#battery powered wall clock

[stochastique-blog]

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Eluhi the Elephant Zoo Clock ❤ liked on Polyvore (see more hand clocks)

[pinkrelish]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶The garage gets slammed with clients, and the clear delineation between workplace flirting and PDA is put to the test when stolen kisses in the storage closet aren't enough, over the clothes touching leads to frustration, and getting interrupted in the breakroom leaves Eddie aching.✶

NSFW — smut, porn with plot, dry humping, oral (receiving), pussydrunk!eddie, horny depravity at work, van sex, masturbation, swallowing, teasing, sexual tension, hickeys (giving), reader and eddie are verbally harassed by a customer, protective!eddie, protective!reader, 18+

chapter: 12/20 [wc: 23.7k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12

AO3

Chapter 12: Satanic Mechanic

The storm triggered rising temps.

————

Monday smacked you awake.

Your digital alarm clock wasn’t worth its price tag when the power flickered, and the blinking numbers of 12:00 seared into your tired retinas, really highlighting the fact that the two fat backup batteries hadn’t been replaced since you lived in a dorm. Whatever—It wasn’t that late, just late enough to cause a sweat when you were half hanging out of Robin’s car, wrestling with a spare umbrella while the sleeves of your light gray Champion college sweatshirt were darkening from ice-slushed rain. Oh, and because that wasn’t enough, the bottom of your pants waded through a puddle in the auto shop’s parking lot, too.

Stupid cursed town.

Swearing under your breath, you sped towards the employee door, and your expectation of a teasing remark from Carl about your tardiness lapsed into stark bewilderment.

You shook off your umbrella, and tossed it in the only available corner inside the cramped garage. Between the shuttered doors were four motley muscle cars parked back-to-back in various makes and models from yesteryears, bright colors announcing themselves amply. As you neared one, a quick shadow passed over the floor from the lobby door opening, widening the men’s muffled voices inside into clear conversation, and closing. You turned to greet them, but the words caught in your chest.

Eddie crowded you two steps backwards, away from the windows, and tucked you to the concrete wall where privacy could be had.

Heat stung your cheeks at the sight of your boyfriend of thirty-two hour’s careful attention on you. Thoughts on thoughts on thoughts wore themselves like a fever under your thick winter scarf. The same fingers he fiddled with to release his nervous tension were once tracing your spine. Not two days ago the big pink tongue he pressed to his teeth licked the intimacy between your breasts. Frazzled curls stood from the rest of his hair as if your hands had been through them time and time again. Soft concern edged the beautiful brown of his eyes analyzing your expression as he did when your bodies were entwined on his couch—yet, in this moment, he idled a measured distance away, guilt weighing heavily on his posture.

The tender rot of apology weakened his tone, “Hey, baby. I’m sorry about not calling. My power’s been out since I got home the other night, and I only just got it back this morning. I hope.. I hope that’s okay.” Reading the quick flit of your eyes falling to his hands and back up, his voice erred remorseful, “I promise I would’ve called.”

“Aw, handsome,” you released. Slotting your fingers into the cup of his palms, you narrowed the space between you in a squishy tennis shoe step. “Our phone line’s down too, and the power’s been going off and on. You didn’t think I was mad at you, did you? Even if something came up and you couldn’t get around to it, I would’ve understood.” The shelf of his shoulders were dotted with rain. “Were you pacing outside?” Meaning: were you so anxious you made yourself nauseous?

“No, no, this is just from dropping Adrie off. Uhm, I actually.. I know I look nervous—couldn’t help it once I saw you, ha,” he broke into a shy giggle, already sticking his gaze on his thumbs engulfing your knuckles. “But uhm, I actually wasn’t worried about you being upset with me. I know you said that when I dropped you off, but I’m getting better at not, ah, freaking out. Thinking of the worst case scenario, shit like that.” A glance through his lashes, and his lips stretched into a sly grin, rounding his cheeks. “I know we’re good. You and me.”

“Yeah, we’re good.” You leaned in, a hint of mischievousness marking your suggestive tone, “More than good.”

“More than good,” he repeated in a smiley mumble. “Just didn’t want you gettin’ the impression I’m some jerk who forgets to call his girl.”

His girl, his girl, his girl.

“I’d never think so poorly of the sweetest man alive.”

Magic happened. There, in his labored swallow, and your fluttery blink. An invisible pull encouraging your bodies closer, sliding your shoulder along the cold wall of your workplace. Seeking heat where it was found against his belly, standing the peach fuzz on your arms at attention from a single brush of your fingertips over his jumpsuit. Want, need; a wish to relieve the burn of pride in your chest, longing to reward him for his progress of keeping a level head when he could’ve spiraled into negative thoughts, yearning to kiss his rosy cheeks aglow with respect. But under the guide of his excessively gentle thumb strokes over your knuckles, a truth was earned. To him, it didn’t feel appropriate to kiss where people could see. Where people could fawn, pry, ask questions, put pressure on something so new. The desire was there. Oh, the desire was there in his gaze dipping to your lips, and staying.

Remembering Saturday, you inhaled sharply. “Oh! I didn’t tell you the good news. Robin got a call the other day, and—”

The voices in the lobby grew. One gruffed out—“Hey, you two?”—and you released each other’s hands, jolting apart. “Wanna get up to date on this shitstorm of a week?” Mr. Moore asked, motioning you both inside with two succinct waves of his clipboard.

A feeble look was exchanged from Eddie to you. The good news would have to wait. Talking would have to wait. Discussing the events from the weekend and all the pretty words he wanted you to hear while his mouth was nurturing the intimate skin beneath your paint-stained crewneck would have to wait.

Following your boss to the circle of employees gathered in front of your desk, Carl and Kevin said hello with raised eyebrows, and Mr. Moore flipped through the sheets on his clipboard, catching you up to speed. “So, lucky us," he said, tone betraying the luck, "the storm hit Springfield harder than Hawkins, so the annual Classic Car Show was moved down here this weekend." Rolling his hand, he grumbled—guy said the ol' historic buildings downtown would look nice in photos—"Anyway, all those uppercrust sons’a are gonna start droppin’ their cars off here for last minute maintenance, or whatever damn hell Roy was sayin'. He sent what parts he had, but we'll have to put in an emergency order, and of course the damn phone is still out."

Mr. Moore targeted you. "We can not," he stressed, "can not accept normal customers this week with all these yuppies comin' in. Unless it’s an emergency, just turn them away, or point 'em towards Thatcher's if they need their tires rotated. Got it?"

So, that explains why Eddie's eyes were welded shut in preparation for the arduous day ahead. The cavity between your hand and his could’ve been filled with a supportive squeeze, maybe a silent assurance in the passing touch, but you tore your gaze from the myriad of grievances wrinkling his expression, and answered your boss, "Got it."

Papers were divvied, sighs were had. With a hard clap of Mr. Moore’s meaty hands on each of your shoulders, he guaranteed a generous bonus for the extra work, and dismissed the group. You pivoted to collecting mail-in order forms for car parts in case the phones didn't work by the afternoon, and the men went off to the garage where hours were lost to the heavy clank of tools making clockwork.

As the day yawned to noon, Eddie’s ears were ringing. He fetched his Walkman from the car, and blasted music through its shitty foam cups in effort to destroy his hearing with something preferable. Amongst the mayhem of cars rolling out of the service bay and being immediately replaced by another, he curled his fingers in a small wave at his favorite Office Administrator, but you missed it on account of the old man at your counter needing the keys for his ‘57 Chevrolet Bel Air.

It was a lonely day. A busy day. An aching day where the itch to connect with each other led to melancholy behind every antsy glance through the windows gone unmet.

Your lunch was a limp sandwich eaten between visiting clients, and when Eddie ate, he did it with his back facing you, bent over the work table on the far wall, mixing cleaning solution for an engine block in between sips of Campbell's tomato soup.

In the wait for a muscle car to be exchanged for a truck requiring new brake pads belonging to the mom with two kids in the lobby who needed it for work the next day, Eddie sought you for comfort in the breakroom, but you had walked to the post office after the rain let up, and by the time you got back, you shrugged off his jacket, picked up a stack of clean rags from the storage closet, and used them as an excuse to enter the noisy garage.

Handing off the rags was the closest either of you had been since that morning. Skin contact was bittered by the barrier of his black nitrile gloves, and the interaction was stained by grime sketching the fine lines of his tired face, stress preying on his mood when you pulled away. He needed you.

Miss you, you mouthed.

Miss you, baby, he returned.

Eddie went back to his project. You went back to organizing paperwork. When you checked the phone line, it wasn’t even joy which influenced your forced smile at him through the window. It was just more work when the dial tone answered.

Busy, busy, busy. No respite for conversation, not even between the mechanics. Kevin’s goodbye was offered as the sun hung low in the sky, touching the tree line. Carl knocked on the hood of the car David was working on to get his attention before clocking out for the night. In retrospect, Mr. Moore was the only one who held a proper conversation with Eddie, telling him he’d be in his office for a bit, and he’d stay late to help on the final set of cars.

In the last slants of daylight dragging through tree branches, Eddie focused on the Mustang Mach 1 in front of him. Sun at his back, wiping sweat from his forehead. Wasting his time on small detail work he wasn’t normally paid to do, yet finding some fulfillment in clearing the nooks of leaf debris and polishing excess grease out of the crannies, salivating at the reward at the end of it: a fat check.

Indeed, he was lost in fantasies of how he’d spend his money when a commotion invaded his mind palace, infiltrating the blank air of his cassette clicking to the end of its tape. Eddie pushed the headphones down to his neck, squinting at the windows to the lobby.

His sweetheart’s face was set with bored malice. An air of disregard, but annoyed all the same. Softly narrowed eyes, loose shoulders, crossed legs. Listening to the man who leaned over the heightened front of your receptionist desk with a pointed finger you didn’t care for, and moving your mouth in a rehearsed response. The man’s voice raised, tanned skin gone blotchy. Spitting mad. You flinched at his irate gestures nearing too close for comfort.

Instant. Adrenaline whipped Eddie forward. Muscles flexed into action, constricted, strained, prepared and loaded, roiling with power ripping open the glass door, sending loose papers flying off the black tool cart, including the one with the man’s name he recognized—

How could he forget?

Square jaw, springy curls cropped close to his skull. Light brown hair extending to the shitty wisps on his upper lip not any better than a grandma could grow. Ditch the letterman jacket for a suit and tie all he wanted, but there was no mistaking Andy, best friend of Jason and player on Hawkins’ High basketball team who helped scar Eddie Munson’s frail reputation after that fateful party he never went to.

Someone he was lucky to dodge at most preschool functions by virtue of his son being nursery-aged.

“—It’ll be ready tomorrow,” you finished in uniform curt.

“Listen better, bitch, I don’t have time for—”

“Hey!” Eddie’s voice packed the tiled room in an authoritative boom with the same fury he entered, commanding the space, possessing the attention as papers floated to the ground behind him. Shifting in his stance, his heart pounded against the strict discipline he leashed himself to, gaining control of his volume for your sake. Quieting to a seethe, he forced out, “You can’t speak to her that way.”

The subject of his ire slid his snakey gaze to him, deducing his long hair, his cheap cassette player, his jumpsuit. Sizing him up. Assessing him. Casting judgements.

Holding reign with a steady pupil on his target, Andy straightened himself from the desk. His expression wore neutral, hands pushing himself away from the ledge and rolling his shoulders with casual controlled dominance. His ugly red tie slipped against his white poly-cotton button down shirt at the motion, following his slow turn towards someone he thought so lowly of. “Figures you’d be here,” he said, jaw jutted in a lax chew as if he were sucking on a toothpick. “This the only place that’d hire a scumbag like you? Hm?”

Fingers stretched and flexed. Veins coursed with heated blood. Sweaty palms were crushed closed.

But it wasn’t Eddie who responded—no—it was his little Mouse.

Jumping from your seat, your chair rolled into the rackety filing cabinets behind you, causing a scene with your hand striking the desk. “You can’t talk to him that way!”

Andy arched an eyebrow at your bark, however, he propped his elbow up in a lazy lean on your binder-clipped manila folders, and held a mutual gaze with the man opposite him. “Sweetie,” he patronized, addressing you with a smug crook of his lips aimed to taunt Eddie further, “this devil worshiper here preys on pretty girls like you. Don’t defend his honor. He’s got none.” With a cocky tongue click, he licked his bottom lip, reveling in the storm brewing in his doormat’s eyes. There was history in the words he chose. They were crafted for The Freak of Hawkins specifically. The rumors he was known for. The lies. Also, the truths.

Testosterone suggested violence in Eddie’s deliberate refusal to blink, but anger did not darken his cheeks in reveals of red as they oft do, nor did he rear a fist like you wanted to. Hard pumps of aggression strained the tendons in his neck, creating shadows along the thick blue vein leading to his strong jaw, but otherwise much of his reaction was reserved, contained in his stoney expression and hidden beneath his biding posture, waiting. Assessing. For years he endured his name being spat on, and he was only beginning to understand the toll of surrendering.

“You’re new here, aren’t cha?” Andy spoke to you, but matched the trained stare across from him. “There’s no need to stand up for this creep. He’s just some lowlife who begs for table scraps, and still can’t coerce girls into giving him the time of day. Kinda pathetic, don’t ya think?” Tone sneering to a scoff, he added to Eddie, “S’kinda miracle you managed to procreate.”

“Shut up!”

This anonymous man regarded you finally. Confusion hung heavy on his brow, curious as to why you were so adamant about protecting someone like him. Then, he dropped his head to the side, enough to see you, and raked his glare over your body, pausing his study on one place in particular.

Your jaw dropped at the audacity, throwing a hand over your stomach on instinct.

Andy involved you with a nod. “This another chick you knocked up?”

Quickfire, Eddie snatched starchy fabric and knotted silk in his fist, dragging him in by his tie, smothering his wet grunt of surprise with a vice grip on his shirt. They were the same height, but when pitted against steel toe boots, leather loafers lost. Not that he needed the extra inch. A different danger lurked in Eddie’s minimal movements, reeling the other man closer without much effort. Enough intimidation lived in his clenched jaw and quivering muscles to show he was not tucking tail and rolling over.

“Hey now,” Andy rasped against the solid threat of knuckles digging into the hollow of his throat, taming him from uttering more. He raised his hands in defense, manicured nails atop soft fingers atop softer palms.

“Watch your mouth,” Eddie enunciated, slow and warning.

Knocked off status by the brave chin challenging him, Andy’s nostrils flared, but his amusement didn’t waver. Under pressure, he wrung the corner of his mouth, lifting his fuzzy upper lip in sly charm while he puzzled out the dynamic between the cool-headed receptionist who’d gone rabid at a bit of joking, and the blue-collar mechanic who abstained from standing up for himself, but sure as hell did when it involved you.

A smirk dared to stretch across his face.

Andy tucked his eyebrows in, and pleaded, “Don’t tell me you already brought more annoying spawn into this world.”

Visions of red gushed over Eddie’s scarred, dirty knuckles, but the reality was ripped from him before he explored the sweet relief.

Dying to get your hands on a ghost from his past, you competed for the shirt on Andy's back. Grabbing his shoulder, you tore him from your beloved’s grasp, slinging him backwards on stumbling feet. You didn’t let the fucker catch his footing before you rammed your shoulder into him with all your scrappy might. “You wish you were half as good of a man as he is!” Growled through bared teeth and trembling with malice. “You’ll never compare. You can’t! I feel sorry for everyone you’ve ever met.” Snarled from darker depths than witless gossip about a man you adored, slapping your hands hard on his chest, shoving him. “Get out!” Shove. “Out!” Push. "And if you ever—ever!—bring up Adrie again, I'll fucking.."

His wild eyes searched for Eddie across the room, but you demanded respect.

Harder shove, striking palms where it hurt—making him cough. “Get the fuck out!”

His steps faltered, disoriented by the polarity of the quiet bitch behind the desk being the one to catch him off guard, attacking him before he could gather his dignity and stop. fucking. tripping. “You little—!”

“Out!” You cut a fierce line with your arm, pointing at the streets. “Leave! Out! Now!” Shove.

Scrambling, slipping on the wet tile, the metal corner of the door handle bit his squishy palm, pulling a hiss from gritted teeth. Shove. Point. Bark. He yanked the door open with a slew of words you’d only tolerate from Eddie when he said them in the heat of your bodies joining in sweet passion, and you let him know with a guttural grunt, pushing Andy out and into the parking lot where a puddle of ice water awaited his shoes. Squish, squish, squelch. He found his footing on the cracked pavement, huffing and puffing with haughty swipes at his clothes, dusting them off on the way to his Cadillac.

You followed his retreat with two proud middle fingers, shouting, “Take that ugly hood ornament and shove it up your ass!” When his shoulders squared like he was going to turn around, you yelped and scurried inside, locking the door only to hear him spit on the ground. Gravel crunched afterwards, and you assumed the tire screech was him leaving.

Dry gulp. Pounding heart. Aching wrists. Loud blood rushing everywhere. Vision vibrating from the adrenaline pulsing between your ears. You got your bearings, and turned to Eddie—except, he wasn’t there. No one was in the lobby. No one was in the garage, either. Down the hall there was a sulking shadow cast across the floor, growing smaller as it sat down.

You went towards the breakroom, passing by Mr. Moore’s head peeking out of his office. Creases from a notebook marked his cheek. Groggy and confused, he asked, “You handle whatever that was?”

“I did.”

“Well,” he shrugged. “Good on ya.” He shrank back into the dark room, returning to his nap.

Approaching the round table with caution, you picked the plastic chair next to Eddie and sat gingerly, noiselessly. Hands folded, upper body turned, waiting for him to speak first. And when he didn’t, you prodded. “Are you okay?”

Eddie unlocked his twined thumbs, and dropped a heavy hand on your knee, patting you. “Yeah, I’m okay, baby,” he replied softly. He didn’t pull his gaze from the wall, blinking only when he brought himself out of his ruminations to pat you again. Blank expression, hollow. Legs spread wide, ruling the space while your thighs were tucked tight together, same as any day you’d share lunch while he brainstormed a campaign idea, writing the story in his head and forgetting to hold a conversation with you. But his silence separated you. You needed more from him.

“Do you want a hug?” you asked.

Pat, pat. “Nah, I’m good, I promise,” he said with a bit more sureness lifting his tone.

Staring holes into the side of your boyfriend's face for far longer than it took to lose faith in telepathy, you swallowed through the scratchy rasp taken hold of your throat after yelling at a customer, and guided him, “Can I have a hug?”

“Oh shit, right, sorry!” The cluelessness jumped off of him as he sat up and wrapped his arms around you, scooping you to his chest. Your cheek picked up a healthy amount of dirt when sliding past his, and his headphones smoothed most of his hair from entering your mouth, but as sweaty and filthy the hug was, his crushing hold on you was everything a platonic coworker could ask for after being verbally harassed. A forearm behind the shoulder blades, a kind splay of fingers on the mid-back. Polite. “I’m sorry he yelled at you.”

