asking you anyway? Your ears are shot after one too many sportsball encounters…”

“Hey, shut up.”

Eddie hears some shuffling and a chortle, like two people jostling each other, before the deeper voice speaks again, but it’s in no way comforting.

“Uh, this guy’s definitely dead, right?”

There’s a noise that sounds like thick plastic being prodded with something.

“Yeah, yeah, this guy definitely. But I’m sure I heard something from over there.”

“Are you trying to spook me? You know how much I hate Halloween.”

Eddie hears an overly dramatic brrr and the rustling of clothing, and he imagines the guy shivering, like he’s shaking off a covering of non-existent snow.

Eddie, terrified but with a new sense of urgency, and eyes adjusting to the new level of darkness, glances more fully around his environment, figuring out that he’s definitely below ground level and in some kind of a hole. He spreads his arms wide, moving them around, and notices he can feel the edges on two sides, but not all four, meaning it’s a long hole. Long enough for him to lay down in. A hole, long enough to fit a human being in, but not much else. Okay, so…

Wait, this is a fucking grave! Fuck, he’s in a goddamn motherfucking grave!!

Eddie stands, wobbling a little, and notices his eyeline is still below ground level. He reaches up, grabbing at the soil at the edge of the hole, but it’s dry and loose and crumbles in his hands. He tries to jump, grabbing at anything he can find on the ground, but to no avail. It’s tilled earth and there are no branches or roots, not even grass, that he can grab to pull himself out. He mentally takes back everything he said about pumpkin vines…

Suddenly he hears a dull thud, the sound of dragging, muttering, and two people grunting.

Shit, they’re getting closer. And now there’s a large package wrapped in blue plastic at the edge of the hole, and they’ve just dropped two shovels, and—

Feigning nonchalance, Eddie leans a muddy shoulder against the raw earth, one hand on his hip and the other swiping through his hair as two faces, backlit by moonlight, hove into view. His voice cracks with,

“Hee-eeey guys, how’s it goin’?”

What the hell?? He’s literally standing in an open grave, that these two have probably just dug, and that’s the best he can come up with?

The figures regard Eddie, then turn to each other, then look back at Eddie. They both frown and in unison cock their heads sideways in the same direction, and Eddie, stoned and in shock as he is, has to suppress a giggle.

Fuck, that weed really was strong… Damn you, Gareth’s cousin!

One of the figures, the slighter of the two, gestures into the hole with a muddy, gloved hand, asking,

“Is he one of yours?”

The other guy looks both startled and mildly offended.

“What? No! Of course not!”

“Well, there was that one time where you, y’know, missed the mark, and we had to spend an hour chasing the guy before we put him down.”

The taller of the two flaps his arms exasperatedly, trying to point an index finger in the air but failing, the heavy duty gloves he’s wearing making him look more like he’s holding up a fist.

“One time! The one time I miss a goddamn artery and you’ve never let me live it down. Jeez man, gimme a goddamn break!”

“Okay, okay, I’m just sayin’”

“Well don’t! I don’t appreciate it when you criticise my abilities and undermine my self esteem.”

The slimmer figure speaks again, resting the knuckles of one gloved hand against their waist.

“Did your therapist tell you to say that?”

“Hey, don’t knock it. She’s helping me process my intergenerational trauma and internalised lack of self-worth.”

The tall figure says the words like he’s reciting from a book, but he says them with conviction. Eddie briefly wonders whether he should ask the guy for the title. He finishes with,

“Anyway, I don’t know who the fuck this asshole is.”

Hands now on his hips, he turns his attention back to Eddie, who, whilst they’d been talking, had been surreptitiously clawing at the back edge of the hole, trying desperately to lever himself out.

The figure with the higher voice turns to their compatriot, and with a somewhat sardonic tone to their voice remarks,

“Well, I suppose we’d better try and find out who this asshole is, and where he came from, huh?”

They lean forwards into the hole and brace themselves with their hands against their knees.

The skinnier figure begins the interrogation with,

“Did Andrea send you? Was it Annie?”

The taller guy continues,

“Wait, was it Red? Cuz if it was Red you can tell him it’s not fuckin’ funny…”

Eddie stammers,

“N-n-o, man, no. I don’t know who any of those people are. I’m, uh, I’m nobody, literally! I was just stoned, and walkin’ home and I, uh, just kinda, fell into this… whatever this delightful arrangement is.”

He gestures around him, attempting to convey that he neither knows, nor cares, exactly what this is.

Tall guy regards him down his nose.

“So, if nobody sent you, then nobody knows you’re here. But now you know we’re here. And I’m guessing that you’re guessing what we’re about to do here. So, I’m guessing the best thing all the way around is if you, y’know, stay here…”

Eddie, in his inebriated state, didn’t completely follow what this guy just said, but when the guy reaches behind him into his belt, and Eddie hears the unmistakable metallic clink of a gun being retrieved, he gets the message pretty damn quickly.

