#backwoods au

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Called to Duty 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, abandonment, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Summary: You struggle to move on from the biggest mistake of your life but find it hard to forget among the whispers of a small town.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You rub your lower back as you enter the bakery. You focus on the simple task; just a loaf of bread. You have a weak spot for the sourdough there. Just thinking about it, you could salivate.

You wait behind another customer. You think she works at the bank but you’ve never been very good with faces, even in a small town like Hammer Ford. Others don’t seem to have that issue as your name easily rolls off their tongues. The whispers are getting louder now that you can’t hide as easily.

The bank clerk sidles along the counter and glances over her shoulder as you shuffle forward. She sends you a judgmental look but you reserve any of the same. Everyone knows she’s sneaking around with the manager down at her branch.

You tug your shirt down as it threatens to ride further up your stomach. Everything’s too tight these days. Everything’s uncomfortable. Your fingers linger on the hem, touching the taught flesh beneath. Four months now.

“Hi,” you greet the woman behind the till, “can I get a loaf of the sourdough. I’ll take the day old for the discount if you got it.”

She smiles brightly and repeats your order, asking if there’s anything else. You say no. You budgeted for the bread, even a tea would put you too close to the line. She grabs you a loaf and she keys in the day-old discount.

You pay as she slips the wrapped loaf into a paper bag. Before you can turn away, she stops you, “have a cookie,” she points to the plate of shortbread beside the small specials sign. “They’re not moving.”

“I can’t,” you argue.

“You’re doing me a favour. I don’t like to throw them away,” she insists.

You smile sheepishly and take a cookie, hugging the bag above your stomach as you turn and nibble on the cookie. You cross to the door, juggling your armload as you open it, and leaving without a look back. You hear your name again before the door closes.

Who’s the father…

That’s the big question. You’re not married, not dating, so who could it be? The same question got you kicked out of your mother’s house. The pharmacy let you the dingy bachelor above as you spend your days working a till at the front.

You won’t say it, even to dispel the murmurs. You know it wouldn’t solve anything, only add fuel to the fire. ‘She should’ve known better. The golden prince of Hammer Ford is a known playboy. Why wouldn’t she be safe? Why wouldn’t she be responsible?’ They wouldn’t ask the same of him.

As you turn onto the street, your arm hits someone else and you drop the cookie. It cracks on the pavement and you look down, leaning forward to see the ruins. You deflate. Oh well, it was free, after all.

“Sorry,” a voice draws your attention from the spoiled shortbread. You look up at the man. You know him, you think. Again, you’re no good with faces.

He runs his hand over his shaved head then drags it around his beard, “I’ll get you another.”

“No, you don’t have to,” you wave him off, “I should go…”

“Miss, it’s the right thing to do,” he insists.

“Really, it’s okay,” you assure him, “I should’ve looked where I was going.”

“Me too,” he agrees. 

You tilt your head and push a shoulder up, “well, have a good one.”

You turn to cross the road, looking both ways. As you step down from the curb, the man does the same. Why can’t you remember his name? You swear you ran into him before. Down at The Horn with… him.

He walks parallel to you as you cross the street. You stop and look at him, confused.

“Just seeing you across, miss.”

“Uh, thanks, that’s very nice but you don’t have to do that,” you chuckle nervously.

“I know. Just what I’m trained to do.”

You remember, he’s a soldier. Yeah, Thor mentioned that. Just thinking his name stings.

“Right, well, thanks, I appreciate that,” you put your hand on your stomach and haul the bag higher, turning toward the pharmacy just a shop down.

You hear him follow you again. It makes you nervous. Is he going to the pharmacy? It could be a coincidence, it’s a small town. Still, it’s very odd.

You go to the door just past the store entrance and take out your key. He comes right up and watches you, looming strangely at your shoulder. You hold onto your key and face him.

“You’re pregnant,” he says as if you don’t know.

“Uh, yeah,” you nearly laugh, “I am.”

“Shouldn’t be carrying all that,” he says.

“Just bread,” you answer.

“That father should be getting you bread,” he argues.

You’re put off by his demeanour. He speaks as if he’s giving orders to the world around him. You guess that’s just his nature.

“He won’t be doing that,” you shake your head. “I’m fine, really.”

“You don’t remember me,” he adds, “I remember you. You were dancing and drinking.” He looks again at your stomach. You put your hand over it defensively.

“I wasn’t like this then.”

“You weren’t,” he frowns then points to your finger, “no ring?”

This is awkward. Where everyone else in Hammer Ford is happy to whisper behind their hands, he’s interrogating you in the street. You shake your head and look down.

“Must not be a real man who did that,” he comments, “I’m Sy, just to remind you.”

“Sy,” you sniff, “right, I–”

He says your name first, “I remember.” He taps his temple, “I won’t forget.”

You swallow and the bag crinkles against your chest, “I’m… gonna go, uh, Sy, my feet hurt.”

“Be safe,” he commands.

“Thanks,” you utter awkwardly and stick your key in the slot. He stands staunchly as he is and as you pull the door open, he reaches to open it all the way and holds it, “got it.”

You keep the fragile smile on your lips and bow inside. He lets it close slowly and you pause to make sure he’s on the other side. You twist the lock into place and recoil. That was very weird.

[mother-lee]

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter Masterlist

ONGOING

Part 1 🌲 Part 2 🌲 Part 3 🌲 Part 4 🌲 Part 5 🌲 Part 6 🌲 Part 7 🌲 Part 8 🌲 Part 9 🌲 Part 10 🌲 Part 11 🌲 Part 12 🌲 Part 13 🌲Part 14 🌲 Part 15 🌲 Part 16

AU MASTERLIST

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 73

Geralt, as a deity, gets many an offering. However, he's known for slaying creatures and monsters and (through what is mostly rumors) Humans, so all his offerings reflect this. Blades, and blood, and dead things, and money and hide in exchange for safety of their families and villages. He's intrigued when he starts getting regular offerings in the form of... Handwritten, meaningful, sincerely admiring songs recounting his 'adventures' and his 'hardest battles', all of which are made up. Geralt sees no harm in perhaps telling the human some real stories to make some accurate songs. No harm at all. Apparently there was some harm. As the rest of his "followers" have grown jealous of Jaskier (the human with the song offerings) - So jealous in fact, they've decided to try offering Jaskier himself to Geralt.

[wonderlandhour]

TWST AU except General Lilia finds this random like, 8 year old human kid in the woods being raised by a bear and moves into the nearby cottage to help raise him because the bear is doing a decent job but he is human and should wear clothes and know how to speak.

This leads to everything else being mostly the same but Silver is mostly nonverbal, using sign more often than not, and is absolutely fucking feral sometimes. Jack thoroughly enjoys wrestling with Silver and Silver takes a fierce liking to him because of it. Sebek also grew up wrestling with Silver and sometimes to burn some energy, Malleus will also do so with his brother- I mean Silver. Bonus is that Silver likes Malleus's partial dragon form and enjoys grooming him. The purring happy puddle of Dragon is a very good thing.

[herosplatling-replica]

i drew so many fusions.. @w@;;; there are so many awesome characters out there to fuse with!!!

from left to right:

Hope (@pokeart123's Mal & Inny)

Protector of Curiosity (@nightmun's Haniel & GEB)

The Undefined Bulwark (@c-underscore-rry's Carrie and Observer & Jay and GEB)

Iffy (fiascone's J.F. & Inny)

Allegro (Ada Paige & Inny)

Andante (Ian & Inny)

Cadenza (@i-want-to-do-things's Cable & Inny)

Aria (@lolatulips's Marie & Inny)

Prima Donna (Jay & Inny)

[giggly-squiggily]

sooo i'm on a seminar for the whole week and i bring you kny modern au characters going on a six hour canoe trip because that's what i'll be forced to do tomorrow

hi hello btw how's life :D

super excited for the trip: mitsuri (it's all she talks about for days), kyojuro (has never been canoeing before and is really eager to learn it), douma (hopes to see boats capsize), akaza (his gymbro brain is trained to be excited about every sporty thingy ever), nezuko (she's an otter she's a mermaid, the real challenge is keeping her out of the water and inside the boat)

prepared to the point of paranoid: aoi (aggressively reminds everyone to put on suncream at least ten times), tanjiro (brings water for the whole group and then some), shinobu (a first aid kit for you! and a first aid kit for you! first aid kits for everybody!)

lowkey scared of the trip: zenitsu (i'm lying, he's highkey scared of the trip), sanemi (deep water be kinda sus okay), senjuro (kyojuro talks him through it tho), kanae ("something will go wrong i can feel it")

capsizes ten minutes into the trip: muichiro (wasn't paying attention and paddled right into the reed), genya (had the great misfortune to share a boat with muichiro), sabito (was too busy laughing at genya and muichiro to pay attention to where he was paddling), makomo (saw the obstacle coming and gladly let sabito paddle into it just to wipe that grin off his face), inosuke (it's a miracle he didn't take the whole fleet down with him)

chilling at the beach: tengen (if you think he's getting his hair wet for this you're out of your mind), gyomei (some risks shouldn't be taken), kanao (busy preparing the picnic for when the others return), giyuu (going into a tiny shaky boat when you can't swim is just. not a great idea.)

fakes a migraine and stays home: obanai (thank you but no thank you)