Arms trapped against his chest, you bunched the collar of his coveralls in your fists, and he hummed into the comfort of your reciprocation, no matter how covert while your boss was one door down.

“S’okay,” you whispered. Nudging towards his ear, you smeared the sweat at his hairline onto your temple in a blessing. “My first job was at a McDonald’s drive thru. I was fourteen. I’m used to men in business suits yelling at me.” Caught between a sympathy snort and cringe, he offered another apology and pulled his face away.

His eyes and smile went soft, losing their strength from a different emotion trickling in. “Should I have decked that guy? Did you want me to do that? Did you want me to stand up for you, and knock ‘im out?”

“And risk you getting an assault charge on your name? Uh, no. I’m more than capable of standing up to a guy who won’t hit back because I’m a woman.”

Nodding against his ego, he took a moment to mull it over, and dropped into a serious tone, “I don’t want it to seem like I was letting him walk all over me, either. Not that long ago I would’ve freezed up. Probably would’ve sat there, taken it, and fixed his car while he watched. Then I would’ve gone home and cried about it because I’d be so fucking mad at myself for not dislocating his jaw. But,” he paused to run his tongue over the back of his teeth, settling the anger he harbored after the years of unapologetic abuse he tolerated.

He exhaled in a two-count, inhaled on three.

Collecting himself, sincerity replaced the animosity. “But since me and you have started hanging out, I can see how wrong he is, and it just—sorta–doesn’t bother me anymore, y’know? Like, I don’t even have to think about it, I know I’m not those things he said.” He strummed his thumb over your shoulder, soothing the lingering fight shivering through your body, invoking care in his words to calm your racing heart, and his. “I kinda lost it when he brought you and Adrie into it, and I’m glad you intervened when you did, before I did something I regretted, but I’m sorry for what he said. Or what he was, ah, implying about you..”

“Wasn’t really an insult, anyway.”

“Hm?”

“You know, as if it’d be a bad thing to be—uh, uh..” Your stomach clenched from the impact of his gaze falling to it. The sentence would never be finished, and it didn’t need to be. Your mindless chatter proved your subconscious thoughts loud and clear. It wouldn’t be an insult to be pregnant with your child.

Panic prickled your nervous system hummingbird fast. Slews of mortification reached your eyes, urging him not to draw conclusions based on something you blurted on the spot, because—because—just—Jesus Christ, man, please move on.

Shifting topics with more tact than his faintly stuttered exhale would suggest, he shook the stiffness from his posture by clearing his throat, and narrowed his eyes in a curious squint. Dropping his head to you, his fingers skimmed the clasp of your bra band through your sweater, and one of his anxieties was stroked into the relationship with a pivotal question, “Can you tell me, are there cameras in here?”

Without looking, you thought of the layout. “No, there’s just the two outside. One facing the entrance, the other facing the intersection. Why—umph?” He stole the concern from your lips.

Crashing mouth on mouth, he moaned at the relief of having you after a shitty day, and you doubled his vigor, dragging him in by his clothes until it hurt. Spine bent, hips to hard plastic, lips smashed against teeth, joints leading to your strained fingertips twisted above his embroidered name tag. You kissed him until it ached, until he was sated, until lungs burned for breath. It was the best change of subject, because when Eddie flirted his bottom lip along yours after you broke for air and his spit mixed with tangy salt on your tongue and gritty earth between your teeth, you wondered if the primal emotion steeped in his heavy-lidded eyes was the result of the same phrase repeating in his head as yours. Knocked up.

“Do you think it’s okay if we kiss like this? As long as we’re alone?”

“Yeah,” you guessed. “I think it’s okay if we’re alone. Not while customers are out there, or in front of the guys. We should be good, if that’s what you want.”

“Yeah,” he repeated. “I’d like that.”

You accepted his forehead against yours, feeling him sag with a tired groan. Exhausted from responsibilities, emotionally drained and succumbing to the crook of your neck, depending on you to rejuvenate him with tiny, smiley pecks at the top of his ear. Poor man.

As usual, you were the bearer of his weight, trusted to hold him up and be the pillar of strength as his arms fell to your hips, hands at the waistband of your jeans, ambitions decidedly pious as his fingertips explored the ridge of a stretchmark on your lower back. “Ed?” You tucked some loving caresses through the hair at the base of his nape, working circles into his oily roots. “I never got to tell you my good news.”

“Oh!” He piped up, coming into focus, face alight with excitement from your giggle.

“Bobbie got the call, and our apartment is ready!”

There was hardly a predictability to how Eddie would react to things. Sometimes sharing stories about your past in New York would earn his disinterest; sometimes he was eager to listen. Talking about the future was the same. Sometimes his gaze drifted faraway when you brought up the potential of your favorite Chinese restaurant closing before you could have the #4 special again, and sometimes he needled you about learning to drive before he finds you and your bike crumpled in a ditch on the side of the road one of these days.

But worry not, the sunshine grin breaking across his lips warmed you in all the right places.

“No shit?” he released in a breathless, excited laugh. “No more living with the Buckley’s, huh?”

“Mhm! No more competition while solving the Wheel of Fortune, but I think I’ll live. Especially if it means having my own bathroom.”

“Nice, nice, nice. And, uh,” he broke off to trace a pattern on your pants, “And, if I may ask because I’m an upstanding gentleman who wants to lend his strength without the expectation of reward, when exactly do you move in?”

“This weekend.”

“Oh,” he flattened. Voice monotone—Oh. Also known as ‘fuck’ or ‘damn.’ “Corroded Coffin has a gig in Indy this weekend. Drive there Saturday morning, come back Sunday around 3, maybe 4AM, if I rush.” He started mumbling to himself, “But, maybe—if Wayne can watch Adrie on Sunday, I could still— Or if she stays where I can see her and doesn’t get in the way, she can come, and I’ll help bring in big furniture, some heavy boxes. Set up your bed for you, the TV, uh, does the place come with a fridge? I could do that too. Make sure all your outlets work. Could hang some stuff up for you, help you decorate.” You sighed in a way where he’d get the hint to shut up.

He frowned. “What?”

“You don’t need to help us, we’ve got it figured out, but I was trying to tell you the news this morning because—” Quick high-pitched beeps from a Buick made your point. Eddie swiveled around to peek down the hall at Robin’s car parked out front, headlights beaming through the windows. You enunciated for effect, “Because we’re going furniture shopping and packing every night this week, so I’ve gotta clock out early, before the stores close.”

A heavy dose of disappointment jaded his hand falling limp over your thigh. “So, not only do we not get to see each other during work this week because I’m buried under cars owned by dickheads who should take pride in servicing their own vehicles, but you can’t stay late, either?” he summarized to your apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry,” you began, grazing your knuckle along the powdery soot lining his jaw like stubble. Incited by more honks, you picked up the pace, and fit his face to your palms, thumbing his cheeks; collecting him, lifting his chin, guiding him to your lips.

Two hums converged, harmonizing. His handsome nose mashed against yours in order to steal kiss after kiss as two people should when huddled in a private room away from their boss. Sympathetic to his cause, you resisted the urgency of the ticking clock, and worked your hips into his hold, swaying all the closer, consuming the dearness of his prayer when your fully clothed body stood between his legs, melting his stress away.

“Should get going,” you mumbled, brushing through his hair with each subsequent glide of his desperate tongue making it harder to leave.

Instead of a honk, a car door shut, and you pictured Robin stalking up to the door with her lips rolled in, gesturing animatedly at her watch.

Your muscles posed to take a step away from Eddie, but he climbed his hands to your waist, refusing to let go. “Wait! Wait!”

“What? What?” you mimicked.

“We didn’t get to talk about what happened over the weekend,” he insisted, and you took pity on him, raising your brows with a caveat grin telling him he should make this quick. “I wanted to say that our date was perfect. Like, amazingly perfect. Not just the, ah, obvious part, but watching movies and making dinner together was special to me. As dumb as it sounds, even washing dishes together was special to me.”

The bare circles on his cheeks where your thumbs wiped the dirt away plumped up from his grin.

“And then the way you took care of Adrie,” fondness rushed in, eclipsing the fatigue in his voice, “baby, you’re beyond perfect for that. I couldn’t have asked for anything better. You got her to stop crying when I couldn’t—Yes, I can hear her knocking—and you did everything just so exactly right, and I’m so fucking grateful for you, and, wait! Before you go,” he begged you, laughing into another lip-smack on your forehead. You backed away until he stood up, face still wedged between your palms, coerced into following you into the hallway so your best friend didn’t think you’d gone missing without a trace. “I’ll try not to do the whole crying-my-eyes-out and then spilling-my-guts-to-you thing every time we’re together.. No promises, though.”

Almost to the door, you continued to walk backwards, advancing him until the last second when you had to let go. You teased him, “If it becomes a habit, I’ll put ice cream on the grocery list, and we can sob it out together at my place like real friends do. Sound good?” Umbrella, purse, chapstick—check. “See you tomorrow, handsome,” you said on your way out. Eddie filled the doorframe, casting a sharp eye around the parking lot while returning your adoring goodbye.

He curled his fingers in a guilty wave at Robin.

She, with her keen nose, bent to sniff at you, and commented overly loudly, “Your sweatshirt smells like Camels.”

————

Tuesday was a strong, steady build in pressure.

Privacy could be had in the public space between buildings where cars passed on either side, puttering at their leisurely pace before slowing to a stop when the intersection lights flipped red. You bounded up to Eddie carrying two waxed paper cups filled with morning energy, beaming brighter than the dawning rays glancing off the brick alleyway. “Hey! Got you a little somethin’.” That, along with the rocks crunching under your shoes, was his only warning before you were forcing a drink into his hand, and slipping your other arm inside his unzipped jacket, squeezing his middle.

He rocked on his footing and laughed, collecting your head to his chest with a firm palm behind your neck. Your bodies swayed together, ear pressed to the source of his voice; his choppy cadence drawn tight from the sudden rise in eagerness to tuck his chin and mash kisses atop your hair. “Hey, sweetheart,” he breathed, tinted with a stutter from surprise. “You got me coffee?” Spinning it in his hand, he read the shop’s logo stamped onto the cardboard sleeve and put the lid to his nose, smelling the steam piping through the hole. “Mmm, a latte. You didn’t have to go and get me something special like that.”

“I wanted to since I was too busy to call you last night,” you apologized. “Thought you could use the extra caffeine, too.”

Bathed in the teasing glow of sun, you lifted your cheek from the thick scent of burnt tobacco baked into his coveralls, and swam to the heady surface of smoke enriching the crisp air. Raising your nose higher, though, there wasn’t a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

Fresh mint followed the thin fog escaping his lips in a visible puff of breath.

Eddie kissed you deep. Wrigley’s Spearmint coated the flavor on his tongue as he dragged it over your bottom lip and across your teeth. The recent ad campaign targeting smokers sponsored his confident lick into your mouth. Lazy and casual, relaxing his arm around your shoulders. Hot coffees tucked to his chest. Pocket below his name tag stuffed with the red and white packaging of foil sticks next to his lighter and Camels, finishing up his morning habit with a clean taste now that he gained certain privileges at work.

“Could definitely do with a pick-me-up from my girl,” he mushed en route to your cheek, pulling away to take the first sip of his coffee and ending with a satisfied mmm.

You vied for his approval. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Another sip, another warm ahh fanning your cheeks. His one-track mind instilled bravery in his hand sliding down from your shoulders to the roundness of your ass, groping your hips flush against the metallic clink of the button snaps closing his jumpsuit, bringing you to him.

Regarding you down the length of his nose, he dipped his smoker’s rasp into something rougher, deeper, resonating from the courage in his chest, “Y’know, I used to worry about making things weird at work if I made a move on you and it wasn’t appreciated–”

“Oh?” you interrupted, pointing above you. “Do you.. Do you not see the flashing sign over my head begging you to ask me out?”

“Hush,” he reprimanded you with a wolfish spank over your back pocket. “What I’m saying is that I’m startin’ to see the perks of workin’ together.” He flicked his eyes up to survey the end of the alley, minding the crawl of traffic passing by. Any Hawkins citizen could turn their head and see you two together; fronts touching in the indecent way coworkers shouldn’t. Stomachs brushing in the intimate way acquaintances wouldn’t. Faces nearing, warmth radiating from his full lips holding steady above your silent plea in the eager way friends might not. Hands taking what they want—smooth and strong alike, improper filth—grabbing in the coarse way sweethearts do.

Eddie’s fingers followed the crease at the bottom of your ass cheek, cupping himself a handful, and drawing you into his nicotine and menthol kiss. You wrung a fistful of the back of his coveralls, using him for weak-kneed stability, yanking until fabric strained against the snap clasps, making gaps to where his shirt showed underneath.

Huddled, coffee cups captured in the embrace, your bodies buzzed drunk on indulgence. 

In the echoey distance, a shutter door rolled open. “Perks gotta wait, I’m afraid,” you moped, falling short of getting swept into the intoxicating trap throbbing between your thighs when he groaned at the heavy chain rattling, locking one door into place before moving onto the next.

He shook his head, sighing in genuine annoyance at the few minutes you had alone, now over. “Guess we’ll have to sneak around if we want to see each other this week.”

“Yeah?” you drew out, thick and sweet like honey, walking your fingers up his chest. “Need me that badly?” you questioned, mawkish and innocent. “Need me to beat up your bullies, and kiss you better?”

Playful spite painted his grin. “Is that too much to ask for? They’re workin’ me to the bone here, babe. I think I deserve a little pick-me-up after replacing a heater core.”

The second service door creaked and clanked at the top of its slot.

“A little pick-me-up, huh?” you repeated, earning a nose-scrunched amusement at the quick peck you offered him. “Like that?”

“Just like that,” he confirmed, already against your mouth for more.

Just like that—

Even footfalls of heavy boots thudded closer.

Giddy kicks of excitement electrified your nerves. The thrill of sneaking around gripped, bound, and knotted your stomach. Eddie, intending to steal one last treat before his fingers and wrists were fatigued from labor, rocked you forward with his strong palm, but he too was spurred by the endorphin rush, hauling your hips in with too much enthusiasm and causing you to discover more than he’d meant to.

Swiftly separating, backs to scratchy brick, the third shutter door dislodged from the dusty ground and began its clattery ascent. Cool, calm, casual. Racing-hearted coworkers.

Hello, Mr. Moore. Fine day, isn’t it? Dotted cloudy sky with plenty of sun, no rain. Yes, I’ll get started on a pot of coffee in just a minute.

Your boss walked away.

You looked at your boyfriend. Waxy to-go cup poised at his puckered lips, eyes nearly closed to mirthful little crescents and twinkling from your collective shared secrets which grew exponentially. Plunging thoughts, yet you kept your gaze high, deciphering his devilish features instead of analyzing the outline below the waistband of his dark gray coveralls leading to his hand was in his pocket, picturing Eddie’s cock in his fist before noon.

Rock hard only from kissing.

He mocked you lightly—teacher’s pet, people pleaser— “Better get goin’, sweetheart.”

Your features arched to the tune of sarcasm on your tongue, asking him a question he refused to answer with anything but a smirk, “Why? Need some alone time?”

————

Wednesday ripened like boozy fruit.

Thick winter layers were shed for lightweight counterparts; canvas jackets shucked after a cup of coffee, breaking free from the hug of warmth before it riled a worse sweat than the impulses caused.

Just like that—

Treats throughout the day in between vintage cars and pretentious clients. Exploring the perks of a stolen peck in the breakroom after Kevin shuffled out. The favor of a massage along the knotted muscles between his shoulder blades when crouched behind an Impala, where you were changing the trash liners at the workbench, and he was counting lug nuts. Silly benefits like you thanking him in a kiss to your palm, blown from behind your desk after he delivered a stack of invoices, to which he mimed catching it and pressing it to his cheek, walking backwards into the garage in a lazy stride, embracing his dopey grin. “Corny,” he said that time. “Shh, baby,” he said another, when his wandering hand landed in a squeeze on your ass, and your squeal of delight peaked higher than he was comfortable with in the hallway outside your boss’ office, spiking hues of cassis wine across his nose.

Innocent snacks. Quick low-risk indulgences.

That’s how it started, anyway.

“Psst,” you got Eddie’s attention as he strolled past the storage closet on his way to the breakroom for his Chef Boyardee lunch. His elbow jutted a big angle from stretching his tricep, looking like Rosie the Riveter in his royal blue coveralls and red bandana on his head.

When his expression remained exceptionally oblivious upon seeing you peeking out of the narrow room housing dusty metal shelves lined with car parts, you snagged him by his grimey sleeve and dragged him inside. With two people crowding the shoebox shaped space, running into the cardboard boxes of windshield wipers you’d yet to put away was inevitable, as was Eddie ducking around the pull string for the single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Your eyes itched and your throat scratched, but with everyone's breaks being staggered to ensure there was someone out in the bay and someone available to answer customer’s questions at all times, your loneliness was agonizing, and his sly smile accentuating his dimple knew it.

“Yeah, sweet stuff?” Already, the lure. The bait of his tone. Dry rasp in his overused voice, hoarse from yelling over the grind of a powertools.

The heavy door crept closed behind him, ajar enough to catch shadows. You backed to the furthest wall. He trailed, brushing his stained fingertips on his hips to rid them of excess motor oil before touching his girl.

But, before he could lift your chin in an overdue kiss, you stopped him dead in his tracks. “Thought you could use a pick-me-up,” you said, breathy and thin, too high-pitched and fluttery to be sultry. Butterflies had been building in your belly since you first had this idea at your desk, erupting into swarmy impatience as the timing never worked out and you couldn’t get him alone without one of the guys noticing, or a customer leaning over to ding the bell next to your pen cup, breaking you from your daydream.

Eddie was still a step away, raising his arm from his side, when a beautiful sight swallowed his pupils whole.

A shiver grasped your middle.

Sweat met cool air, erupting goosebumps along your ribs, tightening your nipples to stiff peaks. The hem of your thin sweater stayed gathered at the top of your chest, hands splayed to keep it in place, helping frame the generic black bra. You didn’t enter the day prepared to show off your lamest lingerie, but Eddie’s stare was glued to the plain dull shine of polyester stretched over cups covering the full range of your goods as if they were worthy of the French term usually relegated to something not designed for comfort.

He wiped his hands more energetically on his chest.

No pet names, no clever remarks crafted to make you melt. No swoony lines, no verbal compliments from his handsome mouth hung on a dumbfounded gape. No thoughts, wit, or brainpower. Everything vanished the moment you took his wrist, and smoothed his palm to your breast.