The shovels, the ‘package’, the gun… oh god!

“Nonononono! Waitwaitwait!!”

He extends his arms and frantically waves his filthy hands in front of him in supplication.

Think, Eddie, think!! What would you encourage the sheep to do in such an impossible campaign situation? Thiiiiiiink!

The guy levels the gun at Eddie’s head. He still can’t see their faces clearly, but he can most certainly make out the end of the barrel as it glints in the moonlight.

Eddie scrunches his eyes up tight, grimacing, every muscle in his body tensing in expectation of the horror to come.

Abruptly, his mind fills with the most bizarre and inspired creative idea that he thinks he’s ever had.

Fuck, that weed really was strong… Thank you, Gareth’s cousin!

“What if I told you I could help make your job easier? Maybe more enjoyable? Or, at the very least, more interesting?”

He sees the barrel of the gun lower ever so slightly.

Oh good, now it’s not aimed at his head. Just at his chest. Progress?

He presses on.

“Your bosses want you to make people disappear, right? Boring, efficient, sure. But not that interesting. Probably doesn’t pay all that well either, huh?”

The two figures look at each other again, frowning, and Eddie’s pretty sure they're deciding whether they should let the guy in the hole keep talking, or just shut him up for good, drop the other package in and cover them both over.

“How about we give ‘em a little something extra first? Like a show? A demonstration. An exhibition, if you will.”

Eddie’s got into his stride now, and is walking up and down the length of the six foot hole waving his arms in wide arcs, as if he’s delivering one of his lunchtime diatribes on a canteen table.

“Say there’s some guy who’s been messin’ with your patch. Goods are goin’ missing, or his funds are coming up short. Sure, you could just pop a cap in him and stick him in the ground,”

He glances nervously at the tarp-wrapped bundle,

“But wouldn’t it be more satisfying to really teach him a lesson. Bury him at the four corners of the state? Spray him all over this field? Dissolve him ‘til there’s nothing left? Now that really sends a message, don’tcha think? Plus, it’d sure be entertaining for your bosses to watch. Must get pretty boring for them. Y’know, pop a guy, wrap a guy, pop a guy, wrap a guy…”

He regards the two heavies carefully, trying to judge whether he’s made any impression on them whatsoever. They’re looking at each other and then back at Eddie.

Eventually the bigger figure speaks.

“Whaddaya think, Rob? Shall we take him back to talk to—“

“Fuckssake Steve, don’t tell him my name! Ah, fuck, Jeez…”

Sighing, the figure turns back towards Eddie.

“Yeah, okay, if this is as revelatory as you say it is, then fine. But it better be. Don’t make us come back out here for a second time tonight.”

Eddie takes this threat very, very seriously.

“Okay, okay, whatever you say. I’ll do whatever you need me to do, I swear.”

The figure pauses for a moment, contemplative, before puffing out a long breath from between their lips.

“Well, for a start you can help us finish up with this guy. Steve, get him out of that hole and pass him my shovel...”

Eddie’s only thought is, great, I’m not gonna die! At least, not right now…

———

An hour later, freezing, muddy, exhausted, still terrified and, incongruously, still a little stoned, Eddie walks between Rob and Steve back to their vehicle, an SUV that he notices has “Buckley & Harrington, Landscaping Services & Specialised Waste Disposal” emblazoned on the side.

‘Specialised waste disposal’ indeed…

They bundle Eddie into the back, Rob grousing the whole way, and make him lie under yet another blue tarp so he can’t see where they’re going. He doesn’t much like being on this side of the plastic, and dearly hopes it’s the only time he has to experience it.

After some time, and a number of bruises acquired from sliding around the truck bed, the truck stops and the two figures start to bundle Eddie out of the back.

Still partially under the tarp, Eddie sees the lower half of a large, heavy set man in military fatigues and combat boots join them outside. Still shaken from the evening’s events and disoriented from the uncomfortable journey, Eddie can’t quite make out their entire conversation. He does hear what the hell and let me explain, plus a lot of grumbling in what could be a West African accent.

Finally freed from the tarp, Eddie is grabbed by the shoulders from behind by a pair of very strong hands, dragged off the truck bed and shoved, stumbling, forwards.

The three figures walk him into an old warehouse, the huge shutters open to the night and the entire place brightly lit and remarkably active given the hour. It’s crammed with pallets, shelves, crates, people and machinery. There are forklifts lifting things in and out of trucks and people carrying paperwork and speaking on phones. Many seem to have ominous-looking bulges in their waistbands and jackets that Eddie really doesn’t want to become any more closely acquainted with.