KJRKJEKJRJEK REY I LOVE THESE! (Oh goodness canoeing! Hope that's going well/gone well for you friend! Here's to you being a pro and not ending up like Sabito and co akjrkjearjke)

Oh gosh team all in makes me laugh akjrekajrje Mitsuri's absolutely delighted- she's got a waterproof camera so they can take pictures for her scrapbook; Kyojuro's a fast learner and ends up helping Akaza after the redhead struggles with it (gymbro brain ajkrekrjej I love it!) Douma's got his own waterproof camera so he can make a powerpoint presentation of everytime someone capsized over but ends up taking lots of pictures of Nezuko just living her little mermaid life cause she's so freaking cute! (Granted things get a little messy when she almosts gets into a fist fight with a tuna but that is neither here or there)

KJRJERJE THE BUTTERFLY GIRLS KJERKJEKJ Aoi's got that industrial sized can of spray on sunscreen and just coats everyone like it's a game of Splatoon- meanwhile Shinobu's forces them all to watch a CPR/First aid video so they're all informed on what to do if someone goes down (does it accidentally turn into that scene from the office? Yeah. It does) Tanjiro on water duty with his aggressive kindness being all "TAKE THE WATER!" and then sweetly saying "Thank you!" when they do is EVERYTHING KREJRJKERKJ

Oh God I feel Sanemi on that kjarkaejrkej He's seen all the deep sea scary movies and documentaries to know he doesn't mess with deep water- that plus Kanae having her sixth sense that something will go wrong is enough to have him almost back out of the trip altogether. I like to think the only thing keeping him in is Genya- the idea of him getting snatched away by the Kraken makes him sick ("Sanemi the Kraken isn't real-" "I SAW IT! I saw it at the aquarium! It was huge!" "Sanemi that was squid- and a statue of one at that.")

ERJEJKRJE SABITO! He's such a dork- he'd go "HAHA!" before absolutely capsizing himself. Poor Genya gets Muichiro's hair on him and is all "THE KRAKEN!" while said boy is just trying to untangle it from the paddle. They're not even five feet from the beach and still on shallow water so they all just kinda sitting in chest high water panicking while Makomo laughs. Inosuke's likely just floating by on his back like a castaway, someone has to tie a rope on his ankle so he doesn't drift out to open sea.

KJREKJRJKEKJ Tengen is all out in a speedo on the beach getting a tan- someone draws a dick on his chest with sunscreen that he doesn't realize is there until the next day (it was Sabito. Giyu might have helped.) Gyomei's the guy who walks along the water in a big sun hat like a traveler from another world- just enjoying himself but ever confused when people come up to him asking what world he's from. Kanao's making lunch with Shinobu and Kanae while Senjuro's pulling Inosuke back to shore via the rope, etc. etc. They're all just so cute AH!

Obanai is me akjreakjreakjkjre I love the beach but put me in a group that big and I'd fake a migraine too and stay curled up in my bed kjarkjekjreakj He'd absolutely love the pictures Mitsuri sends him though- they plan a little one on one vacation to the beach together down the road.

Thanks for sharing friend! I'm doing alright! Life's good, I'm good- it's storming as I type this (yay!) and I'm feeling my best self! I hope you're doing alright!

[orphicsun]

american kids (e.w headcannons)

pairing: southern butch ellie + fem reader

warnings: 18+ content (use of strap-ons + oral sex + ass slapping), mentions of guns since it's a southern au and all, southern dialect/accent noticeable, use of the term 'daddy' (i think ellie is the type of butch to love the name).

☼ southern butch ellie who wears a pair of joel's hand-me-down jeans while she works. sweat drippin' down her forehead, hair tied back messily to keep it out of her face. plenty of pit stains on her wife pleasers and she still looks irresistible.

☼ southern butch ellie who plows through endless fields in her tractor (and you)

☼ southern butch ellie who isn't too picky about her meals. you'll approach her lounging form, practically glued to the recliner, and tap her tanned shoulder with a plate of mississippi mud roast.

"ain't you just so sweet?" she'd tease, tugging your waist to sit on the side of the chair. when you (reluctantly) managed to pull away to clean the crock pot, you'd feel her roughened hand give your ass a little shameless smack, and if you paid closer attention, you could hear the snicker erupt from her throat.

☼ southern butch ellie who loves being called daddy in the privacy of your farmhouse' master bedroom.

in reverse cowgirl, her hands keep a firm grip over the curve of your hips. you rock your hips back and forth, whining incoherent shit she can't make anything of. you jump and look back at her when her hand comes down on your ass, a sharp spank leaving a red handprint on it. "you gonna be nice for daddy and ride her cock, quit mumblin'?" she chides. your whimper sends 1500 watts straight to her bush-hidden pussy. without further notice, you're flipped underneath her, and the harness around her waist is being ripped off so she can shut you up with her pussy on your face.

☼ southern butch ellie with plenty of ink. the single name "shimmer," her first horse, on the back of her shoulder. letters capital and thin. then, an assortment of random tattoos you wouldn't expect someone in the bible belt to have. not that ellie follows any bible, but it's surprising to see. her arms stay mainly clean, freckles on her shoulders and faded down her arms unobstructed, but she swears one day she will get your name on the inside of her wrist.

"see that vein right there, babe? right below 'er. perfect place for your name, don't cha think?"

☼ southern butch ellie who seems rough on the outside, but is the true definition of a sweetheart. you live in a trailer park? she grew up in one, doesn't judge. though that is all too common in the south, some folks still judge. she will never understand it. adding onto this, she ordinates between little and big spoon. some nights, she loves being held and squeezed to sleep. the nights when she has no plans of actually sleeping, she likes sneaking behind you and rubbing her thick belt buckle against your ass.

☼ southern butch ellie who is awkward with kids to the point it melts your heart. she can hardly speak to them, just nodding along and trying to keep up with their jumbling words. give her a couple hours with the kids, and you'll find her playing crack the egg on a trampoline with them.

☼ southern butch ellie who hunts with a rifle in the backwoods. she'll come home with a couple rabbits or a deer if she is so lucky. keeps the rifle stored away safely, but sometimes her mind drifts to your safety. if anyone even so much as thought about trying to harm you on her property? rifle is going to be used for more than forest critter.

☼ southern butch ellie who loves getting a strap blowjob, whatever you wanna call it. she gets asked all the time why lesbians use strap-ons if they don't like cock—this is why. the way the tan plastic shines neatly with your saliva. the way she can last longer than any guy getting a blowjob, fucking your throat for as long as she so pleases, knowing you love gagging for her dick.

☼ southern butch ellie who fucks you in the bed of her '97 pick-up truck, a few blankets underneath you. she'll have you in missionary with your legs wrapped around her hips, and she handles you so easily. she doesn't sputter like a man. she fucks you hard and deep, encouraging you to dig your nails into her back. she doesn't stop until she knows you're worn out.

☼ southern butch ellie who loves a good home-cooked meal from you, but knows how to whip up some bomb ass breakfast herself. hashbrowns and sunny-side up eggs, a few strip of bacon or sausage links on the side for you when you rise. since she always wakes earlier than you, she has the advantage of being able to cook for you before you are able to fuss about her morning chores and how you should be the one to cook.

☼ southern butch ellie who hates overall traffic and chaos in the city, but will drive through an interstate to one in november for every major holiday. she isn't the richest person, but likes picking up overtime to get you that specific teacup set you saw in a flea market or a lacy pair of victoria's secret panties in the mall that she catches you staring at weeks prior.

☼ southern butch ellie who makes a mixtape for the nights the two of you drink beer on the hood of her truck and roll a couple joints. and yeah, it's the classics of the south. george strait, the charlie daniels band, dolly parton, johnny cash, shania twain, willie nelson, etc. she throws in some soft older love songs like coney island baby, somethin' stupid, i will always love you, dedicated to the one i love, forever, be my baby, and tonight will you belong to me.

taglist: @ferxanda, @vahnilla, @witzs, @frillynpinkprincess, @plasticl0v3r, @meow4510, @eriiwaii, @g4ys0n, @mitskimisfit, @ruelezz, @bewareofmyglock. want to be tagged? click here

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 14

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You wake up with your head on Walt’s arm. You lay on your side, facing him as his chest rises and falls, a rumble thundering through him with each breath. His warmth has you in a sheen of sweat. You hesitate to move, not wanting to disturb him.

As you lay and listen to his snores, your stomach topturns. The realisation flows through you and turns to ice. As unusual as this awakening is now, this will be your forever. That’s what you agreed to. Your days, your nights, your everything will belong to Walt.

You squirm as suddenly you’re on fire, your scalp speckling with impending doom. You shift onto your back and slowly sit up. You bend your head forward and cover your face as you try to ease the spinning in your head.

You drag your feet from beneath the blankets and turn to sit with your back to him. To your future husband. You just can’t make it sound normal in your head.

You stand cautiously, mindful not to jostle the bed. His low snores carry through the air as you walk across the creaky floorboard, peeking over with each step. Your legs prickle with goosebumps as you get to the door. A shiver rolls over you and you hug yourself as the morning air flows up the bottom of the flannel shirt.

You leave him and find your way downstairs. You turn on the space heater and linger before it, building the courage to detach yourself from the glow of heat. You continue into the kitchen and carefully make your way around it.