Suave, he was not. Eddie giggled like a teenager—elated, ecstatic to be touching a pair of boobs as if it were his first time. You pitied him in a chastising snort, hopelessly fallen for his big grin, and helped his other hand. Large palm, calluses dragging on the fabric. Cups too thick and opaque to ogle what was beneath. But he was mesmerized all the same. He fitted the stretch of his fingers across that which you arched into his hold, and ran his thumb over the softness. His knuckles and tendons flexed as he did so, moving under the pressure of your heavy suggestion, sliding his hand down so he cradled the bottom and lifted, giving him more area to explore—

Your inhale came sharp and sweet.

Eddie throbbed.

He checked your reaction, repeated the motion. Found the hard bud under the layer, and trapped it between the edge of his thumb, rocking it to the long side of his index finger. Your body leaned into the feeling, eyebrows drawn, bottom lip pushed out and freshly licked. He learned to do it again. Again. More. Harder. Shimmery praise collected in the corners of your eager eyes, heavy lids and batting lashes forced open to watch the confidence in his movements grow. Faster rubs, heavier pets. Kneading what you gave him. Drawing quick, simple breaths from your pretty mouth as he concentrated on circling his thumbpad around the point of pleasure, using his nail to skim over it, dragging a lurch from your core.

“Eddie.” His name tipped into a moan hummed through your nose.

The stuffy room heightened your fluster. Eddie burned. Furnace body, ember hands stoking your fire. Ends of his bangs coming to a damp point above his brows. Dewy skin beneath his diligent strokes over the polyester cups. The squish. The yearn. The need for cold metal shelves to be pressed into your backside, positioning himself against your front.

“Like it when I do that, baby?” he asked, deep and husky for no other reason than to hear your voice pitch when he pinched your nipples, elusive as they were from the slippery fabric.

You pushed your sweater higher, flaunting your arms closer. The amount of gratification coming from his thumbing was small, but the fun of doing it in a closet while on the clock had you oversensitive. Anticipation swelled your fat tongue, slurring your question with girlish flirt, “S’it a good pick-me-up? D’you feel better?” you asked for no other reason than to feel him grow hard against your hip.

Cement walls deadened outside interference, isolating his hammering heart in its loudest beats, and projecting the low sound stuck in the back of his throat. His deep rumble of, “Yeah, feelin’ better,” was spoken in the hollow between your chests, stomachs meeting during your feathery inhales opposite his resolute ones filling the planes of his pecs with renewed strength to get through the day.

Eddie’s exhaustion illustrated itself in the bags under his eyes; intense wells of purple beneath deep wrinkles you couldn’t begin to solve for him. However, you could stretch up, brush your lips over his, and make the eager noises which fed his ego.

“Makin’ you feel good?” he asked, grounding his pleasure in what he could do for you.

“So good, handsome.”

“Love it when you call me handsome.”

“Yeah?”

He collapsed into you, “Yeah.”

Sly now, your grin broke the kiss. “You still remember how to unhook a bra, handsome? Or has it been too long?” No surprise—he nipped at the bottom lip he adored so much, shutting you up.

His big, tired body lost its strength from cranking tools all morning, but he still managed to impress you with his firm determination laying against your belly, pulsing eager. He circumvented your taunt with fingertips diving to the bottom of the cups and pushing up, drawing tension on the underwire, tightening the band around your ribs. It teetered on the edge of a great reveal, nipples harder than him between your legs. You begged for the release, for your bra to finally crest the whole, and bounce what you had into his waiting palms, where his thumb and index were shaped to tweak another hot moan into his mouth—full lips mashed gently to your desperate whine—unapologetic confidence staring you down. Doing it all with a smile.

The door opened with Carl’s question, “You get those u-joints for me?”

Violent strikes of shame-induced panic shocked you both into action before thinking.

Thank God you still had a hold on your sweater to yank it down in sync with Eddie’s side-step, the dumbass, exposing you because his priorities laid in fleeing. Well, at least he was a redeemable dumbass who used his quick wit Dungeon Master skills to remain with his back turned towards the door, perusing the top shelf for a box of universal joints.

You acted your part. “Oh! Uh, I couldn’t reach them, so I got Eddie to help,” you overexplained, pointing at your taller platonic friend who definitely wasn’t the reason your clothes bunched weirdly over your chest.

“Hm?” Carl looked up from his invoices, just noticing Eddie. “Could’ya get me some washers too?”

“Yep,” you answered for him, hearing the box slide along with the rattle of the steel washers, taking them and handing them off to Carl who grunted out a thank you, double checking his paperwork as he walked away, none the wiser as to why your gaze was sealed on the floor.

Mouth dried of all fluid, yet body drenched in the same embarrassment which reddened your coworker’s face darker than his bandana, you gulped past your heart lodged in your throat, and idled next to Eddie, pretending to tidy up a container of gloves. Really, you straightened out your bra instead, door wide open behind you.

It wasn’t against the rules to date your colleague, but he was uncomfortable with other people knowing about your relationship. Perhaps it was the prying, the questions, the pressure which bothered him most. Or the loss of privacy. All eyes on the single dad who hadn’t been in a serious relationship since a brief stint out of high school, and finding someone now, for him, The Freak of Hawkins, was such a significant event they’d probably congratulate him, therefore crushing the dignity he worked hard to assemble from the crumbs he was left with.

He had more to care about. More to lose. Always, you followed your boyfriend’s lead when it came to his reputation.

“So..”

“S-So,” he answered. “Uhm..”

“Should we.. Do you want to keep doing this?” you hesitated, trying to figure him out. Eddie knew what you were asking, though. It strained against the last set of buttons to his coveralls. The edge with no relief. Sneaking around, copping feels in dusty closets, stealing kisses behind walls, never having enough time to start, nor end something worthwhile to ease the aches left behind. “Maybe we should relax at work until we have a real weekend to ourselves again?”

“Fuck no.” His blunt response raised your eyebrows. “C’mon, babe,” he scoffed, locking onto you with his sloppy puppy grin and playful nudge on your arm. “This work week already fucking sucks, and you’re the only good I get.”

Checking over his shoulder, he sidled closer to you, and lowered his voice, “Yesterday I got to kiss you, and then go home to my kid who ate her chicken and broccoli without a single complaint.” He cut his hands to his chest, palms up, bouncing them in a shrug. “I don’t see any downsides here.” Aside from the prominent downside in your periphery, you agreed. “We’re just havin’ fun, right? Our weekend’s gonna come. These, uh, close encounters of the romantic kind are just to hold us over until then, that’s all.”

Just having fun. Just like that. Perks, pick-me-ups. No downsides here.

After giving him a long look, you nodded. These were just treats to get you both through the tough week. You could resist the temptation of taking it too far, keeping it casual. He could dial it back, and remain level headed about kissing, and a little over the clothes touching. No big deal.

Casual. Dialed back.

Easy.

————

Thursday was hot under the collar.

Coffee sputtered fat drops into the glass carafe, adding steam to the small breakroom, and filling it with the wake-up scent. Sat in a creaky plastic chair was a man sapped of energy, and behind him was his dearest flame. On the clock, technically, but arriving before other employees dared.

“Had to stay late last night to finish a car on time,” he grumbled to you, neck muscles flexing under your fingertips as he lolled his head side to side. “Wish you didn’t have to leave so early.”

You pulled his hair off his shoulders, and stroked your thumbs from his nape to the underside of his jaw in long sweeps over the tense slope, down, massaging the base where his collar began. “I know, baby,” you gentled, “me too, but we found a couch last night, and made sure it was the perfect size and comfort level for cuddling during a movie marathon.” His groan scratched vibrations along the rub, tugging your heartstrings.

“That sounds so good right now.”

Nothing made Eddie feel further away than the graywash walls surrounding you; lights too bright, vending machines droning too loud, stale odor of motor oil stinking too harshly of motor oil. Too everything—grating. His solid shoulders bowed weak from unyielding tasks. Body tired, brain stuck in problem-solving mode, watching cranky customers like a hawk, never getting a break once he got home; making food, washing dishes, cleaning spills, changing laundry, vacuuming dirt, providing entertainment, being the source of a thousand answers, drying tears, saying he’s sorry he can’t find the missing Barbie brush, worrying about everything, forgetting nothing, trying his best, falling short, perceiving himself as inadequate, disregarding himself as worthy of nothing more. Never getting the validation he craved after a long day. Poor man.

You leaned down and loosened the only button on his pinstripe coveralls, below his throat. Slipped the sky blue plastic from its cotton vice, threaded it through the hole in a languid beat, and kept things slow. You crawled your fingers to the sturdy metal zipper—dull gold—and ground the teeth three stretches down his chest, parting the halves to expose his black tee underneath. Your nails scratched the union of his pecs on the way to pull the collar off his neck, earning a comforting sound of approval from him, inspiring your own hum tickling your lips.

Switching from your thumbs to your knuckles, you dipped under his coveralls, and prodded the chain of stiffness on either side of his spine. Cheap poly-cotton grazed your skin. Mmm—His breath hitched, cheeks puffing at the sore knot you encountered, exhaling hard through the pain of your digging. It was so reminiscent of your second date when you were straddling him on his shit replacement for a bed not fit for a grown man, it hurt. You worshiped him between the bones—a small relief you wished to give him, delaying the restless ache growing more visceral every day you didn’t get to hold him for hours. Eddie reciprocated the yearn. He rested his head on your belly, washed curls swaying from his crown, frizzy strands clinging to the static on your blouse; leaning backwards so the meat between his neck and shoulder rolled under your handiwork. Closed eyes, fanning lashes. Mellow sounds of contentment sung through his nose. Beautiful man.

“Feeling better?” you asked, squeezing his traps in hard pinches, collecting his woes and turning them into sighs.

Mhmm, he said.

Perfect, you thought.

Better meant there’s still room for improvement.

In a fluid motion, you bent at the hips, and he leaned his head to the side, accommodating your arms draping around his front. The angle pressed your ass to the wall in an audible glide of your skirt shifting against it. Eddie, so soft and romantic, hiked his shoulders up and beamed hard at the ceiling, squeezing his eyes shut thinking his sweetheart was hugging him. However, you slipped your hands under his uniform, and his sunshine grin faltered.

His pulse quickened at your descent.

“Whatcha doin’, baby?” he asked, tone floating the river of curiosity and suspicion.

You doled kisses where his bangs parted, down to his temple, his eyebrow, sunk in the hollow of his cheek between the hardness of his teeth. You traveled the smooth grain on his jaw—warm notes of nutmeg, cinnamon, and vanilla in your lungs—and wandered over his earlobe, nosing through his long hair to the place you wanted. Lips on sensitive skin. Dangerous.

His throat bobbed at the top of a heartbeat, and his chest sank only to fill with a strong breath. The thin fabric of his tee stretched over the firm muscle laying dormant under a sleek layer of fat. Wheat shafts of hair mid valley brushed against the motion of your hands opening his coveralls further, fingerpads skimming his pebbled nipples; golden zipper sneaking to the top of his stomach, enough room for you to flatten your palms to his pecs, and unwind him. Like a good partner, you massaged the width where you laid your head to rest during a long hug, where you set your ear to listen to the rhythmic thump, where the source of his voice ignited when you asked him a question; thumbs joining to stroke the worthy center.

His black tee framed by the baby blue stripes paved a dark arrow to the kick of his hips tilting upwards as he slouched in the chair.

Excessive flattery laced your tease, “Are you hard?”

“‘Course I’m hard,” he pointed out the obvious. “You’re touching me.”

Not that the swollen length rising from his lap could be anything else, but knowing you caused such a standing ovation after a little bit of back rubbing ran you a mighty temperature.

Wicked thoughts pooled at the bottom of your stomach. The stiff outline influenced your thighs rubbing together, rallying hunger in your eyes. You angled your head, and shifted your focus to the goosebumps surfacing from your sigh fanning the shell of his ear.

Eddie’s neck invigorated your appetite.

You opened your mouth wide and grazed the sharp edge of your teeth over the vulnerable column thrumming with life. His body went rigid—”Oh”—then slack in increments. Again, you scraped lightly over the slope of warmed muscle appreciated by you as a result of the physical price he paid to assume the jobs of many, taking on the responsibility of Carl’s workload to ensure he made it to his son’s wrestling practice on time. Your man deserved the world; he deserved your lips forming a ring over his pulse, he deserved his heartbeat darting against your tongue, he deserved to melt under your attention. Your man deserved to have his little groan stolen when he remembered your mouth’s talent.

Despite the animal way you started, you eased him into the pressure, sucking down on his skin until your open bite filled with delicate flesh. A liquid glottal click preceded the faintest catch in his vocal chords. He secured a palm around your shoulder, heaviness drawing your arm forward, enticing your hand to rove down his chest. Shirt wrinkles collected around your fingertips as you reached the roundness of his stomach, and dipped below his coveralls. The change in environment was instant. Humid, sticky pheromones clung to your skin. Damp body heat trapped tacky warmth to your middle finger dipped to his navel while your knuckles prowled beneath his jumpsuit in visible arches. Edging closer, closer. Nearly there.

You arched your wrist to put strain on the zipper, dragging it with you, almost within reach of what he earned.

Eddie’s hand covered your own. “We shouldn’t, ah,” he cleared his throat, “shouldn’t start something we can’t finish,” he asserted, caught between the confliction crossing his face, and the gravelly tug in his vocal chords. He hooked his forefinger under your pinky and lifted your hand to the outside of his coveralls, where the halves parted below his sternum. “With our luck, someone’ll walk in on us.”

Yesterday’s incident in the closet brought fresh memories to his reddened ears; blotching renewed embarrassment along the pinkish skin where your spit dried. You took this into consideration when opposing, “Doubt anyone would walk in on us in the next thirty seconds.”

He’d deflect your implication with a glare if his eyes weren’t closed in disgust at his own actions.

“Just saying,” you sang, words becoming muffled on the stretch of neck he presented to you with a cant of his head, “we could have fun before anyone shows up.”

Teetering an inappropriate boundary neither of you should indulge, especially not in the storage closet or on your sturdy wood desk, his willpower faltered. “Don't tempt me with that shit when you know it’s a bad idea,” he griped without the balls to make it sound sincere.

You raked your fingers into a fist where they laid, pulling his uniform taut. The coveralls went tight over his lap, stressing deep shadows leading to the concentrated swell down his pants leg; made more obvious when he spread his knees wider, scraping his boots across the floor. Jittery nerves, flexed thighs, torn between crossing a line. Treats, perks, pick-me-ups. Hugging, kissing, touching over your bra. It was a dangerous path to tread. Risky. A million reasons why you shouldn’t.

“Want me to stop?”

“No.” Punctual, quick. Answered hoarsely in the breakroom of your workplace. “Keep going.”

His sentence rumbled in your mouth. Permission vibrated past your teeth, words rolled over your tongue, coating your brain in syrupy sweetness. Keep going. Texture of his stubble, then texture of his skin. Nearly invisible bumps matching the taste buds you licked down the sculpt of his throat, following the moody blue vein to where it disappeared under the ribbed collar of his shirt. You nudged the barrier away, and dropped wet kisses on the hilled muscle. His head fell further into the crook of your arm, offering, making the spot more accessible for you to lap at, cherish. The position was perfect. No better vantage point to stare down your boyfriend’s shuddering chest while you sucked a bruise on his neck, and wrung his coveralls a little tighter.

The shadows defining his lap twitched.

Eddie imposed his fingers between yours, and adjusted his grip several times until the sturdy cotton twill restricted his length flat. Without looking, you knew his nostrils flared when he released a rough exhale afterwards. Being so close, you heard the bubbles in his saliva pop before his mouth constricted on the swallow. You listened to the spit travel, saw his throat bob. Felt the hitch in his whine before he ever sank to the edge of the chair, where his hips would lurch and his clothes would drag along the oversensitive temptation begging for more in a hard throb. A short, delicate, and devastating morsel of what his mouth drooled for.

“Am I making you feel better?”

Through the trance of the powerful initiative rushing his blood south, compounded by the many rules and boundaries he broke of his own accord since he met you, paired with the sultry aid of your husky voice, he nodded. His muscle swayed beneath your teeth. “So much better, baby.”

“Love to hear it, handsome,” you kissed his cheek.

Dots of bright candy apple red bloomed amongst the pink where you marked the destination in the passage from his ear to his ball chain necklace. The metal beads were warm on your loving peck to his keepsake. Returning to the raw span beside it, you nursed the bruise along, sealing your kiss-plumped lips to the afflicted area, and bringing forth stipples of violet. Eddie disciplined his moan in the quiet room; coffee pot full, and vending machines clicking to lower hums; yet his weak noise wrapped you in tangled bedsheets, and unset alarms. Strong arms, and a slow cadence between your legs. Fantasies which were lost in the anguish of professionalism, and busy schedules.

Then, he called you back to reality with another sound. Whinier. Hemmed in his shaky breath, and a fluttered ‘oh’.

You broke the heavy-lidded spell over your eyes and fixed your gaze on the reason his grip on your shoulder cinched.

Eddie rocked his hips, and the outline of his cock strained against his coveralls. The entire definition of his head stretched the fabric as hard as it could at the top of the thrust, and fell to his thigh on the descent. Lines amassed on his forehead as he worked the circle again, starting on a pace which favored his next moan. Low, and slow—finding a steady rhythm, and simmering. Like that, accepting the urge and giving in, fuck the consequences. The spontaneity of you suggesting you give him some relief before the work day began spurred him, and whatever reservations he had about not fooling around while on the clock crumbled. Not that his convictions were ever strong to begin with when it came to you.

Approaching something more desperate with each controlled motion scoring the friction he couldn’t resist, another moan—thick, and hot like warmed maplewood sap—rumbled from his braced chest.

With his eyebrows pinched, and mouth slack, he watched himself get off on nothing but his own determination.

Spit flooded your bottom lip. Your palm needed to be filled. You ached for his smooth skin moving up and down while you fisted his shaft. You strangled his clothes at the thought, and yes, you begged, “Can I?” to which he dropped his head back and groaned a soft ‘fuck’.

“Whatever you want, baby,” he released in a jumble of grateful syllables.

Hanging onto his composure, he reached for the zipper, and the action stirred a phantom taste of his salty release on your tongue. Your body fought tooth and nail to have patience. You distracted yourself by placing fervent kisses in his hair as thanks for the wonderful start to the morning, about to pump Eddie’s cock to the same tempo as your racing heart without an ounce of restraint, when you froze.

A near-mute whoosh of air alerted every nerve in your body.

There was no mistaking the gust of the glass door rushing open, its whispered squeak imperceivable to anyone who didn’t spend an inordinate amount of time sitting beside it. But Eddie heard it. Or, he heard the thudding steps leading the jumpstart in his heart.

He freaked.

In a flurry, Eddie kicked up his hips to zip his jumpsuit to his throat, and you spun around to dig through the fridge while metal chair legs screeched across the tile, scooting in until his upper half was soldered to the rim of the table, and you picked out his favorite creamer.