A large man is barking orders and holding a mug that says coffee and contemplation on the side, but judging by the subtle wince that happens each time he takes a swig, Eddie suspects it contains something stronger than his favourite Java. His voice is gruff, and to his great surprise, Eddie recognises it.

“Uh, Hopper, is that you?”

The man turns, frowning at first, but as he clocks Eddie his free hand flaps dejectedly at his side and his eyes roll up into his skull.

“Oh Jeez. What the hell is he doing here? What have you two idiots done now?”

Eddie's new acquaintances look sheepishly at each other. The one named Rob ventures,

“Uh, he has a proposal for Red, something about a novel business idea?”

“Goddamnit, I know this guy! And now, thanks to you two bozos, he knows me too!”

Steve interjects this time,

“Just give him five minutes with Mr Kaplan, boss! Honestly, I think Red’s gonna love this.”

Hopper doesn’t look convinced, but he grabs a guy with a clipboard as he scurries past and asks him to find whoever Mr Kaplan is. Eddie doesn’t like the sound of this. The dude sounds pretty scary.

After no more than a minute, a small, tweed-clad lady appears. She’s older than everyone here, and her face is pinched, but somehow also looks kind. Eddie imagines she’d look far more at home in a library than… whateverthisis. He wonders if she’s Mr Kaplan’s secretary, or something.

“Come on then you two, spit it out. I don’t have all day.”

The two stammer and splutter their way through an explanation, trying to justify why they not only spared this guy, but also brought him back to their base of operations. Eddie finally comprehends that this is Mr Kaplan. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved, or even more terrified.

At various points Mr Kaplan sucks in her cheeks, tilts her head and folds her arms, reminding Eddie of every disapproving teacher he ever had, and more than once he considers how far he might get if he hightailed it through those large doors and made off into the night. But then he remembers how he got here, who he’s with, the amount of hardware everyone appears to be carrying, how often he skipped PT at school, how much he’s smoked this evening (not to mention over the last however many years), and, not least, the fact that he has less than no clue about where he actually is.

Finally, the two cronies stop talking, and Mr Kaplan’s focus turns entirely to Eddie. Despite being significantly taller than she is, he feels about two feet high under her gaze, and that this moment could be about to define his future, his fate.

“Well, dearie, it’s certainly a unique proposition. And one I’m intrigued to see if you can pull off. But ultimately, it’s not my decision. All I can do is get you a meeting with Red, and then you’re on your own.”

Steve seems thrilled by this outcome, his eyes wide and a grin on his lips. He shifts in place excitedly and jovially taps his elbow against Eddie’s upper arm. Eddie side-eyes him, guessing the guy is pleased that he isn’t going to suffer any repercussions for going ‘off script’ by bringing Eddie here like this, but he does wonder what on earth makes him think they’re ever going to be friends.

Mr Kaplan nods to Hopper, who takes this as his cue and disappears out of sight. Mr Kaplan doesn’t see it, but Eddie notices his weary-looking eye roll.

Eddie finally gets a good look at the guy who ‘helped’ him off the truck and brought him inside. He’s tall, huge, shaven-headed and intimidating. Eddie doesn’t look for long.

After a few minutes, the shaven-headed heavy motions for Eddie to step into a somewhat more private area of the warehouse, sectioned off by some disturbing-looking medical curtains on rusting rails that offer visual, if not much auditory, privacy. Eddie figures the noise of vehicles and machinery elsewhere likely drown out any talking that goes on in here anyway.

There’s a screen set up that’s displaying a fuzzy, low quality image of a man sitting in what appears to be a lavish sitting room. There’s a picture of a landscape, or maybe sky, hanging to his left, and the audio quality is marred by a low rumble. Eventually, Eddie’s brain catches up and he realises it’s not a picture at all but a window, and what Eddie can see is clouds and what he can hear is the roar of an engine - the guy’s on a plane. All he can think is, Jeezus, this guy must be loaded.

As the image comes into better focus the figure looks oddly familiar. Eddie’s vaguely reminded of a sci-fi film he saw that had Kirt Russell in it and something about pyramids, but he brushes it aside, more important things on his mind.

The man is clad in a fedora and an exquisitely tailored suit, and as Eddie is positioned in front of what he presumes is a camera the figure removes his hat and lifts a crystal tumbler containing a deep brown liquid to his lips.

Hopper fills Eddie in.

“This is Mr Reddington. You can speak when he says you can.”

The well-dressed man speaks first, in a voice that’s even more imposing than that of the tall heavy who brought Eddie in here.

“I understand you have a business proposition for me, young man. I’d like to hear it directly from you, if I may?”

Eddie thinks quickly, describing possible scenarios that he’s come up with. He reiterates the ideas he had earlier, and adds a few more, getting inspiration from horror movies, comics, and even some of his D&D campaigns.

“That does all sound very interesting. And heaven knows we need some levity in this business. But I do need to confer with my colleagues. Chief, what do you think? Does this kid’s idea have legs?”