The least you can do is make breakfast. You suppose that will be expected from now on. It’s not so out of the ordinary, it’s only Walt will be more than just a guest, more than a friend.

You take out eggs and a tray of breakfast sausage. You pause as you wonder if it’s too much. You hope he doesn’t mind.

You do your best to be quiet as you put a skillet on the oven to heat. You line a pan with the sausages and preheat the gas stove. You flutter your fingers anxiously as you wait, staying close to absorb some of the heat.

“Morning,” Walt’s gritty timbre sends a tremor through you.

You glance over as he enters, a brown robe around him as he rubs his eyes and sweeps his curls away from his face. You return his greeting as you crack the eggs into a bowl to whisk. He hums and nears the counter, grabbing a tin near the back.

“Coffee?” He wonders.

“Oh, no I–” you set the bowl down, “I didn’t– I can do that now.”

“Mm, thanks, sweetheart,” he puts the tin down and sidles closer to you, “sleep okay?”

His hand touches the small of your back as stands close. You nod, “mhmm,” you step up to the counter and grab the beat-up percolator. “Thanks, I… I did.”

“Rain’s let up,” he reluctantly parts and peers through the window as you fill the percolator from the tap, “should go out and check on the truck after breakfast… then we can head up to the bank.”

“The bank?” You shut off the faucet and loud the grinds, then pop the metal lid into place. You put the metal jug onto the burner and twist the knob.

“Get some thing’s sorted. I told your mother I’d bring some paperwork,” he explains as he sits in one of the wooden chairs. He watches you intently as you face him. He’s quiet as his eyes rove you from head to toe. A breath fills his chest, “and we can tell her the news.”

You try to smile and quickly turn your attention back to the eggs. You put oil on the skillet as you clear your throat, “yeah, she’ll… I think she’ll be happy.”

“Could do a lot worse around here,” he grits.

“I didn’t mean…” you shake your head as the oil sizzles, “I only… I’m getting used to the idea still.”

“Seem to be getting used to it,” he remarks, “lucky me got a woman like you to wake up to, make me breakfast…”

“Uh, yeah,” you pour the eggs into the pan.

He lets a long exhale and the chair groans beneath his weight, “it’s like a dream come true. Finally,” he drawls as the savoury smell of sausages blooms from the over, “about time I settled down. Least that’s what the old crones whisper down at the grocery store.”

“Oh, ha, well, everyone talks,” you shrug, “I’m sure they whisper about me too.”

“Uh huh, I heard them,” he scoffs as his tone harshens, “about you talking to Odinson… making eyes at him.”

“What–” you nearly choke, “I…I didn’t— I wouldn’t.”

You scrape the pan to scramble the eggs as your voice knots in your throat. It feels like an accusation but you know it was harmless. Thor was just being helpful and that was weeks ago.

“Well, you won’t,” he says tersely, “from now on, I don’t want you being friendly with the likes of him. He’s no good.”

“Walt, I wasn’t–”

“That’s before,” he interjects, “this is now. We’re gonna be married. Things are different.”

“I know,” you eke out, “but I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t do that.”

“Uh huh, but you flirted with me,” he insists.

“I…” you stop yourself before you begin. You didn’t flirt with him, you were nice to him. Like you always were. Like you had been for years.

“Sweet thing like you, it’s easy to get the wrong idea and men like Odinson, they always get the wrong idea,” he growls.

The percolator trembles and you turn off the burner. You quickly twist the other down to low and put a lid over the eggs to keep them warm. You turn to the cupboard and pick out a mug with an ombre of brown. You pour the steaming coffee and bring it to him.

“You don’t have to mope, I’m just making you aware,” he says, “you’re too sweet to see it. I’m protecting you. That’s what a husband does, right?”

You make yourself smile and swallow, “of course, thank you.”

“No, thank you,” he takes the mug from you with a wink, “look at you, my sweet little wife.”

[mother-lee]

the black dog

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

Called To Duty Masterlist

ONGOING

Part 1 🌲 Part 2 🌲Part 3 🌲 Part 4 🌲 Part 5

AU MASTERLIST

[panties-on-boys]

Gone Fishin’— Chapter 1: Hook, and 2: Line

“You can talk?” Logan asks.

Wade narrows his golden gaze into slits.

“I’m alone today.” Logan assures after a beat of silence. “M’not gonna hurt you.” Another beat. “And Jack’s stupid, couldn’t hurt you if he wanted to.”

Wade is still silent.

Logan pulls out his pack of Backwoods and flashes a grin. “Wouldn’t let him. You saved my cigar yesterday, I didn’t forget.”

Wade slowly raises himself out of the water, just to the tops of his shoulders. His gills flutter against the land air, pushing water for a brief few seconds before closing up.

Logan takes it as an olive branch. He lets himself look.

His body is overall red. It’s soft, almost transparent in some spots, and the scales spattered across his shoulders, down his arms, blooming from the center of his chest flash iridescent under the rising sun.

“What’s your name?” Logan asks, his attention setting lower.

From where he’s half-sitting at the deepest part of the bank, Logan notes that there’s a sort of chameleon effect in the scales. He disappears nearly completely under the emerald face of the lake.

That could explain why Logan’s never seen him.

“Wade.” The monster—Wade—replies.

His voice is quiet, sounds wet, and Logan wonders when the last time he spoke was.

“Logan.” Gets offered back.

happy birthday <3 !!! this fic is based on @saphizzle and @cupcakemyducktape’s super fucking cute merwade au where logan’s a fisherman and wade makes him look like he does a piss poor job! little lake menace

outlined for 5 parts but maybe more. thanks so much for wanting me to contribute to this project, this au is precious i hold it delicately in my hands.

[uzumaki-rebellion]

"Ice Cold Jax" Geechee!Erik Killmonger

Pairing: Geechee!Erik Killmonger x Black Female OC

Warning(s): 18+, Smut, Supernatural Horror, Period Piece, Erik Stevens AU, Black American Folktale.

Summary: Erik "Killmonger" Stevens is a Geechee wanderer and lover of big-legged women and good moonshine. On a trip to visit his favorite juke joint in 1940s Mississippi, he entertains a lover of sorts, Lulabelle, the juke joint owner and Madame of the nearby whorehouse. Erik battles two mythical creatures from Black American folklore, the Plat Eye and the Crossroads Man in order to save Lulabelle and her establishment. The tale is told from the perspective of a ghost who was once Lulabelle's best friend.

Word count: 5.5K

"The winter time is coming

And it's going to be slow

You can't make the weather baby

it's dry long so

You betta come on in my kitchen

because it's going to be Raining outdoors..."

Cassandra Wilson – "Come on in my Kitchen" (Written by Robert Johnson)

There were two things Lulabelle Humphreys knew how to sell in Itta Bena Mississippi and that was moonshine and other people's pussy.

She did that very well until one night of the Harvest moon when cotton would soon be harvested by the local sharecroppers and itinerant Mexican men who traveled through the delta region looking for work like every other Negro or poor white trash far and wide. On that night under a sweltering heat full of drunk patrons and her smooth-talking whores inside her juke joint with the "special ladies" house attached by a rickety bridge that crossed over a tiny creek full of frogs and singing crickets, Lulabelle witnessed the showdown of all showdowns between the Plat Eye and the Crossroads Man, shonuff, right inside her little rambling hot music-havin' and ice-cold beer havin' establishment.

And if it hadn't been for that slow walking city-to-city wandering Geechee man with the gold teeth, slick smile, and flashy suit standing by her with the smarts of his low country kin back in South Carolina, why Lulabelle might've lost everything that night like she lost me so many years ago when that Plat Eye stole me away when we was teenaged girls in these backwoods. But thank the Lord up above for Erik Stevens ramblin' through with that shiny switchblade, and his Gullah ways, cuz shonuff, that was a night to remember and I'm gonna tell it exactly how it happened from top to bottom and all the sides in between. I ain't been dead long enough or forgotten long enough to not tell it all...

"Mavis, how much lavender water is left in there?"

Lulabelle shouted into the open door that led to one of the "loving" rooms inside her special house.

"There's one bottle left," Ruth called out.

The young woman was nothing but string bean arms and toothpick legs, however, she was a favorite among the darker-skinned Black sharecroppers who admired her fair skin and limp shiny black hair. Even the high yella gals envied what Ruth could pull in because the men were willing to part with more money to fuck what was as close to a white woman as they would get.

Lulabelle knew clearly what a fetish was, so she used Ruth for the high income, but she also had Mavis, a crystal Black pearl with a dark hue so deep that negro soldiers from the military base lined up for hours waiting to part her dusky thighs to taste the sticky sweets within. There was someone for everybody at the house. Big women. Little scrawny women. Big Bodacious titties and itty-bitty mosquito bites. For the richly endowed there was Starla with a pussy so fat and deep that blues ballads were written for her. For the poorly imbued, there was Tweety Pie, a tiny woman with a small tight snatch that rivaled Starla in particular-sized fans.