Hot coffee beat out the smell of Old Spice. The fridge’s condenser fan knocked sense into the lapse of judgment. A booming voice penetrated the ringing pitch of bad decisions rushing loud in your ears.

“Mornin’!” Mr. Moore waited for your response of ‘Good morning’ to drive his Thursday mood, “Y’watch the news last night?” he asked, holding the conversation just inside the breakroom door. “Weather lady said the storm over Springfield is just sittin’ there—y’know, just hangin' over the city churnin' out rain like you wouldn't believe! It’s a strange one; the whole system is avoiding us, but it's what's brought on this heat wave. And just a few days ago we were seein’ our breath! The thunderstorm from the weekend dented my new chicken pen with hail, and now I’m turnin’ on the A/C, but that’s Hawkins for ya.” Sucking his teeth, he muttered to himself, “Cursed town.”

At that, you collected Eddie’s mug from the cabinet, and clinked a spoonful of sugar and Coffee Mate in his mug, stirring through the swirl of piping hot beige.

Mr. Moore continued, “Anyway, we should prob’ly dust off that drum fan, ‘nd set it up before the sun turns the garage into an oven.. You okay, Ed?”

You wiped the steam from your fingers onto your skirt, demonstrating an extraordinary amount of strength in resisting looking at him.

“Yeah, I—yeah, I think those fumes from yesterday got to me.”

“Ah, gotcha,” Mr. Moore replied, familiar with the debilitating headaches mechanics frequently succumbed to. “Take it easy today, will ya? And, uh, could you help me with the fax machine?” You perked up at the change in tone, understanding the question was intended for you. “If you got a minute, I need to send out some of these papers.”

Tapping the spoon, rinsing it, putting it aside, you said, “Sure can,” and your boss took that as his cue to walk into his office. Door open.

You set the perfect cup of coffee on the table, and stalled. Eddie’s fingers trembled over his forehead, laced into a shield and only lowered to the bridge of his nose in order to pierce you with all the glare he could muster; bouncing his knee in such a frenzy it quivered the curl of his bangs over his plum face, and shook the thinness of his scorched cheeks.

“Told you this was a bad idea,” he enunciated, wholly vindicated.

Your lips wore a tingle through their numbness as they thinned into a regretful grin. “I’m sorry.” You passed a kiss over top his head where your hand stroked. When the coal of his eyes continued to scold you through his thick lashes, you gave him another kiss, and spoke in softer earnest, “I really am, Eddie. I didn’t mean to, you know.. yeah.” Balls so deeply blue, they matched his jumpsuit. “Thought we had enough time to finish.”

He grunted.

Under the pressure of both time and guilt, you spun your hands into finger guns at the door, and shuffled backwards from him awkwardly, eyes set on the scuff marks on the floor. “I’ll just—” You were already steps away, about to exit.

“—guess I’ll jack off again.”

“What was that?”

Eddie jerked his head up, eyebrows lifting, realization crossing his glazed over stare. The sentence was meant as a vent of frustration, but not where you could hear it. He couldn’t get redder; in fact, he paled around his mouth a little, licking his lips. “I–uh.” He blinked irregularly through his stutter, finding the words which evaded him, scraping his brain for an explanation while he wrung and crossed his arms in a loose hug over his shoulders, fidgeting. “It, well, it h-hurts if I don’t..”

Corroding into an eye-roll only hidden by the very act of closing your eyes, you informed him, “Yes, I am well aware of the biological phenomenon. You said ‘again’, though. Meaning?”

After a moment of deciding how much information he was willing to divulge, he shrugged into his shoulders, dipping his chin to one side, using his hair to shy behind. “I’ve.. had to jack off before,” he answered, being coy with the topic.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“At work?”

“In the bathroom, yeah.”

“How come?”

His intentional avoidance drew your smile, so mischievous and calling his bluff, cornering the affection in his expression until his sneaky glance from beneath his bangs wove more and more of a story into his sheepishness. “Sometimes you wear stuff I like.”

You pounced. “Oh, yeah?” Interposing yourself between two chairs across from Eddie—ignoring the sound of Mr. Moore’s fist beating on the plastic machine in the other room—you drew circles on the tabletop, and pried, “What kind of stuff? When? Do you mean this week, or, like, before we were even friends?”

“I am not telling you that,” he laughed, he choked, he denied—hard—basically confirming he did wrap his hand around his cock at the thought of you, perhaps at work, perhaps yesterday after the closet incident, perhaps at the start of your employment at David’s Auto Repair when he didn’t know how to process the new receptionist flirting with him and his way of shutting down any feelings before they began was by ridding himself of the urge.

The topic itself was eliminated by his arm swinging outward, conversation not up for discussion.

And you, enjoying the attention that made him fold his hands over his lap, laid your upper half across the table, propping your elbows so there was a gap down your blouse if he so chose to ocularly venture.

Your words mushed from your fists beneath your chin, “Is it the skirts?” You rocked side to side. His crows feet deepened, shoulders shaking from suppressed giggles, refusing the allurement of your shapely sway draped in corporate gray. “Or is it the jeans and hoodie that does it for ya? Really getcha goin’ when I’m dressed down? Hmm?” Your eyebrow waggle dueled with his sealed lips.

“‘M’not tellin’,” he defended, hardly able to speak through his fondness for flattering you; as if praising you were its own reward, reflected upon him as a good man worthy of having his dirty boots tucked beside your front door.

From the hallway, a rackety sound strung together with a cuss and muffled call of your name roused the logical side of your brain, awakening you both from the hormonal haze.

Eddie clicked his tongue. “Best get to work, sweetheart.”

“Why? Need some alone time?”

The weight of the ache between his legs burdened his lack of comeback.

Obliging, because he was right, you stretched across the table and waited for him to meet you halfway. But he didn’t attempt to close the distance. He stayed put, committed to his stubbornness, and forced you to stain the muscles down the backs of your legs in order to reach. Fine, you played into his game. You planted your smirk on his mouth, dousing his smug features with your own.

“I was just thinking,” you lead innocently, “I’ve already packed my closet, but I might find the time to go through the boxes tonight, and pick out my outfit for tomorrow.”

“Babe—” It was an instant beg. Your favorite kind. “Don't you dare,” and he couldn’t even erase the intrigue, the thrill, the excitement of stolen youth in his tone. The sneaking around, the perks, the treats—the boundary you both knew you shouldn't cross, because of worse decorum than him sitting stiffly at a table, ripe with embarrassment. “You can’t do that. Are you even—? Baby?”

“By—e,” you sang on your way out.

————

Friday came with an excessive heat warning.

Footsteps came from behind you, lingering at the door. An arduous breath was spent sighing, but his voice was too playful to shame you, hardly traipsing through his throat to chastise, “You’re something else, you know that?”

Every beat of your heart was emphasized by his step forward, dragging his boots until his body heat warmed your backside. Blissfully unaware, you continued washing the glass carafe in the breakroom sink. Staying diligent in your task wasn’t an admission of guilt; rather, diverting your attention was an act of grace, of benevolence, granting him access to feast on your figure. It was obvious from the moment you arrived his hunger grew insatiable. You walked into the garage exactly as late as you planned, arms loaded with two boxes of freshly fried donuts, and the shine in his sharp-set eyes did not match those of his coworkers springing from their circle around the workbench. No, the to-go orders of dark roast coffees did not feed a smile to his face as it did for Kevin, nor did the waft of sugary glaze excite his mouth into watering like it did for the other men.

Eddie’s cravings were of a different breed.

His expression was hard, then. If you’d just met, you’d think your merry presence pissed him off. Now knowing better, you read the initial shock before he schooled it to an intense stare, steely gaze locking you into a match. You provoked him with a golden sunshine grin. His jaw went slack enough to run his tongue along his inner cheek, calming his rise in blood pressure, nose perking pink and eyes flashing dark and lips twitching to one side.

You excused yourself—“I should clean the coffee maker before I leave those grounds in there all weekend,”—and went to the breakroom. Eddie was hot on your trail. He came in not half a minute later. Probably didn’t even make up an excuse, he just left the circle.

“This is too far, even for you,” he maintained, aching and slow, words brushing over your ear.

Anticipation mounted in the sound of his clothing shifting, leather boots creaking. You expected him to do something sweet—run his knuckle down the small of your back, or thumb at the strap along your shoulder—but instead, you gasped.

Water sloshed in the coffee pot, suds squishing from the squeeze you put on the sponge.

He dived under the hem of your dress. The fabric fit tight on your body, snug to your waist, closing your thighs in a hug. He tugged it over the curve of your ass, exposing your bare cheeks to the chilly room. Bold. Risky. Dirty. Nowhere near the platonic workplace relationship he was trying to front. You twisted to look up at him with wide, thrilled eyes, giddy with the boost of flattery knowing your simple clothing choice drove him wild.

Eddie got a sturdy grip on the counter edge, and eased his weight onto you until you were covered by his magnificence, chest to back. He shaped his palm to your hip, and dug his thumb above the elastic band of your underwear, connecting the need of his hand to the yearn of his mouth. You melted in the pocket of his embrace, greeting him with parted lips, accepting his tongue. Never would you tire of his breath overtaking yours. Spit, spearmint gum, oddly metallic. Smoke break. You break. Morning tangle of you and him when the others were enjoying donuts one glass door away.

Fearless fingertips discovered you without hesitation. Polished callouses swept over and around to the front of your thigh, greeting the warm juncture with a smooth trace of his buffed skin, middle finger following the edge of your cotton panties down the seam, and up. Only an inch or so into the crease where your leg met the thong, back and forth twice along the line, enough to skim your nerves awake, and work you into a sweat for his index hovering over the swell where a single graze would have your knees weak. Taking the touch away, he wrapped his arm around your middle, and drew your hips in.

He pressed fat and heavy along your backside, unashamed.

The kiss ended in a juicy smack, finished by your hum against the coarse grain peppering his jaw. Lips were licked, sparkling eyes gazed into their match. Coming down with a lovesickness, your skin fostered a high fever, woozy bliss clouding your head—dreamy dreamy dreamy.

“You know what this dress does to me, don’t you?”

A grin cracked your face. “I might.” You immersed yourself in the comfort of his firm body draped around you, the raw sensation of your bare skin against his rugged coveralls, and lazed in the same memory as him.

The burgundy pinafore clung to the warmth of his taken smile from that night. So smitten, and fond. A dress made of belly clenching laughter, woven together with threads of brave glances, converging and averting when the strikes of nerves teemed on admitting too much. Cinnamon, nutmeg, grape jelly in the slow cooker meatballs. Freshly shed pine needles, and glitter. Significance baked into every fiber of the dress you wore under a lonely sprig of mistletoe, unkissed.

Never again would he let you go home believing you weren’t a treasure.

“Can’t be wearin’ this around me,” he obsessed, and you giggled at the rich confidence in his voice—a prelude to the depth he was willing to go. “Gonna get me in trouble.”

Using the sink ledge as leverage, you muscled Eddie into standing up straight with you, winning his heart with a doe-some blink. Arching, you swayed your hips on the length catching between your round cheeks, though the position flaunted something else which might entice him in engaging in risky behavior. “I’m not wearing a bra, either,” you said. Your voice was girlish—floaty and high—a bit raspy from your neck being turned to admire the handsome amount of approval twinkling in his dark eyes.

“Yeah?” Eddie moved his Stupid Cupid lips over the very edge of your ear, and rumbled through the words weighing down his chest, “Need me to fuck you that bad, huh?”

Thrums of pleasure lit within you.

You nodded the side of your face against the scratch of his chin—a morning, day, evening, night, dusk, dawn without a shave.

“Need me here?” he asked, slipping his fingers inside your dress. The fabric over your chest struggled to accommodate his circle around your nipple. You sucked in a breath—released in a moan—and grabbed onto his arm for stability, already falling backwards into him. The direct blessing of his prod to the bud was too much. Your toes curled at his pinch. He flicked the tip of his smooth finger pad over it faster. “Yeah? You like that?” You whined a croaky sound, resting your head on his chest, unable to keep your eyes open to admire the way he watched himself do this to you, chin hooked over your shoulder to view his own hand groping his girl beneath his favorite dress.

“Need me somewhere else?” he asked, and your hips began to mimic the circle he stroked as an answer.

With the ease of a man who’d pictured this scenario more times than respectful, Eddie seized the permission. Middle, index; his two thickest, longest, dexterous. Divine, and unholy. At the bottom of your dress bunched over the top of your thighs, he crooked those two fingers under the hem intentionally, while your hand combed through his hair at the suggestion. “Yeah? Want me to touch you there?” There—a base he’d yet to run even when you were alone on your second date. “Need me that bad while we’re at work?”

You verbalized your desire, as weak as it skirted past your sigh, “Please, Eddie.”

One plea, and it was Love Potion No. 9. His lean frame blanketed you, cradled you, collected you to his height, corded muscles gone solid with restraint. Large nose pressed to your ear, including you in the deep draw of validation into his lungs. Hugging you to the pride inflating his firm chest. The full throaty rasp of desire, and being desired, intimate and close. Two fingers ventured under your dress. You twirled his hair, teething your bottom lip in anticipation for the touch. They were shaped to claim his prize locked behind a fine layer, but he teased you first. He curved the breadth of his palm to the stretch of cotton, width of his calloused reach forcing your feet apart, and brushed past your deepest craving to cherish the place he craved.

“Jesus,” he wept.

His fingers glided along the wet patch on your thong, fabric sticking to your wet heat. It slid along you in a sticky lick, and he sank his teeth to the base of your neck, beyond help. A noise tripped in your throat at his simultaneous pinch on your nipple. He was a goner.

In a few circles around your entrance, he had you melting into his arms. A tweak on your nipple gained your fingers at the root of his hair. He squeezed your slick lips together, and your neglected need sang at the stimulation, begging him in a gasp to do it again. He did. He did, he did, again, however many times it took to have your sighs dive into moans.

Two devilish fingers began their journey upwards, intentions set and clear. Smarmy with ego, he goaded, “Let’s see how long it takes you to cu—”

The near-mute whoosh of the glass door was made obvious by the chorus of men’s laughter bouncing in.

Cold fear licked up your spine. You scrambled for the abandoned coffee pot in spectacular fashion, struggling to get hold of its soapy body in the fret of stress induced tunnel vision—but Eddie? Eddie took his time hitching your dress hem where it should be, flattening it to your thighs. The telltale gait of your boss was nearing, and he was in no rush to jolt to the opposite end of the planet away from you. Oh, no. Your boyfriend brushed his hands in methodical sweeps over the fabric, smoothing it to your hips, mirroring the same cadence as the steps which sent you into a panic. He even gave you a hard pat after he was done. Kissed your cheek to seal the deal, only stepping away to peruse the vending machines the moment Mr. Moore rounded the corner.

“Can’t resist havin’ a little sugar in my coffee,” he informed from the hallway, chipper as can be, strutting in while you were rearranging your dumbstruck stare into something pleasant. He swiped three Splenda packets. “We’re ‘boutta start the meeting, by the way.” You nodded at the coffee pot you washed to a shine. Mhm! you replied after an anxious attempt for anything better, tight-lipped, and dodging his prying eyes by enacting a coughing fit into your elbow in the other direction, willing to bolt if he even so much as thought about voicing his concern over your strange behavior.

Ka-shink, ka-shink, ka-shink. Eddie fed quarters into the Pepsi machine. “Be right there,” he announced, jamming one of the rectangular buttons on the side.

Mr. Moore paused for the longest .02 seconds of your life. No amount of money could bait you into turning around. Whatever expression he was making—if he knew what you and Eddie were doing—that was between him and God. Your shoulders were squared, muscles ready to flee in panic, heart racing beyond what it should be capable of. All the while Eddie crouched for his drink clunking to the bottom slot.

“Well,” was your boss’ succinct response on his way out, underscoring the end of his thought.

There should’ve been some relief, but your breath stayed in your lungs, and your hands shook horrendously, smacking the handle for the faucet too hard on accident, shooting the stream out on high. And, of course, the closed coffee pot lid was the perfect shield, sending water everywhere.

You screwed your eyes shut and defended yourself from the onslaught, worrying about your face and dress first, and your wimpy shriek second.

Eddie came to your rescue.

Ever the hero, ever the gentleman, he shut off the water for you. A ‘thank you’ had been earned, but one peek between your lashes had you quirking your brow in question. He was too close. Standing univinted beside you, almost touching, invading your personal space in a show of ownership. Shadows attempted to temper his smirk, but they cut harshly around the devious apples of his flushed cheeks. You opened your mouth to ask why he was looking at you like that, when—

The explanation came in your stolen yelp.

“Ed!”

“Shh,” he taunted, taking charge of his bubbling laughter at your reaction.

Goosebumps erupted down your legs, pebbling harder where he rolled the freshly dispensed can of Mug root beer across the back of your thighs. The chill bit into you, and you bit into your bottom lip. Squirmy noises squeaked from your throat. He reached under your dress and held the soda to your ass cheek, replacing the warmth of his cock with a bitter lesson. A stinging—fucking—cold lesson. He pinned your options between him, his arm, and the countertop. There was no escaping his revenge. You saw no other choice but to cling to his coveralls, let the shiver run its course, and scold him in a failed whisper, “Eddie—!” He loved it. Enjoyed every crinkle of your pathetic glare when you realized why he was doing it.

His length was softening against you. An old technique, rubbing vigorously at his sensitive head until the evidence of his arousal went away without repercussions. And now you were the one all worked up with no release.

Grinning like a menace, his cockiness eclipsed your vision, putting his forehead to yours so his snarky giggle vibrated in your skull. He wrangled you into his embrace, manipulating you with ease. Layers of implied strength snapped your hips forward. Years of unassuming muscle beneath his humble clothes locked you to his body without trouble. Strong arms you recognized the power of when they snatched a man by his tie, seasoned hands equipped for ripping out rusted axle shafts, fingers which threaded elastic string through plastic beads with the same finesse as soldering spliced wires together. They all joined in consecutive evil to slide the can between your round cheeks, down to where your yearning sprung.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You picked up his vocabulary at some point. “I swear, Eddie Munson, if you don’t move that right now.”

“I’m just coolin’ ya off, sweetheart.” He sounded so pleased with himself, the jerk. He also sensed the impending handprint on his cheek, and apologized with a bit of earnest effort, “Sorry.”

Not betraying his newly actualized cavalier attitude towards urgency, he utilized his afternoon drink against your needy core as a way to hike you onto your tiptoes, and bless you with an offensive smirk kissed onto your slanted grimace.

Pussy numbed, he took his root beer away, and moved past you.

“Did you plan this?” you asked, assumed, accused. Mellow in anger, harsh in disbelief. “Is this payback for yesterday?” And the day before that. And the day before that. And maybe the day before that, too.