Hopper and Red have a moment of eye contact, before Hopper sighs loudly and admits, reluctantly,

“It is kinda novel. And he’s basically a good kid, don’t kill him yet, huh? He can be annoying as fuck, but goddamnit if he goes missing we’d have to do at least some kind of an investigation. The amount of people I’d have to interview, the press… The paperwork alone would be hell…”

He pinches the top of his nose, and Red purses his lips, apparently conceding that Hopper’s time would be much better spent doing whatever it is that he does for him rather than wasting it on unimportant matters such as police work. His expression suddenly brightens, and the formerly imposing figure on the screen turns disconcertingly jovial.

“Well, I think it sounds like fun. I’ll tell you what, we’ll try him out for a couple of months and see how he does.”

Hopper turns to look at Eddie.

“Okay, Munson, we’re gonna give you a try. You’d better keep it interesting though, or so help me…”

He makes a small but unsubtle slicing motion across his neck with his thumb. Eddie takes it at face value, knowing he means it.

Red addresses the whole group now.

“You know, this reminds me of the time I was playing miniature golf in Andalucia with the Sultan of Brunei and Jimmy Hoffer. Richard Pryor walked up and asked if any of us knew anything about llama farming. We all looked at him askance, I mean, do any of us look like we did? But then, to my great surprise and delight, the Sultan said…”

The burly dude holds Eddie around the shoulders again, but more gently than before. At least, Eddie assumes it’s gentle. The guy’s stature suggests significantly more physical ‘prowess’, which Eddie’s grateful he's not been on the receiving end of. He’s steered away from the screen and back towards the main area of the warehouse.

Nervously, just before they leave the curtained off area and afraid this might be seen as an offense, Eddie stammers,

“Where’re we- Shouldn’t I…?”

The man’s deep, caramel voice carries easily to Eddie’s ears, as he remarks,

“Trust me, you don’t want to be on the receiving end of any more of Raymond’s epic tales than you absolutely have to be. You can thank me later.”

Eddie looks back over his shoulder, just in time to see Chief Hopper’s brow crinkle and raise in what looks to be a poor facsimile of engagement, and he takes another, deep, swig from his coffee mug. He, apparently, knew he was in it for the duration.

They reach the area where Steve and Rob are still standing, apparently playing some kind of thumb war game. The big guy extends a powerful-looking hand towards Eddie, clasping his own in an iron grip. There’s a soft smile on his face as he looks down and says,

“Welcome to the team. I’m Dembe, by the way.”

Mr Kaplan finishes up a conversation she’s having nearby with another pair of guys with clipboards and conspicuous gun holsters, and as she’s making her way out, she remarks to Eddie,

“You’re in luck, you can start tonight. We’re expecting another package, so you can help these two clowns. God knows they need it.”

Steve frowns, and Rob emits a quiet,

“Hey—”

Mr Kaplan continues,

“No need for anything elaborate right now dearie, save that for next time. But we do need some supplies. Dembe, get him some cash from the office.”

Eddie’s conflicted. He’s confused, excited, relieved, and, yep, still a little wasted.

He does have his typical nervousness about how well he’s actually gonna be able to “perform”, and how long he can keep up the interest in what he’s suggested. Following a brief discussion with Steve and Rob, a few crumpled bills are shoved into his overly-sweaty palm.

Of course, his main thought is, great, I’m not gonna die! At least, not tonight…

But his overriding concern soon becomes:

Where the hell is he going to find rope, duct tape and a shovel at this time of night??

Next part, ‘Hello, Stranger’

My masterlist

I really hope you enjoyed this little prologue! Please reblog and leave comments, your support means everything to writers 🖤🙏

Tagging my ‘everything’ list, ILY @joejoequinnquinn @jamdoughnutmagician @guiltyasquinn @madaboutmunson @airen256 @sunshinepeachx @the-unforgivenn @skrzydlak @comeonatmebruh @jamiecb66 @80s-addict @abellmunsonmovie @definitionwanderlust @sheneedsrocknroll92 @munson-blurbs @wonderlanddreamer @daisy-munson @maedesculpaeusoubi @kurdtbean @mediocredreams @in2tswft @micheledawn1975 @littlebebebunny @12thatsanumber @alastorssimp @the-baby-angel @eddie-is-a-god @wolfqueenxxx @sassidykassidy @richter-raccoon @1deverland

Also tagging those who commented on/reblogged the first one, just lemme know if you’d rather not be! @bakusquadobsessed @mewchiili @bettyfrommars @pedroschka @transparent-enemy @ali-r3n @fracturedarkness @tinytyphooncloud @alverdekote @elegantkoalapaper @ddaydreamdelusionss @ramona-thorns @vitzi9 @lurkingprincess @cherrysabbath @pullingattheroots

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