For the men who didn't fawn over the womenfolk, there was Honey Boy, a twenty-something pretty little thing with bow lips, high cheekbones, and a fat ass that posed as a houseboy who brought fresh after-sex towels, water for the whore baths, and rubbers for the men who forgot to prepare for penetration. Honey Boy could dress like a pretty woman and serve clients fat wood if that was to a patron's liking. Lulabelle was surprised at how popular he was becoming on the low low, especially from the men in the military. Men with men had always been a reality, but Honey Boy was multidimensional. He could turn into a Butch boy from a chain gang, to a bullying Army sergeant to dominate and spread male ass cheeks that needed fat balls against balls. Or he could be a dainty femme movie star in a bra and heels with his hard dick swinging. Lulabelle kept a ready supply of costumes for him, more than the women. All the ladies needed were pretty underwear, strong garter belts, and lipstick. She kept quiet that she paid Honey Boy more than anyone else.

The second world war was putting money in her pockets. 1942 was a profitable war year for Lulabelle. Her pocketbook was fat with cash, and she could now afford real jewelry instead of the cheap costume fare she sported the last three years. She could even maintain a steady hot comb appointment at Mamie's Wash and Curl uptown. Her latest favorite style was imitating Joan Crawford's immaculate curls that she saw in the talkies at the Bijou theater. When she really wanted to look glamorous, she would have Mamie swoop up her thick hair on top of her head with a pinned curl on the front and an under curl in the back. The rich white women she saw in the new color catalogues wore their hair like that.

She wore her hair like that for that evening. It was a special night. The Harvest Moon was going up, and the men would be arriving in droves to drink, dance, and fuck.

He was coming too.

The Gullah man. That sly Geechie with the gold teeth.

Erik Stevens.

His arrival always coincided with some new moon every few months. She'd dress up extra special when she thought he was coming through. Her pussy was already twitching thinking about him.

"I'll have Honey Boy get you a fresh bottle," Lulabelle said patting the back of her hair.

It was hot already, and she worried that her hair wouldn't maintain until Erik saw it. Ruth stepped out of the room. The yellow silk camisole Lulabelle bought for her came to her thighs and had enough lace in the front to cover the baby bulge that was threatening to peek out. The girl got knocked up and none of the home remedies the cook Eva concocted worked in knocking the unwanted pregnancy out. Ruth could probably hide the truth for another month or so, but eventually she would have to go on convalescence and Lulabelle would have to rely on the other women to please the Ruth fans until the woman returned or left for a new life in the North. Until then, Ruth was about making her money and camouflaging the bump.

"Can you tell?" she asked.

Lulabelle squinted.

"These men will be too drunk to notice. Keep the garment on and don't worry about it."

Lulabelle checked in on the other ladies and all was well. Seven rooms, seven whores, seven sources of revenue on top of the juke joint next door. She peeked in on one of the mirrors inside a room and felt satisfied. Her beige dress hugged the curves of her big wide hips and large backside. Her heels made her short body have a little height. She needed a little more powder for her round nose, and the grease pencil she used for her eyes held the dark wings she gave herself.

"Eat your heart out, Joan," she muttered to herself.

She crossed the little wooden bridge that led to the juke joint making sure her crème bow top summer pumps didn't get dirty. Her name was painted in fading blue letters above the entrance. By Christmas she hoped to get a fancy electric sign that sparkled "Lula's". Honey Boy swept the porch entry and she could smell the grease being heated on the kitchen stove inside by Eva. There'd be fried chicken, black-eyed peas, collards with ham hocks, and plenty of buttermilk cornbread to sell with the ice cold Jax beer and corn liquor.

Her eyes scanned the lowering sun over the canopy of Tupelo trees. A loud shriek startled her and made Honey Boy stop sweeping.

"What was that?" Honey Boy asked.

His pressed hair was slicked back, and his copper brown skin was moist with sweat from the oppressive heat.

Lulabelle clutched at her chest. The sound came from deep in the woods. The darkness there shrouded any mysteries that lived within it.

"Sounded like something caught," she said.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

A memory.

Being a young teen girl with...

No. Don't think of her. That was the past.

Lulabelle pushed down on the terror in her throat and hid her shaking fingers in front of her dress.

"Probably some unlucky racoon ran across Old Man Rickers trap," she said.

"Yeah, you prolly right, Lulabelle. The man been hunting out there this week."

She heard the doubt in his tremulous voice. The lie hung in the air like dark sap on a dying tree between them.

"That sounded like death is on his way," Eva said.

The older plump woman opened the screen door of the juke joint while wiping down a plate.

"Don't say that, Eva. It's just an old coon, or a slow wild pig—"

The shriek pierced the air again.

"Lord have mercy," Eva said.

The older woman cradled the cheap gold-plated crucifix around her neck.

Rifle shots sounded in the distance and Lulabelle jumped, then smiled.

"See? Just some hunters putting some fresh meat down. Let's get ready for tonight, y'all."

Not one of them moved from the porch until Archie started tinkling on the piano keys inside the juke.

Pussy poppin' in the whorehouse, music jumping, bodies swaying, lips sucking down moonshine and dark beer, Lula's juke shook on its foundations. Dollar bills came in hand over fist as Lulabelle strolled around the property checking in with customers and hustling Eva to fry up more chicken plates. She rounded the corner of the makeshift stage shaking her hips to the hot sounds when her eyes slid to the entrance and saw Geechie Erik swagger in. Double-breasted gray suit with shiny silver buttons and matching cufflinks. Steel-blue silk tie, and black and gray woven Oxford shoes had the Geechie man draped. Lulabelle already knew he smelled like a million bucks even though she was standing nowhere near him. Erik took off his black fedora hat. He had kicked up the waves on his close-cropped hair, and his lightly bearded cheeks gave him a pronounced sophistication compared to all the clean-shaven military men taking up most of the space in the joint.

His eyes scanned the wide room and when they fell on her, her heart sang a minuet in his honor just to see those dimples in his cheeks. He strode toward her with long confident strides and when he circled his arm around her waist, she shivered at his touch.

"Lulabelle, Lulabelle. You get prettier every time I see you."

He gave her a wet sloppy kiss on her cheek, and she swooned. His scent was expensive leather, imported cologne, and Murray's hair pomade.

"Lemme get you a drink, Daddy," she purred.

"No, let me get you a drink. Stay right here."

He sauntered over to the big counter and within minutes he brought her back a small glass of whiskey to match his own. They toasted, tossed the liquor back, and he led her to an open table in the low-lit corner as bodies pressed together dancing around them. His thick lips were on her neck before she could gaze into his eyes, and his thicker fingers were already under her dress creeping over a seamed stocking, her garter belt, and the bottom of her girdlette. He inched closer to her core.

"Goodness gracious, you already hot down here," he whispered in her ear.

His finger swiped across Lulabelle's panties bringing her clit to life.

"Oh... there it is... my jewel," he crooned before he slid the garment aside and fingered her slit.

Erik had her sopping wet by the time the band switched tunes. Two of his warm fingers pumped in and out of her pussy, making her pant and writhe on her seat next to him.

"You gon' sweat my hair out already!" she yelped reaching for the back of her neck.

Erik flipped his digits over palm-side up and finger fucked her until a puddle of creamy juices flowed out onto her chair. Once her legs shook and she squirmed uncontrollably, he bolted up from his seat and grabbed her hand. His dick jutted out from his pants and he dragged through the side door that led to the wooden bridge and the loving house.

"Get the fuck out," he told a patron having his dick sucked in the first room they came to.

Tweety Pie was on her knees, her bright red lips puckered around a small light brown penis. Her eyes grew wide when she saw Erik and the rigid length straining against his zipper.

Erik whipped out his switchblade and flicked it open.

"Out!" he barked.

Tweety Pie scrambled from her knees and pulled her customer by his hand with his trousers dragging around his ankles to another room. Erik slammed the door shut on the gawking eyes of the other whores and pushed Lulabelle against a mahogany cabinet that held lingerie.

"Turn around."

The snarl in his voice made her spin and toot her big ass out toward him. He dragged the cool blade up against the bottom of her stockings until it dipped just under the hem of her dress. He yanked her dress up around her chest and the sharp blade skimmed across her black satin-covered ass cheek. With just a little more pressure he could break the skin on her fat rump through the material and make her bleed. Erik jerked the blade and sliced her panties off. She gasped and clutched at the smooth wood of the cabinet for balance. She heard his zipper peel down slowly and felt his hands fumble for a rubber.

"You miss Daddy?"

"Yes!"

He parted her folds before she could catch her breath. The fullness stretching her out made her shout his name and grit her teeth. Pumping into her slowly at first, he teased the hell out of her by pushing in deep, then pulling all the way out so that her pussy lips throbbed needing his dick back inside of her.

"I missed this pussy... so much... taking me so deep!"

His switchblade rested on the middle of her naked spine and tickled her skin purposely.

"Take this dress off!"

He helped her wiggle her arms out of it before unfastening her bra with his hands. Cradling her heavy breasts, he made her cheeks clap as his weapon clattered to the floor. His full concentration was on pleasing her body. Rough wide palms spread her ass cheeks wide as he grunted and pushed down on his thighs to hunch over her.

"Lula, shit... Lula..."

Erik gripped her hips and slammed into her before pulling out and lifting her up. He tossed Lula on the soft lumpy bed, undressed, and plunged back into her. The gold in his mouth glinted above her as he thrust harder and faster knocking the breath out of her body.

Her garter belts bunched up then stretched with her girdlette when he pushed her thighs back.

"Big legged girl... mmmm," he groaned.