“Well, yes and no,” he resolved, sorting his explanation while opening the fridge. You crossed your arms, and stuck your hip out. The sensation between your legs was dull and cold. “With our luck, I knew we’d get interrupted before we could finish—and I did intend to give you a taste of your own medicine—but, yeah, uh, then you showed up in that dress, and all my plans went out the window,” his voice tumbled silly with self-deprecation, gestures as big as his eyes. “I was planning on just coming in here, and letting you know how hot you were. Make out with you some, maybe get a lil’ handsy, y’know, make you feel good like you make me feel good. But, uh.. Yeah. Didn’t mean to get carried away like I did.” He prized you in another look over. A damning amount of awe sat in his simper, like he was experiencing his crush flirting with him for the first time all over again. That is, before he hung his head back, and opened his throat to release a hoarse groan at the ceiling.

Eddie held the cold can to his lap, rolling it over the swell, taming the last of his biological drive from showing. “Trust me, baby, I’m chewing through my leash to get to you.”

Too charming. A flustering rush of flattery washed over you—warm, fuzzy, prickly heat of the back of your neck. Your annoyance at him was never genuine, but it certainly wasn’t after watching him speckle his jumpsuit with condensation in effort to resist breaking a code of conduct. Though, you were still strategizing how long it would take with your deft fingers down your underwear in order to rid your own need, and sit at your desk without chewing through the particle board, too.

Reading your mind, he put the soda away, and approached you with two palms on your nape, frigid fingers laced behind your neck and cold thumbs stroking your jaw. He dropped his head to the side, and maintained unblinking eye contact through his slow disapproving shake, resentment festering in his desperate gaze. “If I don’t get a few minutes alone with you today, I’m gonna go insane,” he stated. You believed him. “I’m serious, you better scrape together a few minutes to come kiss me on my smoke break, or else.”

There was no elaboration on what ‘or else’ meant.

“I will,” you promised, weak to his kiss on your forehead.

Figuring you’d both been stalling long enough, he trailed his last goodbyes for the foreseeable future on the line of your cheek bone, your chin, bridge of your nose, corner of your lips. Wherever. He swept his hand into your own, and brought it to his mouth, hiding the beginnings of his smirk in the smooches to your knuckles. “Was the soda thing too much?”

Grinding dullness to his sharp intrigue, you rolled your eyes. “It was kind of hot, I guess,” you forced out in a monotone droll, feigning harder exasperation when his expression squinched too mirthful.

“Don’t you mean cold?”

You soured, distaste in every syllable, “Criminally unfunny.”

“I know you liked that one, sweets,” he shot back, waggling his eyebrows. “Now, let’s get to that meeting before they get any ideas about us, pretty girl.” He finished with a wink, and two giddy-up clicks of his tongue.

“I hate you.”

“That’s too bad, ‘cause I adore you.”

~~~

A few kisses in the alleyway, that’s all either of you asked for. Two minutes alone. Maybe more than three sentences exchanged about matters not pertaining to work. But, no. Even when you escaped the two men at your desk reciting an encyclopedic amount of knowledge about some type of engine you didn’t care about, you were roped into giving directions to the shop over the phone while shuffling through invoices in Mr. Moore’s office. And when Eddie got you pressed against the wall in the storage room, someone yelled for him to help with a rush job, killing the mood. To make matters worse, the grueling week ended with you and Eddie being scheduled on the same lunch slot, but with the approaching deadline for expense sheets being due at the end of the day, you were planning to eat yours at your desk, and avoid the torture of sitting next to him without being able to touch him like you wanted.

You opened the fridge and took out the Buckley special. Yellow squash casserole with a side of Shake ‘n Bake chicken. Eddie’s teal and purple lunch bag contained an extra helping of both. It’d become customary for Robin's mom to cook extra, and pack it away for you to bring for him. His actual lunch was in a paper bag next to it. Big spoiled man.

Speaking of, he was at the sink; sleeves rolled up his wrists, scrubbing himself clean with Fast Orange. Bitter citrus stung your nose as he lathered up his hands, working the pumice into the smudges of grease around his knuckles.

Mr. Moore got your attention without introduction. “I’m taking the wife out to that new Italian restaurant. Should’a asked her if she wanted Italian food, but oh well. We’re swingin’ by the sign shop next to it, and makin’ real sure our logo’s nice and big on that banner for tomorrow.” He accentuated the importance of David’s Auto Repair with high brows, and a canted head. He also managed to pronounce it both Eye-talian, and Uh-talian in the same thought. “Be back in, uhh—hour ‘n a half, maybe?” He swung his keys into his fist on his way out.

The group for lunch would be smaller, then. Maybe you could do your paperwork at the table, and get away with playing footsie with your favorite mechanic. Yipee.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Kevin announced, and you both looked at him over your shoulders. You were sorting the lunches to get the casseroles in the microwave, and Eddie was rubbing an extra squirt of Dawn between his fingers. Exceptionally mundane. “I was so impressed by that coffee this morning, I’m going down to the diner and ordering myself a sandwich and dessert. Prob’ly finish it up with another cup’a coffee after. Gonna make it a whole forty-five minute ordeal,” he sold the significance with several nods.

His immediate disappearance out the lobby door after his statement was strange, but you shrugged at each other, and went back to the lunches and hand washing.

“D’you know where those bottles of wax are?”

You shook your head. Eddie shook his head slower. A heavy thread of tension bred awareness between your two bodies strung taut from pent up urges.

“Weird,” Carl huffed. “I swear I just had ‘em. Well, shit. Can’t finish this car without at least one. I’ll go pick some up at the hardware store. Be back in a few,�� he let you know, voice echoing off the hallway walls on his way to his truck.

Cold, warm, hot. Your blood buzzed. The bell above the front door dinged as it latched closed. Left behind was a lobby empty of people, garage paused in limbo, and a building cast in silence. You turned to Eddie. Dawning comprehension overtook your faces, wide eyes fixed on each other.

“Holy shit,” he exhaled, and you were already shoving your food back in the fridge, smashing his bologna sandwich in the process. Eddie cursed again, “Holy shit!” and snatched the hard bristle brush, scouring the dirt from under his nails, between his fingers, up his arms until the water ran clear and his skin burned pink. The same could be said for the grime on his cheeks. His light blue coveralls were soaked from the water dripping down his neck, but his face was spotless. Only the best for your lips.

“Oh, fuck, Eddie,” came your relief.

He accepted your willowy clutch on his sleeves. “It takes—It takes four minutes to get to the hardware store,” he stuttered in excitement, counting on his fingers behind your back, “so eight minutes roundtrip, factor in another eight for parking, looking for the wax, and checking out. That gives us sixteen minutes!”

Sixteen minutes where? Behind you was a plastic table which wobbled from an uneven foot. In the lobby was your desk in full view of the windows. In the bay were cars neither of you were quite brave enough to chance a stain on a seat.

“Um, um,” Eddie’s quick thinking trembled, about to suggest he take you there on the unforgiving tile floor, when he remembered, “Oh! My van! I brought my van.” He grasped you by the shoulders, shaking passion down to your toes about the hunk of metal parked outside his trailer when you visited. “I brought my van! I brought my van to drop off some amps at Gareth’s before the show!”

Rattled, you went to give him a thumbs up in full agreement, but he grabbed your hand, and bolted. You half-complained, half-shrieked, “You don’t need to drag me!” Reckless youth inspired him, broad grin loud and clear in his unadulterated sprint towards the OPEN sign and flipping it to display CLOSED. You skidded and bumped into him, bodies converging in true laughter. He caught you, he always caught you, and hauled you to the glass door, slowing in a smooth stride to open it for you. Always opening it for you. The garage was baked in sunshine, streaming through the warehouse windows on the bright day. Eddie’s boots clunked loud on the floor. A rock in the alleyway ricocheted off his shoe, bouncing off the tire of your temporary five star hotel.

The covert brown and cream van sat parked amongst the brick, gravel, and curls of dead leaves playing in the gentle breeze. It sat in full view of cars passing on either end of the back street. You hoped they were watching.

He wrenched one half of the creaky back doors open, and ushered you in the hollow between him and the carpeted floor, engulfing your face with his citrusy palms. “Don’t wanna waste a second,” he asserted in a winded breath, blurring your mind with a heady kiss, and impatient pat on your backside.

Rocks crunched under his boots. Two sturdy hands cupped the back of your thighs, helping you hop up onto the back of his van in a thrill of flirty giggles, weak for how bad he wanted you. Your calves slid against the warm metal bumper, your feet dangled by the exhaust pipe, your knees trapped his hips between your legs. His thick fingers sank into your fat, thumbs particularly bruising. Being everything he wanted, you snagged him closer by the collar, mouths almost meeting, and tilted yourself on the outline straining his coveralls, looking into his big brown eyes with a plea when the lone impact sweltered under your skin.

He hiked your knee to his waist, exposing you more to his packed heat aching to see you again. “C’mon,” he said, lips loaded with devilishness, “can’t stand to spend another second out here where I can’t have you.”

Anyone cruising by could bear witness to Hawkins’ number one Satanist loading a pretty young thing in the back of his ice cream sandwich colored van, and make assumptions.

Bless them.

You scooted backwards into the belly of the dragon’s lair. For an old beater used for transporting band equipment, he took good care of it. The carpet was clean. The wood paneling up the sides remained unscuffed. The back seat was taken out to make room for a hard case for a guitar, and two large amps wrapped in a spare comforter to prevent damage on either. And that’s where your observations ended.

Eddie’s indecent gaze was set on the stretch of white cotton under your dress. Nothing could break his stare as he threw his hair in a low bun, grabbed either side of the metal doorframe, stepped one foot on the edge, and bounced the van twice before hauling himself—and his manic smile—inside.

The acoustics amplified the door slamming shut.

His boots made for two heavy lovedrunk steps. Bruises were earned on his knees, dropping to them where your hem had ridden up, keen eyes traveling the valley between your thighs, up to the soft round of your nipples. Expecting his imminent weight, you laid back. Heat from the floor warmed you through your clothes. He crawled over you; one hand by your hip, the other next to your shoulder. You were lying beneath him for the first time, and he behaved long enough to memorize your gentle grin, and adoring squint.

“Oh, you’re gonna be the end of me,” he said, accent thick in his throat, ripe with lust. The gravel alone had your hands on the back of his neck, attempting to pull him down, to continue the momentum. But he didn’t budge. Distant in the blood rush, he found a bit of sobriety to ask, “D’ya mind if I get you dirty? I’m kinda gross.” His coveralls were marked with grime, dusted with dirt, splotched with oil. The overt blue collar status of his job opposed the unblemished burgundy and stark white tee of yours, sitting at a desk and answering phones in semi-working A/C.

You admired the mental fortitude it took to ask you first, but now was not the time to be a gentleman.

“So get me gross,” you replied, and a flicker of revelation stirred in his features. “I want to be gross with you.” You, Munson, The Freak of Hawkins, the one who everyone avoided; he who was rejected for being unapologetically himself. Taking advantage of his solid shoulders, you peeled yourself off the floor, and from the depths of belonging, you set fire to his kindling. “Make me fucking dirty.”

Eddie’s mouth pursed, then stretched thin, cheeks high, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “My pleasure.”

Plush lips crashed onto yours, body covering you in desperation, touch starved. His weight hugged you, pinned you. He flattened his arm alongside your head for support, and welcomed your legs bent around the length of his backside. Playfully suggestive hums followed his greedy hand scaling your thigh. Short layers of his hair fell forward, tickling your cheeks in summer innocence, while down below his thumb grazed the narrow string of your thong strapped over your hip in a fraction of the hunger he had for you. One trace under your panties, and the kiss went sloppy with tongue; slick mouths mashing, teeth knocking, jaws aching, and lips swollen. Aggressive, possessive, and dizzy. Your dress bunched around your waist. Rugged fabric rasped where your chests met. Smears of grime, dust, oil dirtied you.

Because the clock was ticking, you sped things up with a squeeze around his ass. Eddie listened. Oh, Eddie listened. He took the thrust in stride, pressing down on your need, and catching your forehead with his. The pain was negligible. A gift, even, to hold your gaze when you clawed for the waist of his coveralls, and harnessed a hotter tension on your underwear. A concentrated craze blunted by the thick layers separating you. You lifted your hips for him, spurring more, faster, pouring your strength into earning a faint squeak on the van’s suspension.

He nosed your chin up, and slipped painful kisses over your jaw, finding the spot below your ear to laud, like you did to him, sucking and releasing when your whine doubled. “Pretty,” he moaned into a harder kiss along the trail of spit his breath cooled. The edge of his teeth scraped another fragile gasp. He rocked his hips for a better one. “Love the way you sound.”

Grasping for clarity in the haze, you reminded him, “Just for you.”

“Fuck” —his voice cracked in the sprint to recover what those three little words did to him— “that’s fuckin’ right just for me.”

Copying what you did in the breakroom, he brought his hand up from your waist to move your shirt out of the way, exposing the meat at the base of your neck. Too excited, he left a map of his teeth. The bite stung your nails into his back. “Sorry,” he regretted, but you denied your pained gulp of air, rubbing your cheek along his temple in a head shake, S’okay. He ran his tongue over the grooves as an apology, anyway. Tracking the dips and curves, licking, suckling, and nipping however hard he could to make you scratch circles on his scalp while struggling with the two syllables of his name.

His hair smelled of fertile soil and charred earth, a tang of metal and new tires.

You gave yourself over to the garden of his scent, sunshine against your eyelids. Beyond the fatigue in your inner thighs was his constant, eager, chase. Chewing through his leash. Gnawing at his restraints. You focused on the long graze of friction, and forgot your surroundings which did not serve the fleeting jolts of pleasure between your legs, or the groping at your tits. You didn’t know there was an issue until Eddie’s frustrated grunt led to a harder tug at the unforgiving neckline of your dress, and finally, he shoved himself upright.

“How the hell do I get this off you?”

That explains why he was grabbing at both sides beneath your arms in search of a zipper.

Blinking, suddenly coming back to Earth, you contained your snort at his distressed motioning at the offensive garment enough to tell him, “It’s in the back,” and added, “like most dresses made in the last two, or three decades.”

He beckoned for you to sit up—a sharp gesture, but not without reason—and with your arms around his neck, he unzipped it with such speed, the plastic teeth should’ve melted from the traction. As he lowered you, the straps slipped from your shoulders, thick fingers inviting the release down to your elbows, breadwinner fists folding the top of the dress over on itself, joining where the bottom was scrunched around your middle. You’d only shaken the straps from your wrists when your body rocked side to side; a victim to his fumbling way of untucking your shirt, dying from suspense.

Stale air struck you from navel to neck.

His warm tongue was on you. “Oh—mm!” your voice raised a girlish notch. Two fat laps into coaxing your nipple tall, and fresh embarrassment ramped up your cheeks from the choked noise you made. You arched into his mouth for more, seeking foundation on his hands when an accidental skim of his teeth piqued your nerves alight. Rolling your head back, you found him through touch, starting with his wrists, working up to his knuckles, and curved squeeze cupping your tits together. He showed you how his mouth watered at the sight. Switching sides, he gifted the other stiff bud with a wet swirl, slipping over it again and again, gaining a squirm in your hips when he changed the speed—and without a break, he went back to the first to suckle, and his unintentional moan slipped out louder than yours when he pulled off.

He released a ragged breath into the valley between your breasts, “Couldn’t help myself.”

His determination throbbed impressions along your body even after he sat on his knees, leaving aches behind as a result of the sixteen short minutes he had with you. The adrenaline stayed in his shaky fingers. The top button of his coveralls dodged his pinch, eluding him. Another attempt, and a darker shade of red crept up his throat. “God fucking damnit, why’d I wear the ones that fucking button all the way down,” he fumed, wishing he could rip it open like the metal snap pair. You peered at his predicament through your lashes, and helped him out.

You tucked your chin to your shoulder in a pout, and competed for his attention, “Hurry up.”

“I know, sweet—” he verbally hit the brakes.

All too pretty, you pushed your tits together and strummed your fingers over your nipples in easy flicks, using his spit to skate over the peaks. You opened your legs wider, feeling his eyes devour you between the thighs. “I’ve missed you all week,” you said. His pulse jumped at the tiny excuse for underwear wedged further into the split, trimmed hair growing on either side.

Too long of a pause passed where his expression was slack. “Jesus Christ.” Working faster, he tore through the rest of the buttons, possibly losing one in the process, and shucked the jumpsuit over his shoulders. He flapped his arms to get the sleeves off, and his stark black tattoos made an appearance. The clumsy way he undressed shouldn’t have an affect on you, but when he took hold of the stuck cuff and the plastic beads clicked together on his bracelet, fresh roots of attraction thrived. Underneath his workwear a white ribbed tank top stretched over his chest. It must’ve been bought long ago when he was a size smaller, the bulk he’d packed on at the garage filled out the seams to their limit. Soft definition contoured the sun around his muscles. Veins strained the surface of his forearms, streaking shadows through the golden rays. Sparse curls fanned over the top of the neckline, thicker under his arms, and dark where his shirt rode up.

The jumpsuit hung loose around his hips, giving a peek at his boxers.

“You don’t wear jeans under those?”

“No? Did you think I did?”

The thought never crossed your mind until it was the only thing on your mind. You just assumed he would, so you shrugged, thinking of quickies in the future.

Eddie’s tolerance for conversation was low. A shuddered exhale blew past his lips, easing his hand down the front of his coveralls, pumping along the length fighting for his attention while he obsessed with what laid before him. Irresistible temptations which would forever change the way he looked at you were created the moment you touched yourself for him. Two fingers, two little circles over your underwear. You lured him, hypnotized him, sighing sweetly at the satisfaction. His bicep jumped in strength to restrain his pace, forearm pulsing from the choke he had on his base.

“Better calm down,” you teased in a slow lilt.

He scoffed—shallow in mockery, but burdened by the truth of the lines softening around his eyes. Shoving his coveralls low enough for his ego to stretch freely against his boxers, he walked his hands beside your body until his mouth was posed above yours. A suggestion of touch hovered over your knuckles rolling in a rhythm to honor yourself. “I haven’t known calm since I met you.” Your face scrunched cutely at the compliment, and you stopped adding fuel to your fire by bringing both arms around his neck, preparing your lips for a kiss which would not come. “I haven’t known calm since I met you,” he repeated. “So why start now?”

Unexpected pleasure consumed you. Eddie rocked his hips forward, and the raw glide of his cock with the thinnest separation of fabric possible stole anything that wasn’t animal instinct. You locked your ankles behind his thighs, drove the thrust deeper, and he answered by grinding down, working his base between your lips, loyal to you and the sweat beading on his brow.

You wrenched his tank top in your fists and felt it go tight where your chests merged, grazing over your nipples harsher with each rut. His shoulders shifted under your curious roaming, bulk of his body withdrawing. He didn’t stray far, only to tuck his forehead to your neck where he could hear the catch in your throat and the beat of your heart. Cozying to a place so near, you heard his guitar pick schlink past the beads of his necklace. Adjusting, he slipped into a deeper position between your legs, and a kiss was dipped to the top of your collarbone, long lashes brushing your skin as his eyes fell closed.

Cradled as one, Eddie dragged his cock down your heat, and followed the new angle up. Pitiful begs broke faster than his jagged groan. His fat tip notched itself at the top of your tender lips, nestled where your thong gathered, and he kept you on the precipice of your moan—of which you crashed into splendidly.

“That’s—god, Eddie, right there,” you babbled into a whimper.

“Fuck, such a pretty sound, baby,” his voice faltered on the endearment, panting hot and sticky on your throat.

The damp spot on his boxers grew. His unrelenting strokes over your clit fast-tracked you both towards the edge.

“Did you—condoms?”

Perking with interest at your hitched whisper, his stubble scrubbed your jaw in a delight of scratches on his way to nose at your cheek. “Picked ‘em up on my way home last night.” The suggestive rasp in his voice took residence in your rib cage, smitten by the thought of him going through a checkout so he was prepared to fuck you the next day. “They’re in the.. the..”

The rate at which his soul left his body would surprise grim reapers.

“Where’re they?”

Understanding your concern, he kept his eyes screwed shut and whittled at the knot between his brows with his knuckle, drilling away the irritation at himself. “They’re in the glove compartment.. of my car.”

“Oh.” The disappointment was brief. Your body clung to the fever he set, knowing you were both close, and paradise was another weekend away. Thinking quickly, you cupped his cheeks and put a swing in your tone, “We can do other stuff!” Hoping it was good enough, you scrutinized his expression, watching the words register, sink in, brighten his pupils into unholy territory at the idea.

The charm of his dimple was the cherry on top of his two front teeth emerging from the leap of his lips. Earnesty from a thousand endless wells poured out of him, “I love other stuff,” he said, imbuing each round word with a secret.

Jumping up, his enthusiasm was hampered by the roof. “Close call,” he commented to himself, narrowly dodging a concussion. He crouched to some degree, and made his way over to the amps, hiking up his coveralls to his hips as he went. The sheer lust in his weight pressing you to the floor was sorely missed, but you sat up to watch him waddle the amps to the center of the van and tip them, guiding their front plates down flat.

You puzzled out why he would line them up like a short mattress, and began salivating at the thought of him sitting on the additional height, and having his cock better in line with your mouth. “Are those for you?” Eagerness lifted your voice, swam in your glossy eyes. Eddie should be thanking the stars he landed someone so enthusiastic about drinking him whole after putting in hours around the shop, but instead of getting his brain-stopped-working glazed over stare, he slapped the amps twice.

“These are for you, pretty girl. Come sit down. I gotta thank you, remember?”

A memory of torn nylon and unfulfilled promises sparked at his phrasing.

Gotta thank you.

Getting to your feet, you arranged your arms for a bit of modesty, and snuck past the back windows, walking on shaky legs to where he kneeled at one end of the makeshift bed. Pure affection spotlighted you as the sole receiver of his enraptured smile, face aglow. He squeezed the tips of your fingers as you sat, and his lips were the softest thing to grace your cheek. It was the sweetest you’d seen him, especially when he anchored his palms to your hips, and his nerves crept in.

“Just, uh, tell me—or, let me know if I’m doing something you don’t like, okay?”

You tittered, “Okay,” as if you weren’t on the brink of unraveling regardless of skill, or even effort.

Putting faith in the durability of the hard shell encased amps, you leaned back on your hands, lowering to your elbows on the texture plastic, relaxing through the suspense of being on display for someone for the first time—and in broad daylight, too. Dim bedside lamps and flattering angles could obscure much, but why hide anything when your boyfriend spent the better part of his week biting at the cage of adult responsibilities keeping him from you? He’s the one who hid the new order of car wax for an excuse to fuck you sloppy in the back of his van. You basked in his reaction.

Eddie’s hands wandered the curves spread on the pedestal before him. One palm cupped your chest where his spit dried to a sheen, teasing your nipple lightly; juxtaposed, the other shaped itself over your waist and hips, clamping on your knee and smoothing his muzzled grip up your thigh. They joined to ruck the hem of your dress higher. But before the reveal, he bent over the slope of your body to cherish the glitters of sweat sparkling across your sternum. The minutes working against your escapade were unforgiving, but he chose to dedicate a few moments to your natural salt as he hooked his fingers under the stretch of your underwear. The cotton stuck to the praise he’d given you thus far, damp and tight, a work of art. Moving them aside, he stayed kissing the curve of your belly.

Intense, hot-blooded throbs of desperation concentrated on the immediate relief of your wet heat being exposed for appreciating. Fingertips caressed into a curl for his knuckles to adore your puffy lips plumped together, tracing up the other side with his thumb, and cresting the short curls at the top. A tortured lurch in your hips followed his touch when he took it away. Not a strong enough man to deprive his girl for long, he allayed you in kiss down your antsy chase, and sat back on his calves, landing his gaze where his fantasies only imagined.

He didn’t do anything for a few seconds.

Sunlight streamed from the window over his shoulder, shining radiance on the glisten made for him.

His lungs emptied in a thin, wispy breath.

Manners vanished when it came to a starving man. Your excited gasp lapsed into a spell of stunned giggles, which shot into an open-mouthed ah! No composure to spare, he dove in, shouldering one of your legs and hooking an arm around to pry your thong out of his way. Fat tongue, longer than you knew, buried between your lips. Insistent mouth framed by your pussy. Jaw slack to lap up his reward. He leaned his entire being into licking inside you, and dragging upwards, mixing your arousal with his spit and swirling it in a heavy circle. A single direct graze, and your chest rose and fell in stuttered bursts, shaking through the beginning of a sweet whimper. A light suckle from him pulling off to swallow the taste, and escaping your throat was a noise capable of convincing him God was real.

Attentive eyes connected over your mound. Big, brown, and pleased. Pupils inundated by curiosity, yet abundantly aware. Respecting you to the highest degree, he edged his fixation, surrounding your swollen clit with his full lips to feel you throb through the contact. “Eddie—” Your nipples hardened through the helpless pant of his name at the first true suction. Increasingly mesmerized by the response he earned when he added pressure, he stamped his tongue to his top lip and dropped it to his bottom, adding the sort of strokes that had your hand in his hair. “Eddie, you’re gonna make me cum so fast,” you rushed out. The shame in your whisper felt less like shame and more like a compliment when you held the back of his head, and tilted yourself in offering.

In one solid action, you were yanked to the edge of the amp by his grip twisting around your dress, and he looped his arms around your hips to hug you closer still, sealing your gift to his mouth. Muffled whines of gratitude came from his throat, so thankful for the opportunity, eyelashes batting heavily at the privilege of your inner thighs squishing his cheeks. Too beautiful. Could watch it for hours if you had the time.

You stretched out on your five star hotel bed, and closed your eyes, focusing on the articulation of his tongue against your need.

Steady licks devolved into wet kisses sucked between your lips. Pleasure bloomed from the place he persisted, weaving warmth from your stomach to your fingers in his loose curls. You swept his bangs from the beads of sweat plastering them to his forehead, raking them back with your fingernails on his scalp, luxuriating in the connection of your honeyed caress and his moan rumbling against your core.  “Feels so—so fucking good,” you gushed.

The weight of one of his arms let up. Smooth calluses swept to your knee, rubbing the spanse of your thigh before shaking a handful of your fat, and leaving a sting of his handprint behind. Your body rocked from him shifting under your legs. Bumpy actions led to his mouth withdrawing, and the sounds of him making out with your cunt were replaced by your heartbeat hammering in your ears. He sat up to his knees briefly, and came back to tend to you in a distracted rhythm, clothes rustling in the process. A question formed in your head, but before you could ask it, he latched his pout around your clit, and worked you into a frenzy.

Pressure prodded at your entrance. One finger glided in without trouble. He fucked you with two, then. Two crooked inside, knuckles shoved against the hypersensitive skin running slick with arousal. He strove for a response until your heels dug into his back, and he knew the sensations were linked—inside and out, mouth and fingers.

Then he took his hand away.

You were left feeling empty when there was nothing to clench around, but his devotion didn’t waver. Your muscles twitched at each immaculate lick, thighs closing in on him, too close to care about whatever else he was doing. You concentrated on yourself, arching into your hands, spoiling yourself with fluttery traces over your nipples, rolling the buds in light pinches at the enthusiasm he had for savoring you. The constant vibrations of satisfaction he hummed on your pussy were enough to have you dripping, and when his big fingers stretched you open again, pumping you full in a few thrusts along the base of nerves which burned your cheeks, the van echoed every indecent soppy smack.

And again, there was a sensation of him curving his fingers deeper than normal before his shoulder dropped, and viscous yearning flowed after the emptiness.

A repetitive soft thumping noise blended to the back of your consciousness.

Eddie committed his sense of self to making you cum. Learning the unambiguous signs of your release, and being the reason they manifested, became his purpose. Sucking ceaselessly, investing the curve of his lips, his agile tongue, his entire mouth to heed the steady motion. Fingers still coated in sticky lewdness, they returned to fuck you too. Your deep breaths turned shallow, stomach seizing on moans and releasing them in trembling gasps. Waves on waves on waves of bliss crested under your hot skin, and your voice went too tight in your throat to not drive him crazy, “Eddie, I’m gonna—!”

Groans in the lower octave of a man enjoying himself shaped your release crashing over you.

The intimacy of his tongue on your oversensitive clit was incomparable, sending you into shamelessly grinding on his mouth, huffing out tiny whimpers as your muscles braced around him. Tighter, and tighter, until the tension became too much, and you were shivering for his mercy, riding the last jolts of your climax snug against his nose. “Please,” you squirmed for less, then when he gave you less, your ankles locked behind his back through the torture of a few more.

Doses of euphoria swam in your veins. Sinking from your high, heaviness blanketed your limbs. Bonelessness seeped from top to bottom. Tingly warmth took over, relaxing you to a state of clarity, flourishing in the scratch of Eddie’s five o’clock shadow on your inner thighs. He let go of your underwear, issuing an apology for where the material cut into your skin with a gentle roam over your hip as both hands left you.

The bend where the underside of your knees draped his shoulders bounced at an impressive speed.

You peered over your curves to sate your curiosities. Eddie’s temple rested on your leg, bangs askew and hair a mess of frizz and curls stuck to the sheen on his neck. He’d yet to move from his position, laying his head where he could, face angled to admire his work, eyes heavy-lidded past the point of inebriation. Ambient sun decorated the glisten around his mouth. A gleam of drool wet his red lips, flushed darker than his cheeks, which he pressed into a slow swallow over your tender cunt.

His exhale cooled the wetness before his tongue warmed it up.

A sharp hiss jumped into a whine of his name. “S’too much,” you strained. A wrecked man, Eddie couldn’t hear you through the pride you afforded him, flirting delicate kisses on your overworked clit, surrendering to the hold you had over him, and reveling in the aftermath of making you cum. Gradually going limp, his nose mashed to your mound, mouth hung open, pushing your orgasm in lazy laps. Another cry, beg, aftershock of his name and the burden of his forehead fell to your hip crease, filling his lungs in uneven drags. The break in sensory overload was appreciated; a sigh of relief.

You sat up and dropped your legs from their mantle, intent on clearing the fuzz from your mind, but—Eddie’s elbow rubbed a fierce tempo along your calf. The motion synced with the fast-paced squelch you heard earlier, before it faded to the background along with the soft thump and rustle of clothes. All of it came together in an echo of answers. Straightening up further, you witnessed exactly how worked up he was over your pussy.

Speechless awe overrode your ability to form sentences 

In the gap framed by your thighs, his body shuddered through the fervent strokes focused over his lap. With his coveralls slacked to the tops of his thighs, he cupped his balls over the waistband of his boxers, skin bouncing in his palm, soft grip protecting their load while his other hand worked his length. Clear slick trickled over his knuckles, fingers slipping over the cream gathered at the head and guiding it down. Absolutely candid in his attraction, he fucked his fist using your arousal as lube.

In just a few twists over the blushy needy tip, he pumped the base in effort to make himself last, and peeled his sticky cheek off your thigh, looking up at you. Whiskey eyes awfully honest, awfully clear and round, he said, “You’re about to make me cum so hard.” In the vocal pause, the wet glide of his palm drove him to the edge, and his tone grew pointed as he went beyond the point of slowing down, “Like, now.”

The reason behind his direness took a moment to register, but when it did, panic flickered through you.

“Oh—shit—uh,” you stuttered. He needed a place to cum, and in your post-orgasmic daze you dropped your chin to think of your tits first, but had the wherewithal to decide against the possibility of him misaiming onto your dress. Beside you, the blanket was mostly stuck under the amps, and there wasn’t an extra rag in sight. His tank top was an option, but you thought of a better one. “My mouth!” you insisted with a gesture. “I’ll—” swallow.

Eddie was already to his feet. The van rocked with his heavy boots, wide stance stretching his coveralls tight around his legs, and undershirt pushed up out of the way. He braced one hand on the roof, cushioning his head bent to the metal in order to stand, and resumed his pace. You stuck your tongue out. The immediate pressure of his cock prodded the flat middle. Tasting yourself for the first time, the tang was surprising, but welcomed by the familiar salt leaking from his tip mixing with your spit. Warming up to the blend, you swirled sultry licks on the sensitive underside he avoided, and his tattooed stomach clenched.

Sitting pretty, you knew what he liked and cupped your tits together, gazing up at him with a submissive pinch between your brows. “So goddamn hot,” he grunted out, jaw clenched as if he were mad, stroking himself faster. His middle finger rammed over your lip on every pass. It might swell. It might bruise. “So—mmm—f’king hot.” Breaths jagged, his thighs flexed from the buckle in his knees, staggering him a step forward enough to put tension on your gag reflex. You clutched his jumpsuit into your fists. His rough groans shook through his stature. Building cusps of his release stuttered his hand flying over his cock, jerking himself off in bursts as pleasure peaked under his skin. The scrunch of concentration above his nose deepened. His stomach tightened in pulses, pecs jumping with his gasp, “Gonna,” and he was spilling into your mouth.

A moan made its way through your throat before it closed in a quick swallow. Tongue out, he trembled as he coated you some more. The first two shots were heavy, the rest followed suit, filling you for another round which you accepted with your lips snug around his fat tip. He doubled over at the achy raw sensation of your cheeks hollowing. Baby, he throbbed into you, flinching, yet giving. Allowed, you polished swirls over the throbbing head, lapping up any remains. You sat there with his clean cock in your mouth, meditating on the line drawn from the tattooed dragon wrapped around the sword pointing at the trail from his navel to the thick patch of curls at his base, which you could only reach when he was going soft, as he was then.

He tucked himself into his boxers after you pulled away, and sank to his knees. The sweat on his forehead merged with yours, oily noses pressed together, eyes hardly open as he trusted you to hold him up. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” his voice came hoarse with sincerity, anchored by the current of true longing flowing from the depths of his past. “How much it means to me, making you feel good like you make me feel good.” For Eddie, having proof of the good he could provide for you validated parts of himself he hadn't acknowledged for years. “Sorry I made it about myself in the end there. I, uh—ha—I couldn’t help myself when you were getting into it, and saying my name, ‘nd stuff.” Your bark of laughter encouraged his shy giggle, all bashful and humble.

Kissing his smile, your lips connected on the fated scents of each other after a hot and heavy day at work, and he sighed into palms fitting themselves to his jaw, mouth fixed in a taut smile as he worked through the happiness welling in his throat.

You told him, “Make me cum like that, and you can do whatever you want, Munson.” He snorted at his name, and played with strands of hair over his face, hiding his stupid grin. “I’m serious. Not that I thought you’d be bad or anything, but that was beyond good. Like, really good.” You should stop talking. “And it was flattering. Like, hot. It was really hot,” you decided, “knowing you couldn’t stop touching yourself—”

“Stop,” he complained in an embarrassed whine. Unable to take praise outside the heat of the moment, his gaze made friends with the floor while he mumbled about how he was a motivated learner and pulled out all his tricks to impress you, tucking his chin to avoid owning his skill. He dropped the act on a dime. Pointing, an overabundance of pride entered his tone once more, “You, uhm.. you christened my amp.”

“Huh?” You spread your legs to see. Utter mortification stung your nerves at the sticky stream of arousal, spit, and climax drying down the side of the plastic, wetting his piece of expensive equipment. “Oh god, I’m so sorry! Is it okay? Did I damage it—?”

“I got it,” he said with a firm hand to your sternum, laying you flat.

The low rumble in his throat drew near. Staying gentle, he parted your slippery split in a deep lick to your inner heat, running his tongue in broad strokes up the extra passion made just for him, quenching his thirst before your lunch break rendezvous was over. An appreciative kiss was bestowed on your clit before he smoothed your underwear into place. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and helped you up. The amp was left how it was.

Eddie opened his arms, and you understood. Moving slow through the syrup in your limbs, you straddled his lap, settling yourself over his softened cock, sensitive selves brushing through clothes. He reached behind him and popped open the door. Fresh air smacked rivers of sweat, cooling and calming. You melted into the other’s embrace, bonding in the last moments of your time together.

Sun glanced off the wood paneling, casting a glow on his puffy face. Sleepy eyes, messy hair, unbearably adorable grin—the type of candid expression showing how honored he was to share the same breath in the limited space between your chests. Lovesick eyes, bed head, face he’d have to wash in the bathroom sink with hand soap. So handsome. You combed the delicate hairs at his nape up into his bun, scratching tingles through his body. The threat of being caught was ignored for one minute longer.

Traces of humor rounded his clipt tone, “I need you next weekend. ‘Kay? I don’t care what we gotta do—if we gotta send Buckley off on some island vacation—I want some real alone time with you.”

“What? Is the van not good enough?”

“No,” he answered your tease with a serious drawl, raising his eyebrows. “This was just to hold us over until then. I don’t wanna make a habit of this, ‘cause then this? This is all I’ll think about when I’m supposed to be, y’know, working. Fixing shit. Not.. picturing you with your tits out.” Speaking of the distraction, he tugged your shirt down, and you fell into a fit of giggles, snickering against the crook of his neck as you stuffed the hem in your dress, and he crawled the straps up your arms, managing to zip the back up without looking.

Of which your good mood dwindled when you collected yourself. “Aw..”

“Yeah, it’s kinda worse than I thought it’d be.. Sorry.”

Dirt, motor oil, grime. Streaks, smears, smudges. And plenty of it. The burgundy dress he adored was visibly ruined, and only half way through your clocked-in hours.

You found the silver lining. “Guess I’ll wear black from now on.”

“Black looks good on you,” he assured. You reared back to assess the damage, and he filled the stretch of his palms with two handfuls of ass, ensuring you didn’t lose balance. Always willing to be of assistance, of course. “Oh, and may I say, genius planning on your part with the car wax,” he stressed his admiration of you. “Can’t believe I didn’t think of that myself.”

Not following, you stopped scraping your nail over a patch of dust clinging to your white sleeve. “I thought you hid the car wax?”

“No..”

The next line was predictable. You would meet eyes, wait a beat, and deliver ‘Then.. who did?’ However, Eddie proved his impulsive thoughts won when devious shadows crowded the hook of his smirk, dimple arising. He opened his mouth, and you knew no good would come from it.

“I didn’t even fuck you, and you already can’t remember where you put the—Gah!” He shrieked at your pinch on his nipple, and the van rocked harder with your combined laughter, obnoxious in every organic way.

Casual wasn't an option when you wore this dress. Dialed back lost its meaning one root beer ago. The afternoon delight would live in the fibers of your unspoken language every morning when you looked at each other; coffee, cigarettes, spearmint. Goodbye normal workplace relationship, and good riddance.