He shoved his head down to her folds and sucked on her lower lips before spitting on them and sinking his girth back inside her walls.

"Daddy hittin' that bottom yet?"

"You in there... real deep, Daddy."

"Lemme get deeper..."

Her ankles met her earlobes and the heavy pressure from his dick made her cock-eyed a spilling gibberish from her mouth.

"Oh, Jesus!" she yelped when his fists rested on her sides and he bucked into her, slapping his balls against her ass.

Before he could press his mouth into her swollen pussy again to glisten his face, she clenched up around his dick and squeezed it with rhythmic pulses she had no control over.

"That's a good girl... let that pussy talk to Daddy's dick, Lula."

His eyes watched her contractions yank on his length, and when he finished talking her through her release with high praises and slow wet kisses, he pulled off the rubber and stroked himself against her clit. The silky curls of her pubic hairs were wet with her creamy orgasm and became even wetter when Erik splashed hot cum all over her vulva. His shouts of pleasure filled her with quiet confidence.

"That's it Daddy, cum all over your fat pussy."

He hissed when she said that, and his heated glare encouraged more of his release. A thick rope of semen painted her stomach, and he collapsed on top of her with hard ragged gasps.

"God, I wish I could be in this pussy every day, Lula."

"You could," she said stroking the waves on his hair.

He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling with her.

"Not with the work I do. I try my best to get here when I can. But shit, baby. If I didn't get this pussy for free, I would pay a fortune for it."

She rolled on her side to look at him, happy that he thought of her like that. His eyes were still on the ceiling, but there was a frown on his face.

"She's in the room, y'know. Up there hiding in the corner."

"Don't say that, Erik. You know it scares me."

"If you did what I told you to do, she'd go away."

"As long as she don't start no foolishness around here, I can live with a ghost."

"Can you? Then how come you're scared?"

"She was my friend. I know she blames me for getting away and not her."

"A good coating of haint blue all around the doors would keep her out..."

"I can't. I can't do that to her. If she's just lingering as a ghost, it makes me feel like she can live a little."

"If you say so."

"Let's not talk about her."

His eyes were still focused on the ceiling, looking at Elizabeth, her childhood friend from so long ago. She couldn't see the dead teenager at all.

"She mad?" Lulabelle asked.

"She loves you. It's why she stays around... floating from room to room... following you."

Lulabelle pulled his chin toward her.

"Don't look. Please."

Erik slipped his tongue in her mouth. A knock at the door interrupted them.

"Lulabelle, sorry to disturb you and your Mister, but I need this room," Tweety Pie squeaked out.

"Give me a minute."

Lulabelle peeled the rubber from Erik's dick and tossed it inside some tissue and chucked it out of the window into a well-placed bucket outside.

"You ruined my panties," she scolded as she jumped up to rinse her privates and stomach in lavender water at a large basin sitting on a maple console table.

She dried her folds and fixed her bra back around her breasts.

"Don't need 'em, I'll be back inside of you soon enough," he said.

Pulling her dress back on, Lulabelle tried to fix her hair and make-up in a mirror.

"You look fine," he said zipping his pants.

Erik picked up his switchblade and opened the door.

Tweety Pie had a new man with her, a handsome young soldier with lust in his eyes.

"Pardon us," Erik said as he guided Lulabelle back to the juke joint.

Lulabelle sat on Erik's lap as he joked with some patrons and slammed back shots of moonshine. She fed him cornbread and pieces of chicken bites with her fingers, and occasionally she would bounce on his hardness that rested against her backside. He tortured her clit with occasional strokes under her dress, but he wouldn't let her cum. That would happen later when he was ready to plunder her pussy once more. Tradition held that he would fuck her at least four more times before he disappeared until the next new moon in the future. She sat on that hard meat all hot and bothered knowing he was going to be cruel by plucking at her bud and sticking his tongue in her ear all night. She watched him dance with a few women and flirt while she checked on her women out back and collected her money, stuffing it in her bra.

Erik was a little too handsy with a couple of fancy ladies and she had to check him. He'd become contentious then, argued with her until she argued him down threatening to cut his balls off if he cheated on her. If she pushed him, just a little too hard, his neck would move in a hostile way that put her in her place and made her drip down her thighs. He liked her mouthy and jealous, but not too jealous if he caught her rubbing her ass against some other patron to provoke him. He'd spank her hard and tell her about herself until she stopped being bratty and soothed his ego. That was his way every time he came to the juke. Arrogant. Loud. Threatening other men who got too close to her, then all seductive when he needed her loving once more.

When no one was looking, Erik unzipped his pants, pulled out his dick and slid her on top of it raw at their private table. Her dress covered the action, and he lifted her up and down.

"You bet not cum," he ordered with harsh breath.

"I won't, I promise," she insisted with clenched teeth.

She was snug on his dick, and the friction was too much to bear. She clutched onto his knees and leaned forward, dropping her weight on his thighs. The rhythm was perfect until a slender man as tall as a Tupelo crept over to their table and sat down. He didn't seem concerned that he was witnessing a woman getting fucked within an inch of her life in the midst of her own rowdy and lascivious establishment.

The man's face was long, and he had long teeth... and long fingers... and long legs... and a long tongue that lolled around in his mouth. He had skin the color of a soft sunset and one big eye in the center of his face. The music and dancing slowed all around her, and all she could see and hear was the long man with his long deep breaths.

"Lulabelle... Lulabelle..." the slender man said, and the voice that spoke her namesake was not pleasant and inviting like Erik's. It was sinister. Conniving. Filthy to her ears.

Erik thrust up into her walls, and she gasped. The slender man smiled with his long teeth, and his one big black eye blinked and Lulabelle fell forward and down into a vortex of hideous darkness until she landed on soft grass in front of the crossroads that led into the dark woods near her juke joint.

"Lulabelle, hurry up! If we don't go now, we'll chicken out!"

Elizabeth ran ahead of her. Dear sweet Elizabeth, eighteen and glowing with a gorgeous figure and good hair, and the good sense to know that Itta Bena was to be left behind. They were going to New York to become showgirls in Harlem, leaving all that country backwoods shit living behind. No sharecropping or cleaning after white folks for them. They were young. Beautiful. Full of life and ready to see the world. That meant crossing through the woods at the old dusty crossroad just as the sun was setting. The last train outta town was due in an hour. Going through the woods was the fastest route to a new life.

But then the slender man came. The Plat Eye. The Haint that haunted the trees and lingered in the darkness deep inside the woods.

Lulabelle, full of eighteen-year-old spunk, dropped her heavy suitcase and pulled Elizabeth back with a hard tug on her arm.

"Dontcha see him, girl?" Lulabelle shouted.

"Oh, he's just another traveler headed outta here too, pick up your suitcase-"

"It's the Plat Eye. You don't see its face. The one eye? The long teeth?"

"You so silly girl! Look at him... just a man tryna run like us."

"No!"

Elizabeth dropped her suitcase and stood with arms all akimbo.

"If you don't wanna go, then say that, Lulabelle."

"You don't see that monster right there?!" she shrieked, and it startled Elizabeth.

The Plat Eye smirked.

"Fine, stay here then you big baby. Hey, Mister, wait up!"

"Elizabeth!"

An arm grabbed Lulabelle's elbow stopping her from running after her friend.

"Don't move, gal."

The voice didn't have Mississippi in it. It was low country and slower than cold molasses. South Carolina lived in it.

"She done made her choice and if you move one inch, I can't protect you."

Lulabelle didn't turn to look at the stranger. His words were wise, and she did as she was told.

"Elizabeth! Come back!"

"It's too late, Lulabelle."

"How you know my name?"

"I've seen you 'round here before with your friend."

She tried to turn around, but firm hands held her shoulders in place.

"Don't hurt me, Mister."

"Nah, I wouldn't do nothin' like that."

The Plat Eye grew taller almost reaching the height of the nearest tree.

"She can't see what it is?"

"She see what she wanna see."

The thing that was as tall as a Tupelo bent down and opened its tall mouth and Elizabeth stepped into the dark maw...

Lulabelle gasped and her thighs sensed the strong muscles of Erik's legs holding her up once more. He fucked her still, hitting her walls harder. His hands gripped her breasts as he grunted and rolled her nipples with agile fingers. The slender man of her past smiled, his greasy lips splitting wide as he was long. That single eye a tainted monstrosity to behold on its face.

The juke joint partied on, and men filed out through the side door to pay their money for an extra good time with her girls. The Plat Eye reached out for Lulabelle's arm and Erik slammed his switchblade down on the table.

"Nah, haint. This one here belongs to me."

The Plat Eye blinked that Cyclops eye in shock and its mouth fell open.

"Should've known you'd be around here," The Plat Eye grumbled sitting back in his chair.

A clammy wetness dampened Lulabelle's neck. Memory boomeranged back into her chest. The low country voice. The strong hands that held her waist so that he could rut into her pussy.

Lulabelle turned her head and the glint from Erik's gold teeth became a glowing source of ethereal light. The full lips and bright white teeth still looked human but the reverb of hidden power sat under the guttural rasp of his voice.

The man from the Crossroads.

The one who stopped her from entering the throat of the Plat Eye and turning into a floating haint that lived in the ceiling like Elizabeth.

The Geechee Man.

"Ya don't play fair," The Plat Eye grumbled again.

"And?" Erik said.

Erik's firm hands skated up her sides and rested on her shoulders. Lulabelle's pussy squelched on his dick all rude and loud. Plat Eye licked his fleshy lips.

"This here the one I wanted. Not that other one—"

Lulabelle snatched up Erik's switchblade and jumped up from his lap. Her pussy throbbed from being removed from his erection. She held the open switchblade against his throat. Why couldn't anyone else in her juke joint see or hear what was happening?

She knew the stories. All kinds of frightening things could be met at a crossroads. And if the Crossroads Man himself showed up—

"Put that down, Lula. It's not a toy to be played with," Erik said zipping up his pants.

The Plat Eye leaned forward and shot his arm out to grab her, but Erik was quicker. He snatched the switchblade back faster from her grip than she could blink, and he slashed the creature's arm. Black festering ooze seeped from the wound and sizzled as it splashed on the table burning holes through the wood.

"Give her to me," the Plat Eye demanded.

Erik stood up and straightened his tie.

"Nigga you ain't getting shit but an ass kicking if you keep playing with me. I told you already. This one is mine. Get on about yourself before I send you on your way to a very bad place."

"There are rules!"

The Plat Eye leapt to his feet and towered over Erik. Not by much though.

"I make the rules," Erik said.

An arrogant chuckle tumbled out of the Plat Eye's mouth. He gripped the lapels of his suit and blinked that one beastly eye. His open wound continued to drip ruining her good table.

"My man," The Plat Eye said and held up his long fingers to placate Erik.

The creature slid out from the juke joint with no one the wiser. Erik turned to face her and Lulabelle jumped away from him.

"Stay back!"

"Lula... c'mon, baby. I've been coming to you ever since you opened this place. Have I ever harmed you once?"

"No."

"I just give you good lovin' when I can."

"That's why you can't be with me all the time?"

He nodded.

"I guard the way, and I open it up. Everywhere."

Lulabelle ran to the bar and made Eva pour her the biggest glass of moonshine possible. She gulped it down. Erik sauntered over to her.

"Don't be scared of me, Lula."

"What are you... really?"

"Your man."

"You ain't no man."

"I'm no demon if that's what you're worried about."

"God forbid if I'd been fucking the devil."

"I'm no devil, girl. Far from it."

He stroked her face.

"Let's go to the back. I need you... right now."

His voice made her insides tingle. This was their time. But how could she go back and make love to... to a what? Spirit? Guardian angel? Supernatural being?

He never did hurt her. And never once did she suspect that he wasn't anything other than a switchblade carrying Geechie that made her backbone slip.

"Are there others?" she asked, "Others like you around here?"

"Always. But you don't have to worry about nothin'. You got me. No one fucks with me.'

"How come you didn't save Elizabeth?"

"She didn't want to be saved."

"But I loved her. She was my best friend. Why would she leave me?"

"She's still here. She'll never leave until you chase her on."

"Is she happy?"

"Like I told you, she loves you. If you're happy, she's happy."

"God won't punish me for being with you, will he?"

"She won't. I promise."

"What about me selling pussy and a little dick?"

"Not even on her mind."

Lulabelle smiled.

Erik slinked over to her and rubbed his big body against hers and nudged his bearded face against her soft cheek.

"How many women have you seduced over the years?"

"You my favorite."

"That didn't answer my question.," she said putting a hand on her hip.

"You wanna argue or get some more dick, gal?"

Lulabelle checked the room. Her patrons were happy and not having a care in the world. Eva cooked more food, Honey Boy kept the girls refreshed in their loving rooms, and the Harvest moon spilled in through the window behind the juke band.

Moonlight bathed Erik's face and he slid his hand under her dress again.

"Daddy needs to take care of you... oh see now, my sweet jewel is all plump again."

He removed his hand and licked his fingers sticky with her essence. She rubbed on his crotch and he gifted her with a hard bulge. His eyes drifted up to the ceiling.

"Elizabeth wants you to get all this," he said grinding against her.

"Can you tell her that I miss her? That I love her?"

"She already knows."

Erik lifted her up and carried her across the rickety bridge and back to the soft lumpy bed.

That's their story, and I ain't tellin' it twice. Lula and her Geechee Man played nice for a long, long time. I keep watch and makes sure that stays true. Until we meet again on the next new moon...

Part 2 "There's Some Whores in This House" HERE.

A.N:

This was a birthday story I wrote for @soufcakmistress back in 2021.

[herosplatling-replica]

had a lot of fun with @pokeart123's RD Fusion AU! more art to come, i didn't realize how much i drew for it LOL

featuring fusions with:

@mystorl's Dublar

@pageofthemicocee's Cami

@emo-hermit's River

Fiascone (on discord)'s J.F.

@sirwow's Wally

@fufupng's Desert

@emphasis-on-the-oopsie's Victor

[malk1ns]

march 27 @ sabres, 7-3 loss

sidney crosby is officially the most consistent player in the history of the sport. boy oh boy are we a lucky, lucky fanbase. don't ever take watching him play for granted!!!!

and that's all that happened in this game i'm pretty sure.

@beggingwolf talked me into doing a little mini-AU of my influencer!geno story that i'm hoping to work on this offseason, and that + this picture reappearing in my life where he really DOES look like an influencer got the wheels turning. and here we are!

Normally Zhenya vets his brand trips pretty thoroughly. There are some people out there who jump at every sponsored vacation that’s thrown at them regardless of who’s picking up the bill, and while Zhenya’s not about to pretend he’s some scrupulously ethical guy who only shills products he supports with every fiber of his being, he’s also not interested in flaunting a lavish trip for some brand his followers have never heard him talk about before.

Some of his vetting is selfish, of course. He wants to be flown out to fun places with people he can actually tolerate, not the ever-growing mass of early-20s fitfluencers who all talk in the same cadence and over-filter their videos so their followers can’t clock the injection sites and surgery scars while they’re talking up some new weight-loss fad product as if it’s the secret to their looks.

Zhenya’s not like that. He’s still filming on the same camera he bought back when he first started recording himself, well before the pandemic and when the concept of being an influencer as a full-time career didn’t really exist yet. He doesn’t even think he knew the word ‘influencer’ when he posted his first video to YouTube all those years ago; he just wanted to make workout videos for people who can’t get to the gym and maybe raise his own personal trainer brand a little at the same time. Rent isn’t cheap in NYC after all, even on Zhenya’s Equinox salary, and new clients, especially ones above a certain income bracket, are never a bad thing.

When the pandemic hit, Zhenya seriously thought he’d have to somehow move back home, slink back to his parents’ house in backwoods Russia and admit that his dreams had been a little too big after all. Five years ago, he never could have guessed where he’d be now.

Quitting his day job had been risky, a decision he agonized over for weeks. But the partnership offers were piling up, and his manager was fielding high-profile celebrity requests by the dozen to have him come and design custom workout plans for them. The money piling up in his accounts was staggering, an unfathomable total to a boy who grew up in a one-bedroom apartment in an industrial post-Soviet town.

Even if it all comes crashing down tomorrow, it was worth every minute. Zhenya’s trying to be smart with his money, squirreling most of it away into investments he can live off and buying property instead of yet another shitty Amazon ‘must-have’, but he’s enjoying the fruits of his labor, too—the nice cars, the nice house, the nice vacations in five-star hotels.

He would not classify Buffalo in March as one of the nicer places he’s been to, but the reason he’s going makes this trip the most exciting one yet. The chance to watch his favorite hockey player break a Wayne Gretzky record as the Penguins’ guest isn’t something Zhenya would pass up in a million years.

«I don’t know what to wear,» he whines, stabbing at his phone until it switches to speaker and tossing it on the floor at his feet as he continues to paw through his closet. «Is it tacky to wear a jersey? Do I look good in jerseys?»

Artemy sighs so loudly Zhenya’s phone crackles. «You sound like a teenage girl,» he informs Zhenya, who rolls his eyes and holds up his plum puffer vest in consideration. Maybe this with a long-sleeve shirt…? «Of course jerseys are tacky. But everyone in the damn arena will have one on. Bring something else for after if you think they’ll let you take pictures you’ll want to post, but if you want to wear a jersey, wear one. You’ll look fine.»

«But which one?» Zhenya muses, turning to look at the long row of Penguins jerseys taking up nearly a quarter of his closet.

Artemy hangs up on him. Zhenya doesn’t bother calling back.

He does pack a jersey though—a game-worn one that Zhenya saved for months to afford and really had no business buying at the time. It’s not autographed, but Crosby scored 23 goals while wearing it, and Zhenya’s nostalgic for the Vegas gold color scheme.

He brings a hat from his collaboration with Goorin Bros too, one of the gray beanies. The black sold better, but Zhenya prefers the gray, and it’ll look better with his purple vest.

The Penguins offer to put him in a suite—apparently the demand isn’t high for premium seating in Buffalo this year, go figure—but Zhenya manages to wheedle a seat on the glass, right next to the visitor’s penalty box. He wants to be close to the action, where he can hear and see everything and hopefully get some good pictures.

The flight to Buffalo is short, but Zhenya upgrades himself to business class and spends the entire 90 minutes slouched in his seat scrolling through Sidney Crosby highlights on YouTube. He’s watched all these videos hundreds of times by now, but he could use a refresher—what if he meets Sid? He wants to sound like he knows what he’s talking about, like he’s a real fan, not just a clout-chaser or a puckbunny.