~~~

Carl entered the lobby with confusion on his brow. He eyed the CLOSED sign on the door, and shuffled the bottles of wax loaded in his arms to turn it around, almost dropping them in the process. Earsplitting guitar licks and shrill vocals belonging to Iron Maiden beat on the windows to the garage, drawing his attention to the half-dressed mechanic ripping a bite out of his bologna sandwich, and flipping a socket wrench in his hand, head banging along to his music. Carl slid his side-eye away. Questions were not asked on his walk past your desk, merely serving a glance at your forkful of perceptibly congealed squash casserole which hadn’t been microwaved. Better yet, he didn’t address the canvas jacket you wore despite the visible shine dotting your forehead, nor your wheezing breaths as if you’d sat in your chair approximately thirty-nine seconds ago. He continued down the hall in silence.

The hair on your nape stood on end from someone’s gaze on you. The correct choice would be to ignore it, keep your head down, and finish the expense reports due by the time Robin picked you up. But like a good bitch, you submitted.

Waiting for you was Eddie’s cocky grin. Through the dusty glass pane indulgent curves of mischief edged his eyes into smug little crescents glinting from the secret between your bodies. Boundless amounts of vanity broadened his chest, pecs jumping as he tightened the sleeves of his coveralls tied around his waist. He peacocked in a slow turn to bend over the engine he was working on, shifting from foot to foot and leaning his hands on the car, flexing through the motion to catch swathes of shadows on the swell of his triceps leading to his hardened shoulders, strong back taking shape under his tank top. Mesmerizing. You couldn’t begin to imagine a world where you could keep the dreamy sigh out of your voice when Carl’s bewildered question arose.

“Wait—Were these here the whole time?” Judging by the plastic bounce and cardboard scramble, he had dropped one of the bottles, and when he dropped to his knees to grab it from behind a mop bucket you forgot to empty, he spotted the box of car wax you ordered at the start of the week and misplaced amongst the chaos in the storage closet.

“Oh? Were they?” you wondered. Stuffing the casserole in your mouth, the fork tines scraped across your teeth on its way out, chewing with your cheek propped on your fist. Blinking sleepily at the purply blue bruises you left on Eddie’s neck the morning before, you replied from faraway, “Weird. Thought I left them on the shelf.. Maybe the garage is cursed like Hawkins, too.”

[some-bunniii]

My Charming Red Savior [1]

・❥ You’re harassed by a man following you down the street. Luckily, a rather smiley demon swoops in and claims to be your husband.

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |

x: no use of y/n. i said this was going to be short and I lied, it’s about 6k words.

warnings: mild swearing

Warning! Battery at 1%! Device will power down in 3..

You stared down at the phone in your hands as the message lit up on the screen. Eyes widening, you quickly tapped the screen, trying to bypass the pop-up and get another glimpse at the digital map you were using. 

2…

“Hold on now! Just let me see where I'm going, please!” You begged the small device, your grip tightening around it as you tried to figure out what direction you needed to go. 

1..

You peered around the small pop-up. Okay.. Pete Ave was that way, which meant you needed to take a right after the stoplight and go-

Device powering down! Have a nice day :) 

“Damnit!” You growled as the screen flashed once, and then faded to black. You squeezed your eyes shut, face lifted to the sky as you took a deep breath to center yourself.

“Move it, won’t ya?” A demon woman chastised as she hurried around you. Lowering your head, you realized you were standing in the middle of the sidewalk, your spot interrupting the flow of pedestrian traffic. Quickly, you backpedaled until your back hit a brick wall of a building. 

It was getting late in Pentagram City, and that meant you needed to hurry to get to your friend's place before the worst inhabitants of Hell came crawling out. 

She had just gotten married and moved into a rather quaint little home, and you were very happy for her. You had not seen it yet, just in pictures she had shown you on her phone and the one time you drove past it.

“Oh, pleaseeee won’t you come over tonight? I can’t wait to show you all the renovations we’ve done! It looks so much better since we bought it.” She had begged over the phone that afternoon. 

You had stood there, your nails clicking against the countertop in your kitchen as you thought. You had nothing important going on, just some light cleaning and shopping. What was the harm in going over there and visiting? 

“Okay, sure. Yeah, I can come over.” You finally spoke.

“Ahh! I’m so excited, we’ll have a big dinner and everything. I can even rent a movie for us to watch, what are you into again? Those sappy romance flicks?”

“Whatever you want to watch, it’s your milestone we’re celebrating. I’m not the one picking.” 

“Geez, you know how hard it is for me to decide things like that! But, i’ll do it. Oh! Before I forget, could you stop by the store on your way and get some Cajun seasoning? It’s for the meal!” 

“Of course. I’ll see you soon.” You had told her, before hanging up. Eyes moving to the clock, you realized you two hours before needing to arrive. Which meant you had to get moving on those dishes and errands. 

It didn’t take long before you were out the door. Wearing a nice outfit and new shoes, you strolled down the street. The digital map on your phone guiding you across the city as you moved.

Being so close to the city center, you didn’t have a personal vehicle. Instead, you took public transport all the way past the Entertainment District, your eyes gazing up at the rather tall VoxTek building as the bus sped by. 

You didn’t know much about the Vees, other than they were very powerful Overlords with a lot of influence in the media industry. In fact, you didn’t know much about Overlords at all. Were they nasty demons? They must be, if they bartered in souls.

But there had to be better ones, right? You knew of the cannibal, Rosie, and despite her, well.. dietary choices, she seemed to be a rather motherly and courteous demon. In such a way that the residents of Cannibal Town held very high regards for her, which proved her ability to lead in a just manner. She couldn’t be the only one with a more ethical moral code.

Your mind lingered on that train of thought, before you were pulled back into reality by the bus driver’s call for your stop. Quickly, you had hurried out of the vehicle, before continuing your directed path forward.

You arrived at the large storefront, a cozy cottage-like building that whispered of deliciousness as the scents of spices and other meal-making goods wafted through the open door. 

Taking a step inside, you quickly darted through the aisles, searching for the Cajun seasoning. What was your friend making tonight? You weren’t too familiar with these kinds of ingredients. Hopefully, it was going to be tasty.

When you found it, you turned it in your hands, inspecting the product. Yep, you’ve never seen this before in your life. 

After paying for the item, you quickly departed. Your next destination set on your phone.. but not for long.

Just a few more blocks, and you’d have been welcomed by the two love-birds with open arms. A nice, hot meal and a good movie to finish the night. 

Except, how were you supposed to get there now?!

Your phone was useless, and the digital displays around you showed nothing but advertisements and the latest news. 

Frantically, you looked around for any familiar landmarks, hoping to rely on your memory to guide you. But the streets of Pentagram City, with their twisting alleys and repetitive buildings, all looked eerily similar in the dimming red light of dusk.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you tried to recall the route from memory. Pete Avenue, right after the stoplight, then… was it a left or a right at the next intersection? You berated yourself for not doing a better job at memorizing the way before you left.

Turning, you raised a fist at the VoxTek HQ building, cursing them for your suffering. Stupid technology and their shitty battery life.

Slowly, you started walking again. Past the neon signs beckoning you to take a glance at what they had to offer, past the girls on the corner who were calling out to you to come have a ‘good time’.

Sometimes, you wished you had someone else to lend a hand at times like these. But, your heart and your home were unimaginably lonely when it came to a romantic partner. It was something that others around you couldn’t stop pestering you about.

“You really need to get out more,” another friend of yours had said one day, while you two dined at a cafe, “there’s this new dating app, called ‘Ozzie’s Love Link’. Everybody is buzzing about it. You should totally give it a whirl!” 

You had rolled your eyes at her suggestion, a dating app? Those things were practically a fraud. The demons on there either wanted sex, or their idea of a relationship was twisted and foul. You even had heard stories of people playing into sick traps of the perfect first meet, only to be murdered and left in an alley to rot.

“I want something real, not some.. temporary escape. Have you ever met anyone that’s actually found ‘The One’ through one of those things? And, who knows, maybe the demon of my dreams will just walk right into me one day.” 

She had laughed at your words, holding a hand to her mouth to contain her giggles.

“Oh, you. You’re still hanging on to those silly stories of a Prince Charming, hm? C’mon now, this is the real world. Nobody is going to swoop in and save you, and then fall hopelessly in love with you. That's a fairy tale. You need to put in the effort.”

You shrugged. Maybe, she was right. Maybe, those stories you had digested were just fairy tales, meant to enrapture you with promises of the perfect life. You were in Hell, after all.

‘She just doesn’t understand,’ you reminded yourself, ‘all her relationships have been toxic. She doesn’t know any better.’

You weren’t going to let her judgments get to you, you could live your life however you wanted, with whatever dreams you chose.

As you walked down the bustling streets, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. It was as if unseen eyes followed your every move, sending shivers down your spine. 

‘Stop freaking out,’ you told yourself, ‘it’s just your imagination, there’s people all around you. They have their own lives, they’re not watching you.’

Nearing the curb to an intersection, you glanced up at the street sign. Pete Avenue, finally. Now, think. Left? 

Looking left, you peer down the rows of strip clubs and bars. The crowds only got bigger from there, and there seemed to be no residential streets. You turned your head to the right, and it began to branch out into more domesticated buildings and neighborhoods. The farther your gaze traveled, the quieter the sidewalks became.

So, right it is. 

You turned the corner of the block and kept moving, your pace quickening as you checked a large digital clock on the side of a building. It was getting closer to the time you had promised to be there.

But, now where were you supposed to go? You turned your head, until your gaze landed on a small imp standing near an alley, a cigarette between his lips. 

Walking forward, you raised your hand up in greeting. “Excuse me, do you know where Magdalene Drive is, by any chance? I’ve just gotten a little turned around and would greatly appreciate some guidance.” 

The imp regarded you for a moment, his eyes squinted in thought. He pulled the cigarette from his lips, and exhaled a large breath. A plume of gray smoke vented from his lips, and he coughed harshly.

“Yeah, I do. You see that big statue over there?” He pointed to your left, the cigarette hanging between his fingers.

Turning your head, you leaned slightly backwards. Off in the distance, a large marble statue depicting an unknown owl demon practically glowed against the darker backdrop. It seemed to hold resemblance to an Ars Goetia family member, but you couldn’t put a finger on who. 

“Right when you pass it, take a left. Go two blocks straight, then take another left. One more block, and another right, and you’re on Magdalene Drive.” 

Jeez, that was a lot of directions thrown at you in one sitting. Not wanting to pester the man any further, you waved a thanks and walked away.

How far have you come, exactly? You turned your head behind you, looking down the sidewalk of where you had just come from. Something flickered in your peripheral vision, a dark figure skirting from your gaze. Was someone watching you? 

You shook your head. No, it’s just your imagination. Keep moving.

Slowly, you turned back and started walking. The sidewalks were practically empty now, the glow from the street lamps above you illuminating your path as you strolled up the large statue. 

Twisting your head to get a better look at it, your gaze skimmed across the royal figure. The owl-demon was staring up at the sky, one arm raised with what seemed to be a ball of energy in his grasp. Swirls of gold marble laced the pearly white sphere. He was holding up, like it was an offering to Heaven. 

Maybe, you’d come back later and take a look at the plaque below the statue. There had to be some significance, although you didn’t see yourself as a master of the fine-arts to te-

Crunch

What was that? That sounded like someone crushing a twig beneath their feet. You twisted to face behind you, and saw nothing once more. 

‘Alright, this is getting a little freaky.’

You weren’t going to stop now though, you didn’t want any potential onlookers seeing you stalking the perimeter like a weirdo simply because your paranoia was having you hallucinate things.

Keeping your pace, you took a sharp left on the corner and continued down. How many blocks did that guy say? Two, if you could recall correctly.

That’s how many blocks you traveled, before stopping in your tracks. Which way did he say to go? Right? Left? 

You rubbed your face with a hand, why did you suck so badly with directions?! If only you had charged your phone before you left, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. 

Turning your head, you tried to figure out which way could be the correct one. There was nothing, though. It didn’t remind you of anything you’d seen when you had driven past her house. 

“Hey, you lost?” A gravelly voice came from behind you. Eyes widened, you spun on your heel to face the stranger. He was tall, much taller than you. He sported scars running across his face, one eye half-lidded permanently from some kind of nasty wound. 

He sported a dark leather jacket, with a thin sweater underneath. His hoodie was up, masking most of his features like a shadow. His skin was a dark red, and his eyes were a pale yellow. He seemed to be a Succubus demon, being too large for an imp.

There was no kindness in his tone or in his smile. Your brain screamed danger, you needed to get away from him. Quickly, you shook your head, trying to give him a well-meaning smile. 

“No, i’m not! I’m just uhh- waiting for someone, they’ll be here soon anyway.” 

“People that aren’t lost usually don’t ask strangers on the street for directions,” he chuckled darkly, “why don’t you tell me where you’re trying to go? I can give you a lift.” 

As he closed in, you could smell the bitter taste of alcohol on his breath. You had to steel yourself not to recoil at his looming figure. Widening your smile, you attempted to not display any fear as he got closer.

“No, thank you. I would hate to bother you, my.. partner should be here soon, so you can continue on with your day!” 

“Don’t you know this place ain’t safe for sweet dolls like you to be roaming alone? C’mon, let me take you to where i’m parked, i’m sure you’ll enjoy my company.”

You quickly stepped backwards, trying to widen the distance from this creep. It wasn’t until your back hit the wall of an abandoned storefront, did you realize you were trapped. 

“I said no. I’m not some damsel in distress. Now, if you can excuse me, I need to keep going before it gets too late.” 

You turned away from him, trying to break any kind of contact with the demon. Maybe if you kept your cool, he’d abandon his little mission.

That was until you felt his hand snake around your wrist, his grip tightening and pulling you to face him. In your state of shock, you dropped the bag containing the Cajun seasoning. You tried to tug your wrist free, but his yellow nails were practically digging into your skin, preventing your escape.

“What’s the rush, Doll? Scared i’m gonna bite or something? Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna harm you. I just want to show you a good time.”

Your eyes narrowed, gaze heated at the stranger. You frowned, glimpsing at his hand on your wrist in disgust.

“What are you doing? I don’t want anything to do with you, now let go of m-!” 

“There you are, my dear!” A masculine voice exclaimed next to you. You felt the creep’s grip on your wrist loosen suddenly. His hand yanked away by another, and your gaze traced the light touch of unknown dark-red fingers gently taking your hand instead.

You snapped your head to the unfamiliar voice, taking in the sight of a second demon standing right besides you, a large grin on his face. He was tall, and he stood a little bit higher than the creep in front of you. His hair was styled in a cropped, angled bob, with an odd pinkish-red shade. Two small antlers protruded from the top of his head, and were those.. ears next to them too?

He was dressed rather formally, with a red pin-stripe coat adorned with a large black bow-tie. Over his right eye, you took note of the small oval-shaped monocle. He held a cane, with an odd looking end. The small oval in the center of it reminded you of an eye. He looked very dapper, like he was from a much older era. 

His gaze was soft, as he looked at you. It wasn’t until his eyes snapped to the stranger in front did they take on a cold, dark glare. That smile never faltered, though. 

Who was this guy? Why was he touching you? You felt the need to tear your hand from his grip as well.

Except, when he turned back to you, his eyes sent you a hidden message. Something like, ‘Go along with it, if you want to get rid of him.’

Seeing as you were stuck between two strange demons, with no idea what this new guy had in store for you, maybe it was a good idea to follow his silent command. Your hand went limp in his grip, and the deer demon raised it to his chest, patting it lovingly.

“Goodness, I leave for ten minutes to go pick up your favorite herbal tea and poof, gone! You are a slippery one, my sweet.” Static dripped from his voice, seemingly connected to the cane at his side. Was it some kind of microphone?

“Who are you?” The stalker questioned, backing up a step as he regarded the new face.

The red demon laughed, an audible ‘ha ha’, as if the creep just told a rather good joke. He extended his free hand in greeting, and the succubus only eyed the gesture with suspicion.

“The name is Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you, sir, quite a pleasure. It’s rare for people these days to not recognize my face, although i’m sure it’ll become familiar soon enough.” 

That ‘soon enough’ sounded quite ominous to you. And, was he some kind of celebrity or something? You didn’t remember him from anywhere. 

“Well, do you mind? Me and the lady were in the middle of a conversation.” The succubus retorted, a slight growl in his tone. 

“The better question is, do you mind, my good sir! Here I am, searching for my dear wife, only to see you bothering her on the corner!” 

Wait a second, did this guy just call you his wife? You stood there, shocked, as you listened to the two bicker. Never would you think you’d hear that uttered from a man. 

“Not only that, but touching her without her consent? My word, what degenerate behavior!” The demon, Alastor, continued. He shook his head in disapproval, an audible tsk-tsk coming from his lips.

“There was no harm in it, we were only having some fun. Ain’t that right, Doll?” The stalker turned to you, fire in his gaze as if daring you to speak.

You shook your head, your gaze snapping to Alastor. He watched you for a moment, before turning his attention back to the succubus.

“It seems your mother neglected to instill in you even a modicum of respect. If my wife weren’t here to witness, I'd be more than obligated to educate you on proper decorum.”

Something flickered in the creep’s eyes, and for a moment he looked almost afraid. After a moment, He sneered, eyeing you up and down. "I don't see a ring on her finger."

Alastor smirked, and gently lifted your hand forward for the demon to get a look at. His grin was that of triumph, as though he was showcasing a prized possession. 

Your eyes widened at the sight, a gasp almost escaping your lips. On your finger, was a small gold ring. It was snuggled nicely around your digit, a perfect fit. 

The Succubus leaned in, and so did you. Where the hell did that come from? That was not there a few minutes ago! 

On closer inspection, you noticed something about the small band. Engraved in a tiny rose-gold font, was a single letter.

A.

"There, now do you see?" Alastor's grin widened, his demeanor playful yet menacing. His eyes narrowed, as he waited for the demon's response. You felt the air crackle with some kind of energy, it was dark and cold. The hair on the back of your neck began to stand on its end, like static. Which one of the demons was doing that?