Stupid, really. The PR person hadn’t been sure Zhenya would be able to meet any players—they’re going straight from the game to the airport, everyone eager to get home after the road trip—but he’ll get a tour of the locker room anyway, and the team wants to take some pictures of their own to post.

They put him up in the same hotel where the team is staying, and Zhenya spends the afternoon fantasizing about walking down into the lobby, running into Sid, and charming him with some line that gets them talking.

The very thought of it terrifies him, so Zhenya orders room service and goes to bed as early as possible.

Zhenya’s been a Penguins fan for what feels like his entire life. When he was younger he was obsessed with Mario Lemieux and Jaromir Jagr—his parents couldn’t afford to put him into the hockey program in Magnitogorsk, but he used to play out on the pond with his friends, and he always had dibs on taping a 66 onto the back of his coat. Most of the kids in Russia cheered for Detroit, and Zhenya had a Red Wings hat too, but it was the Penguins he followed as best he could.

When they drafted Sidney Crosby and Zhenya got a look at him on TV for the first time, that just sealed it. He’s followed Sid’s whole career, digging through the bowels of the internet for game footage in the middle of the night until he moved to America and could watch games at a reasonable hour, and the first vacation he took in the US was to Pittsburgh, to watch the Penguins play up in the rafters of the Igloo.

Now that Zhenya makes real money he’s been to a lot more games, in much better seats. He’s talked about the Penguins on his platforms as long as he’s been on social media, sometimes dedicating entire videos to rant about poorly-officiated games or gush over a play Sid made that didn’t get enough attention. He supposes it was only a matter of time until someone on the team stumbled onto his account, but he still can’t believe they reached out to invite him to potentially watch history be made.

The hotel gym is deserted the next morning, and Zhenya runs off as much of his nervous energy on the treadmill as he can tolerate. He spends too long primping in the mirror after his shower, pushing his hair back and forth until he remembers he brought his hat and rolls his eyes at himself before cramming it onto his head.

The Penguins send a car for him late afternoon, and Zhenya spends the hour before warmups wandering KeyBank center with a pretty brunette from the comms team. She giggles and blushes when he casually flirts with her—Zhenya might be gay but he has eyes, he can appreciate a beautiful woman, and everyone likes to be flirted with.

He has time to grab a canned cocktail before heading down for warmups, settling into his seat and sipping on his drink as he films a quick video to post to his feeds. When the players come out Zhenya practically plasters himself to the glass, staring raptly as the Penguins skate past him and getting as much footage as he can to sort through and post later.

He’s never had seats this good. This fucking rules.

It gets even better a few minutes into the game when Sid takes a penalty and spends two minutes barely two feet from Zhenya’s seat. Normally Zhenya would be watching the penalty kill through his fingers and holding his breath, but this time he spends the entire penalty half-turned in his chair so it’s not quite so obvious that he’s staring at Sid.

Sid sprays water down the back of his jersey and then in his mouth, and Zhenya learns what it looks like when he has drops of water on those big red lips up close. He spends most of the two minutes chatting with the penalty box attendant, but when there’s about half a minute left and he’s standing up in preparation to skate back out, he glances to the side, right at Zhenya.

Zhenya watches Sid’s eyes widen, then glance up at his hat, and then the penalty is over and Sid skates back out to rejoin the game.

“Holy shit,” Zhenya mutters, placing his phone in his lap so his shaking hands don’t drop it. “No way, holy shit?”

He’s so flustered by the direct eye contact that he almost misses when Sid officially passes the record, a beauty of a goal that sends Zhenya and what feels like the entire arena to their feet. The applause is long, even from the home fans, and Zhenya practically wears out his thumb taking pictures of the scoreboard, the bench, the crowd, and himself. He didn’t get a video of the goal, but there will be enough footage posted all over—Zhenya got to see it with his own eyes, practically in front of him.

Unfortunately, that’s the high point of the game. Zhenya winces through most of the second period, and even a pair of goals in the third to make the final score a little less mortifying doesn’t quite match the emotional high of Sid’s goal.

Zhenya loves seeing his team in person, though, even when they lose, and he’s shaken off his disappointment by the time the brunette comes to take him to the players’ area.

Zhenya wrinkles his nose at the workout facilities—he’s still an Equinox snob at heart, sue him—and badly wants to poke through the refrigerator in the player’s lounge, but when they approach what can only be the locker room he clams up.

The girl—Emma—pauses with her hand on the door, looking up at him. “They’re all going to be in the change room by now,” she says reassuringly, adjusting the camera around her neck. “And they know we have a guest, so you’re not intruding. I know this is a little weird, I hated coming down here when I first started, but they’re totally used to it. If anyone pops in it’s because they watch your stuff and want to say hi—some of the younger guys were really excited when we told them you were coming tonight, and I’m pretty sure Tanger follows you. Anyway, don’t worry about it. We’ll be in and out.”

Tanger does follow Zhenya. That happened about three years ago, and Zhenya spent most of the afternoon having a quiet panic attack in his apartment when he got the notification. He didn’t think that meant Tanger actually looked at his posts. How embarrassing.

The Penguins are expecting content out of this, so Zhenya squares his shoulders and flashes his brightest smile at Emma, who turns pink and lifts up the camera, pushing the door open and clicking record.

Zhenya hams it up in the room, putting on the slightly-exaggerated public personality he’s been cultivating for years. It’s not entirely fake, Zhenya wouldn’t be able to sustain it for this long if it was, but it’s a little bit more than he is in real life. It plays well on social media, so whatever.

Once Emma’s happy with what she got, she takes a few pictures of Zhenya on his phone. He flips through them before they leave, pausing on the one of him sitting in Sid’s locker and looking to the side—that’s the one, he thinks. He’s glad he took his jersey off for these pictures.

“Oh,” Emma says, and Zhenya looks up guiltily—she’s been so nice, but he’s sure he’s keeping her from getting home. She’s staring down at her phone. “So, Sid wants to meet you? Is that cool? He’s still with the trainers, but can you wait a few minutes?”

Zhenya’s brain shuts down.

He must reply with some form of affirmative, though, because Emma taps something on her phone before guiding Zhenya out of the locker room and back to the player’s lounge.

“I’m so sorry, but I have some stuff I need to take care of before we head to the airport,” she says apologetically. Zhenya can hear her phone vibrating in her hand. “Are you okay waiting here alone? Sid knows where you are, he should come find you soon.”

“Sure,” Zhenya says faintly, and Emma smiles at him before rushing off.

Zhenya looks around the room, then shakes his head and sits on the couch, taking a deep breath. He’s going to meet Sidney Crosby—he needs to get it together.

He distracts himself by making a few color adjustments to that picture and typing out a few different captions before settling on one. He debates over the hashtags, but it’s not like the Penguins could possibly be surprised—Zhenya’s very, very out, and he’s never shied away from praising Sid’s looks as well as his hockey on his platforms. If they don’t know, that’s their own fault.

He’s just hit post when someone clears their throat.

Zhenya’s head whips up so fast he almost pulls something in his neck.

“Hey there,” says Sidney Crosby, standing a few feet away from Zhenya and dressed in the tightest, most threadbare pair of lululemon leggings Zhenya’s ever seen. “Geno, right? Thanks for sticking around, sorry to make you wait.”

“Um,” Zhenya says intelligently, fumbling his phone into his vest pocket as he gets to his feet. “No problem, like, fun to see the locker room and stuff.”

Sid steps closer and sticks his hand out. Zhenya takes it, praying his palm isn’t as sweaty as the rest of his body feels. Sid’s hair is still damp, but he smells like cologne, and Zhenya wonders if he’s going to faint. “Great to meet you, man,” Sid says, smiling at Zhenya. His teeth are so white. “We’re all big fans, the boys were pretty excited when Jen told us you were coming. Tanger’s gonna be pissed at me forever, he really wanted to meet you but he’s still stuck with the docs.”

“Oh wow,” Zhenya says, holding Sid’s hand for a hair too long before dropping it. Up close, Sid’s mouth is so red and his eyes are enormous. He’s a little shorter than Zhenya thought, but he’s broad, and his biceps are straining the sleeves of the t-shirt he’s got on. “Um, I’m not know you watch. Well, I know Tanger follows, but I don’t think he actually watches, you know.”

Sid bites his lip. “I follow you too,” he says, voice low like he’s sharing a secret. “I’ve got a…I think they call it a finsta? It doesn’t have a profile picture or anything, you wouldn’t know it’s me. But I started following you during the lockdown, your videos were great. I was getting so bored with the stuff the trainers sent out, and everything else I found was like…it just wasn’t good, you know, but then Tanger found your account and—” Sid pauses, and Zhenya watches in amazement as his face turns red. “Sorry. Jesus, I’m babbling, I get like this after games. Anyway. Sorry we couldn’t get a win for you, but I hope you had fun anyway.”

“Best,” Zhenya rushes to reassure him. “Your goal, like, it’s so good, classic Crosby goal. So cool to see you break the record, I can’t believe. I’m a fan for so long, I never think I get to see something so close like that.”

Sid’s smile returns in full force. “Oh, you’ve been a fan for a while, eh?” he says, tilting his head coyly. Abruptly, Zhenya realizes he’s being flirted with. “Well, it’s a shame it took so long for us to get you down here—I would have loved to have met you sooner.” 

“Yes,” Zhenya says dumbly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. Is this really happening?

Sid’s eyes follow his hand, widening when he looks up at Zhenya’s beanie. “Oh, your hat! I saw that when I was in the box, that’s really cool. Goorin, right? Kris has a ton of stuff from them, I remember when your collection came out. You got any extras of those lying around?”

Zhenya takes a deep breath and decides to be brave. “Yes, I have at home, lots of colors,” he says, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “I can send to you, maybe? But you’re have to tell me what kind you want, like, hat or beanie, what style—maybe you give me your number, I can send you pictures?” He unlocks his iPhone and holds it out, hand shaking only a little.

Sid stares at it for a minute, and just when Zhenya thinks he’s made a horrible mistake snatches it out of his palm. “Maybe instead you should come to Pittsburgh and bring some with you,” he says, pulling up the messenger app and starting a new thread. “I mean, probably it would be better for me to see how they look, right? And it’ll save you shipping. If you’ve got time you could stay a while, come to a few games—we have another roadie coming up, but our last couple of games are at home. What do you think?” When he hands Zhenya his phone back, his smile is sly and his eyes are sharp.

Zhenya heads back to his hotel with Sidney Crosby’s phone number burning a hole in his pocket. It’s a good thing his flight isn’t until later tomorrow—there’s no way he’s sleeping any time soon tonight.

thanks to @beggingwolf for photoshopping sid's nameplate into this picture to complete my geno influencer dreams. you Will see this picture used again, god willing. i'm responsible for the caption which is why it looks terrible <3

[lilith0fthevalley]

Texas Chainsaw AU!Leon Drabble

Content Warning: This drabble contains themes of manipulation, psychological tension, and an undercurrent of unease. There are references to ominous folklore, implied family secrets, and a subtle but deliberate challenge meant to lure the protagonist into potential danger. Readers should be aware of themes involving isolated rural settings, social dynamics with an eerie undertone, and a charismatic but potentially menacing character.

In one of the few, crowded bars of Newt, Texas, Y/N takes a sip of her beer and narrows her eyes over the neck of the bottle as she lowers it. “Well, I’ll be damned... Who in the hell is that fine piece of ass right there?” She asks the two women next to her at the hightop. Claire giggles before speaking up first. “Why, Y/N! That is the newest addition to our lil' town of Newt, Texas… Says his name is Leon Kennedy.” Claire offers in a hushed whisper. She smirks and tosses her shot back, the immediate burn evident on her face as she winces. Jill speaks up next. “Ain’t no damn way he’s a Kennedy. Y’all know what folks say ‘bout that family. Disfigured, antisocial, inbred freaks.” Jill takes a sip of her whiskey and shakes her head “Violent hermits, too, if the stories’re true. People say they can’t tell a friend from a fuckin’ enemy.” Claire just rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on now, you know them’s just rumors. And besides—maybe he’s some real distant relative or somethin’… real distant.” 

Y/N's eyes rove over the newcomer and she gives a lazy, cocky smirk. “Well, Kennedy or not… sure as hell don’t look like he’s got that awkward, backwoods energy the rest of ‘em do.” She gestures subtly with the tip of her beer. “I mean, look at him—charm drippin’ right off him like honey. Ain’t even gotta try, and Ada and her little flock are eatin’ outta the palm of his hand.” She says derisively. Claire stretches and leans back, offering Y/N a coy smile. “I don’t know about you, but I think Little Miss Social Butterfly should go give him a proper Newt greetin'~” Jill snickers, crossing her arms. “Yeah, go on, butterfly. Flit on over there and make an impression.” Y/N, never one to turn down a challenge, sets her beer down and nods. “Fine. Guess I’ll go have me a sweet little chat with Mr. Kennedy.” She steps off her barstool and loops her thumbs in the belt loops of her skirt as she saunters up to the dirty, blonde haired stranger. He’s quite the looker. Hair tucked away under a whiskey colored, cowboy hat, warm, inviting cerulean eyes that observe and captivate simultaneously. He wears a light blue work shirt that has the first couple of buttons, undone–leaving little of his muscled chest up to one’s imagination. He’s clean-shaven and his smile is charming, even though it’s not directed at her at the moment. 

Y/N rocks up to the high top inhabited by Ada and her posse. She tips her hat in greeting. “Ada. Ladies. Heard y’all were givin’ our new friend here a proper Newt greetin’.” Ada offers Y/N a lazy smirk and crosses her arms. “What, that a crime now? Talkin’ to a man before you, Y/N?” She teases as she gives the other woman a once over. Eventually, she relaxes and gestures from Y/N to Leon.  “Leon Kennedy, meet Y/N L/N—Newt’s very own social butterfly. She’s friends with everyone, and everyone’s friends with her.” Leon chuckles and tips his hat in Y/N's direction. “Well it’s mighty fine to meet you, Miss L/N. Reckon I’ve heard your name floatin’ ‘round town since I got here. My aunt’s mentioned you once or twice—nothin’ but kind words, o’ course.” “Well, I would sure hope so.” Y/N says with a pearly grin. Ada raises her chin at Y/N and speaks. “We’re movin’ on to the next bar. Don’t reckon you’d mind keepin’ Mr. Kennedy company, would ya, Y/N?” She shakes her head. “Not one bit. More than happy to.” With that, Ada nods and turns on her heel leaving the bar with her group in tow. 

Y/N waves to the bartender and turns her attention back to Leon. “So Kennedy… Tell me, what brings ya all the way out here to Newt?” He braces his forearms against the high-top and glances at her from under his hat. “Same thing that brings most folks out here, I ‘spose. Needed a little peace n’ quiet. Change of scenery.” He says vaguely, keeping his eyes on her the entire time. Those big blue eyes seem to draw her in as he lowers his voice, as if sharing a secret. “And, well… I got kin here. Family I ain’t seen in a long, long time.” He smirks as he leans back resting on the back half of his forearms. Y/N's eyebrows quirk at that and she takes a sip of the beer that’s handed over her shoulder to her. “So, you are related to the Kennedys.” She pauses, then tips her head. “How’s that, exactly?” Leon clicks his tongue, smirking as he swirls his whiskey. “Ah, ah, ah. My turn for a question.” He leans in, blue eyes dancing with mischief. “If you’re willin’ to play the game, that is…” He hides his smirk behind a sip of his whiskey. Y/N just offers him an arrogant smirk “I ain’t never one to back down from a challenge.” Leon chuckles at that and nods. “Yeah, you seem like the type...” 

He balances his glass on the rim as he rolls it around on the table, his gaze flicks from the glass up to Y/N and he offers her a lopsided smile as he speaks, his southern drawl melting in her ears. “... Tell me, Darlin’... What exactly is your role in this town? Surely you ain’t just a worker millin’ about… No, no. There’s gotta be more to you almost like… You’re a queen b-” 

“Social Butterfly’s the term we like to use,” Y/N cuts in quickly. “Don’t much care for what comes along with bein’ called a Queen Bee, so I prefer Butterfly.”

Leon watches Y/N with a slow, knowing smirk, rolling his whiskey glass between his fingers. “... Alright. I’ll respect it.” He muses and allows silence to fall over the two of them before he speaks again. His voice is warm, playful even, but there’s an unmistakable weight behind his words.

“You know, Miss L/N,” he drawls, tilting his hat back just a touch. “Folks around here love to talk about my kin like we’re somethin’ out of a ghost story. And maybe we are.” His grin widens, all teeth, like a wolf playing with its food. “But I reckon most of ‘em are just too yellow-bellied to find out the truth for themselves.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow, the corners of her lips quirking. “That so?”

Leon nods, gaze steady. “Mhm. All those whispers about not steppin’ foot past our fence after sundown? Sounds an awful lot like superstition to me. But I get it. Not everybody’s got the spine to test their fears.”

Y/N scoffs, feigning disinterest as she takes a long pull from her beer. But he sees the flicker of pride in her eyes. She’s listening. Leon leans in, voice dropping to a smooth murmur. “Now, I ain’t the kind to believe in all that nonsense myself… but if you really wanna make a statement, if you really wanna prove to Newt that the Kennedys are just like everybody else…” He lets the sentence hang, waiting.

Y/N exhales a laugh, shaking her head. “What, You want me to waltz up to that old ranch and come back alive just to make a point?”

Leon grins, eyes gleaming beneath the low bar light. “Somethin’ like that.” He straightens, stretching his arms over his head, the movement making his work shirt pull against the lines of his chest. “Or maybe you’re not as brave as you let on.”

Y/N's smirk falters, just for a second, but it’s all Leon needs.

“I’m plenty brave,” she sneers, standing taller.

Leon shrugs. “Then prove it.”

The silence that follows is thick, the weight of the challenge pressing between them. Around them, the bar is still lively, music humming through the walls, but for Y/N, everything feels like it’s shifted.

Outside, the night has settled deep. The Kennedy ranch sits somewhere in that darkness, waiting.

And Leon?

Leon just watches her, his smile easy. 

Patient. 

Sharp. 

The smile of a man who already knows the outcome of this… little wager.

~~~

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