The stalker’s expression shifted from arrogance to confusion, then to frustration. He furrowed his brow, studying the ring intently as if searching for some kind of flaw.

Was he going to try and argue? The proof was there, albeit fabricated. Alastor dropped your hand, and instead snaked his arm around yours, locking you in place. 

There was no argument didn’t, instead, the succubus took another step back. The demon straightened himself and shrugged, like the scene before him was not a bother, like his filthy plan wasn’t thwarted by the appearance of the powerful deer man. 

“Whatever, I ain’t got time for this anyway. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lovebirds.”

As the man turned away, Alastor’s grin widened as he nodded his head. “Farewell, and may your endeavors be as futile as your manners!”

He turned to you, that dark look gone from his eyes as he gently tugged at your arm, still laced with his. “Now, my dear, shall we continue on our evening stroll?” 

You nodded slowly, and together, the two of you turned away from the creep and began to walk. You had only made it a few steps before you heard the soft knocking of Alastor’s staff hitting the cement walkway. What was he doing?

Behind you, a strangled cry filled the silence, before a loud thump hit your ears. You jolted at the sound, did something just happen? It sounded like someone got hurt! 

Right as you were about to turn your head to look at where the noises had emanated from, Alastor’s head snapped to you and you felt another gentle tug on your arm to turn your attention back to him.

You looked up at him, a smile forming on your lips as your nerves settled. “Thank you, for saving me, kind sir. I could have been a goner.” 

“It was no trouble at all my dear, and please, call me Alastor. I was simply in the neighborhood and couldn’t just stand by and let that rapscallion manhandle you like that! Now, where are we off to, if I might ask?” 

“Oh, well, Magdalene Drive! It’s a house right at the end of a street, my friend's place actually. She’s expecting me for dinner, that’s why I have this bag of…”

You became suddenly aware of the empty feeling in your hand. Did you forget to pick up the seasoning after you dropped it?! You groaned internally, your head hung in defeat. After all that, you didn’t have the one item you had taken this route to get. 

Alastor raised an eyebrow at your reaction, and you quickly explained, “I needed to get Cajun seasoning for the meal they are making, but I dropped it when that.. man was harassing me! I’m terribly sorry, I have to go back and get it.” 

Alastor only smiled, as usual, and shook his head. He waved his hand in a sweeping motion, brushing off your attempt to turn around.

“Nonsense! We don’t need to bother that poor soul any longer. Here, let me give you one from my personal collection!” 

He lifted his free hand, and snapped his fingers. In a flicker of green light, a small spice jar landed in his palm. Your eyes widened, an amused smile gracing your lips as you watched the little trick. That was pretty cool. Was that the same kind of magic he used to secretly place the ring on your finger? 

“Here you are! The best Cajun seasoning you can find in Pentagram City, my personal favorite. I was going to use it for something special, but it seems you are in need of it more than I.”

He lifted his hand toward you, and you took it gratefully. Lifting it to your nose, you inhaled deeply. It was an odd scent, one you couldn’t quite place, but it smelled quite delicious.

“Not many dishes require such flavoring, what is the meal you are having tonight?”

You shrugged, “I'm not really sure, to be honest. She didn’t say.” 

“Hm, a pity. Have you ever tried Jambalaya? It is a rather magnificent dish, my personal favorite actually! My mother was quite the cook, indeed, and her craft would never miss when producing such delicacies.”

“No, I've never tried it before. What does it taste like?”

“It is hard to put a description on it. It’s almost like.. fireworkings popping off in your mouth! Ha ha, that is a good way to put it. You really must try it sometime.” 

You smiled at Alastor as you listened to his words. Perhaps, you would.

“What got you into this pickle, anyway? Surely you didn’t actually feel like taking a stroll so late in the evening, hm?” He questioned as the two of you continued your pace, “a pretty face like yours will cause quite the stir amongst the filthy rats that like to inhabit this place.”

“Oh, well, I was using my phone for directions. It died on the way here, unfortunately I'm not familiar with this area and couldn’t find my way forward.”

His words finally processed in your brain. Did he just call you pretty? You didn’t get to think about that for much longer as his static-laced voice filled the air once more.

“Ah, of course. This new.. modern technology is nothing short of a fraud, if I do say. What ever happened to the old fashioned paper map? If it were up to me, we wouldn’t be so reliant on such faulty equipment.”

“Is that what your staff is? It looks like a microphone.” You said, pointing to the cane in his other hand.

Alastor glanced down to his cane, and then back to you. “Aha, a clever one indeed! Yes, my dear, I use it for my radio broadcasts!”

You perked at that. Radio? You had one of your own at home. Although it was quite dusty, you did occasionally turn it on to see what latest hits were circling around in the music industry.

“You do radio? That’s actually kind of interesting! Do you have a big audience?”

“Yes, indeed! Back when I was at my highest with it, I had many listeners. Unfortunately, my absence from Pentagram City has led to other forms taking the spotlight. I plan on rectifying that once I've settled in. Perhaps, you could listen in as well to see what I have to offer?”

You nodded at that, perhaps, you would listen in. He had a nice, pleasant voice. It felt like you could sit there for hours and just listen to him speak. Even if the words that came from his mouth was nothing but gibberish, you’d still let his voice drown out your thoughts.

“What about you?” The static dripping from his voice causes you to turn your head, “what do you do for a living?” 

“Oh, well, I work at a men’s formalwear store. So, like tuxedos, dress shirts, and all that jazz. I help assist with fittings and greet guests, basically the doorgirl. Nothing too important.” 

His ears perked slightly as he listened, and he turned his head to you. “Well, isn’t that interesting! Just recently, I had an awfully rude encounter with another demon, who had torn a piece of my suit. That slippery little serpent got away before I could.. question him about his antics.” 

“That’s awful! Who was it?” 

Alastor chuckled, rolling his eyes as he recalled the event. “Oh, nobody of importance, I assure you. Just some pretentious upstart fancying himself as an Overlord, with a knack for building rather ghastly creations of destruction. Since that encounter, I've been in the market for a fresh look. If a place of formal employs such splendid characters like you, I think it would be in my best interest to take a look in your establishment for a new coat”

Your eyes widened, he wanted to buy a new suit at your work because.. you were there? How charming.

Taking another glance at him, you realized he was rather good-looking. His red hair popped out against his much paler skin, it shined against the streetlights above. It looked rather silky and smooth, like you could comb them with your fingers and not find a single knot. 

And those ears? They were pretty cute, actually. They stuck up from his head, and every so often they would twitch or shrivel in the direction of sudden noises. They seemed so soft too, would they feel as good as they looked if you were to squish them between your fingers?

He was a well-mannered gentleman, a pretty rare specimen in Hell. Not only that, but he stepped in to defend you from that creep when he could have simply walked by. He didn’t, and that made your cheeks heat up. Especially with the fact he called you his wife, instead of something simpler like ‘friend’.

What about when he called you pretty? Did he actually mean that? You never regarded yourself as such, but if Alastor thought that, maybe you cou-

“Is this the house?” Alastor’s words pulled you back into reality. You blinked, before looking up at the pale blue cottage snuggled nicely between two large Victorian homes. The talks you were having must have kept you from noticing the large distance.

“Yes! This is the place!” You exclaimed happily, finally, you were here. You turned to him, before looking down at your arm, still laced with his. Slowly, you pulled your arm free. The cold that replaced his touch was unwelcomed. Which felt odd to you, why did you want him touching you still? 

You had only just met him, but perhaps his way of speaking and heroics swooned you enough to miss the warmth of his grasp. Lifting your head to meet his gaze, you tried to see what he was thinking behind that constant smile. 

His eyes were unreadable, but the cold stare he had given the succubus, and to the other onlookers that you had occasionally passed was missing as he looked at you. There seemed to be a smile in his eyes, one that was meaningful and true.

“Well, I'm glad I could assist you in finding your way home, my dear. I quite enjoyed our chat, it is refreshing to hear from a new face once in a while. Especially one as eloquent as yours.”

You had to keep yourself from visibly blushing. He really was a gentleman in all regards. You bowed your head respectfully, before meeting his gaze again.

“The only reason why I'm here is because of you, Alastor. Thank you, and I do hope to run into you in the future. Our conversation was very interesting, I'd love to hear more of it sometime.”

He tilted his head at you, as he regarded your words. “Indeed, perhaps we will. Maybe, the next time we cross paths, I can give you a glimpse into my mothers recipe of Jambalaya. I’m sure your friend would be interested in trying something new the next time you sit down for dinner.”

You smiled at him, before waving goodbye. Turning towards the door you lightly rapped your knuckles against its wooden frame. It was then that you realized you never properly introduce yourself.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I never got to tell you, my name is-”

The words halted in your mouth, as you found the space in front of you empty. Alastor had vanished, not a single trace of his presence remained.

He was gone already? Damn, that guy moved quickly. Maybe, he was just a hallucination, a dream too good to be true. You stood there for a moment, before closing your mouth in thought.

Suddenly, the front door was flung open and a hand reached out and grasped your top. You turned your head just as you were yanked inside. Before you had time to blink, the door was slammed shut behind you. The window near it was shielded by curtains in seconds.

In front of you, your friend stood there. She was breathing heavily, a hand to her heart as if she just witnessed the scariest thing in her life. She quickly held your shoulders, scanning your body for any injuries.

“Oh my gosh! You’re lucky I pulled you in here quickly,” She exhaled a breath to calm her nerves, “You could have been that guy’s next meal!” 

“What are you talking about?” You asked, an eyebrow raised at her strange demeanor.

“Alastor! The Radio Demon! Y’know, the guy that murdered all those overlords years ago?” 

You raised an eyebrow as her words settled in your head. That demon was the Radio Demon? No way! He was such a gentleman, and rather pleasant too! 

“You’re kidding.” 

“I’m not! I don’t know what happened between the two of you, hopefully not a deal, but you need to stay away from him. He’s nothing but a bad omen!” 

You smiled, shaking your head at her antics. She was just being silly, Alastor saved you from potentially being kidnapped. You doubted he’d lay a finger on you in a harmful manner.

“Well, I brought that seasoning. Why don’t we go take a tour of the place, hm?” You said, pulling her away from the doorway and down the hall.

She nodded, her face lighting up instantly. “Yes, a great idea! I can’t wait to show you the kitchen, we replaced practically everything. The flooring is a beautiful marble tile and…“

She trailed off as her gaze shot to your hand, her eyes widening at the sight. Quickly, she grasped it, and pulled it closer to inspect it. You tensed, what was she doing?

“..what is that on your finger? I didn’t know you wore this kind of jewelry!” 

Following her gaze, you turned your hand slightly to see what she was so enthralled about, and your eyebrows raised in surprise at the sight.

Still perfectly snug on your finger, was that gold ring Alastor had magically placed on you. You assumed that it would have dissolved or vanished when he left, but that small A still glimmered in the overhead light.

“I’ll explain it over dinner.” You simply replied, pulling your hand out of her grip and beginning to walk further into the house. 

Your eyes kept landing on the golden band, though. Alastor not far from your mind as you listened to your friend fill you in on all the renovations. It was quite pretty, and it seemed to look great on you. For a moment, a rather odd thought crossed your mind, causing your cheeks to heat as you lamented over it. 

Would it be so bad if you just.. kept it on? 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

woah, first fic of Alastor! I thought he’d be the perfect guy for this scenario. i wrote the reader as sort of a hopeless romantic bc it’s the complete opposite of al and i thought it was funny

EDIT: Part 2 is coming!!

lmk what you think! :)

[mrsfancyferrari]

Winter Wonder

Summary: CL16 + Winter Power Outage

Song: Snowman by Sia

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 4.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The winter winds howled outside your apartment, a cacophony of icy air rattling the windows. You curled deeper into your favorite blanket, the soft, knit fabric offering some reprieve from the chill that seeped in despite the heating system working overtime.

Time slipped by quietly, marked only by the occasional glance at the clock on your wall.

Suddenly, the lights flickered before plunging you into darkness. A soul-sucking black surrounded you, and fear pricked at your skin like a thousand tiny needles. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself that it was just the dark, but the familiar, suffocating anxiety crept in.

You fumbled for your phone in haste, desperately hoping the flashlight function could chase away the shadows. Your fingers danced upon the screen, but it was useless. The battery was dead.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself, a mix of frustration and fear bubbling up. You didn’t want to move, didn’t want to face the abyss just outside your blanket fortress.

It was ridiculous—an adult, scared of the dark. But you couldn’t help it. The darkness felt alive, wrapping around you like a living entity.

Telling yourself it was all just a trick of the mind, you squeezed your eyes shut tightly. Deep breaths. It’s fine. It’s just the dark. But then came the sound that seized your heart—your front door creaking open.

You froze. Did you forget to lock it? Had it been a force of nature, or was someone actually breaking in? Panic surged within you. “No, no, no…” you mouthed silently, listening intently.

The something that entered your space felt heavy, and every instinct told you to run; but where could you go?

Then, out of the dark, a voice sliced through your fear like a knife. “Y/N?”

Relief washed over you, but it was almost immediately shadowed by confusion. “Charles?” you whispered, your voice barely a breath.

As the outline of your neighbor stepped closer, the shadows seemed to recede. He took a moment to make sure you were really there.

“Yes, it’s me,” he confirmed, the tension in his voice easing slightly as he reached for the light on his phone, illuminating his features in the dim glow. His forehead was creased with worry, his dark curls falling over his eyes, which now focused on you.

“I saw the lights go out in the entire building and thought I’d check on you.”

“What are you doing here?” Your voice came out a little sharper than intended, but it was impossible to mask the lingering dread that clung to your words.

“I thought you might be scared—it’s a pretty big outage,” he replied, his tone laced with concern. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You tucked the blanket tighter around your shoulders, suddenly aware of how vulnerable the darkness made you feel. He stepped closer, the light from his phone creating a small bubble of warmth in your chilly place. “Are you alright?”

“I… I just don’t like the dark, Charles,” you admitted, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment. It felt childish to admit it, but there it was anyway.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in the dimness. “It’s okay. You’re not alone. A lot of people dislike the dark. It’s unsettling.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “It’s silly, I know. I feel like I should be above this fear.”

“No, it makes sense.” He lowered himself to sit on the floor next to you, his phone casting a gentle light between you. “The dark can hide so many things. It’s natural to be afraid of what might be lurking. How about I stay with you until the lights come back on?”

“Really?” The surprise in your voice was palpable, but somewhere underneath the astonishment, comfort began to blossom. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he replied. “Besides, I’m not exactly thrilled about sitting in my dark apartment either.” He shrugged, an endearing grin spreading across his face. “It’s always better to face fears with a friend, right?”

You nodded slowly, feeling the tension bleed out of your muscles as you absorbed his words. Charles always had known how to put you at ease.

“Thank you,” you said softly, glancing sideways at him. “I didn’t realize I’d be this scared. I mean, it’s just a power outage…”

“It’s more than just a power outage when you’re in the dark by yourself. I get it.” He waved the phone around theatrically, light bouncing off the walls. “Look, the shadows are just shadows. See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his playful antics, feeling a bit of your fear dissipate. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you.” His expression grew serious again. “Seriously though, whenever I hear thunderstorm warnings, I prep my flashlight and snacks. I’m not ashamed to admit that I find comfort in being ready. It’s just practical.”

The two of you settled into a comfortable silence, the gentle flicker of the phone light illuminating the space just enough to allow you both to feel safe.

As the howling wind continued to remind you of the storm outside, your heartbeat synchronized more closely with Charles’.

You glanced over, finding him watching you intently, a soft smile dancing on his lips. “You know, it’s alright to let yourself be scared sometimes. We’re all human.”

His words felt like a warm blanket on a cold night, wrapping around you like the layers of the throw you had cocooned yourself in. “I guess being scared means I’m also capable of feeling brave.”

“Yes!” He nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly. And it takes a lot of bravado to admit it, too. So, if you ever need someone to count on when the lights go out…”

“I’ll definitely call you,” you replied, the smile growing on your face.

“Good. Now can I get inside your blanket? It's freezing,” Charles asked, his voice turning a little sheepish as he gestured towards your cozy nest of warmth.

“Sure, come right in,” you said, flinging the blanket open to invite him inside. He scooted over eagerly, the warmth of your body and the soft fabric enveloping him as he settled in beside you.

“Ah, this is what I call luxury,” Charles said, letting out a contented sigh. The proximity stirred a strange mix of comfort and excitement within you, a spark that ignited when he laughed at your shared misery over the powerless situation.

“Luxury, huh? You sure know how to sell it,” you joked, adjusting the blanket around both of you.

The heat radiating from him was comforting, yet it sent tiny shivers down your spine, stirring a strange mix of excitement and fluster within you.

“This is a luxury, being so warm and having a beautiful woman beside me,” Charles said straightforwardly, his voice sincere and unreserved.

Your jaw dropped at his candidness, suddenly feeling heat rise to your cheeks. For a moment, you forgot about the winter storm outside and the flickering candles, lost in the way he looked at you.

“Charles, flattery will get you nowhere around here,” you said, regaining your composure. You tried to sound calm and playful, but inside, your heart raced a little faster at his unexpected compliment.

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short! You’re the entire package—you’ve got warmth and wit,” Charles replied, nudging you playfully with his shoulder. “And if I may say, a very lovely smile.”

“Alright, alright. Now you’re just trying to butter me up,” you laughed, playfully pushing him away, though you were secretly reveling in the attention.

Charles chuckled, leaning back slightly, a grin spreading across his face. “Is it working?”

“Maybe,” you said, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. There was something magnetic about the way he looked at you, his deep green eyes sparkling with mischief and warmth.

The playful banter continued until a chill ran through the room, and the reality of the cold seeped in. You started to shiver, pulling your shirt tighter around you, trying to make it unnoticeable.

But Charles was observant. “You’re cold too, do you need me to get you a jumper?” he asked, concern etching itself across his face as he rose slightly from the couch.

You instinctively reached out and grabbed his arm. “No, don’t leave,” you said, slightly shy, the warmth of his presence making you feel secure.

“Okay, ma chérie,” he muttered with a smile, easing back down beside you. There was something about the way he said it, the tenderness in his tone that made your heart flutter.

“Can I cuddle you instead? I can’t have you freezing in your own house,” Charles suggested with a hopeful look.

You hesitated but nodded, heart pounding. It was the “yes” you didn’t know you wanted to say. Charles slowly wrapped his arms around you, giving you the opportunity to back out, but you didn’t.

Once he settled in, you melted into his embrace, feeling the heat radiate from his body and wrap around you like a warm blanket.

“This is nice,” you murmured, nestling your head against his shoulder.

“See? Told you it would work,” he teased softly, squeezing you a little tighter.

You felt a wave of contentment wash over you, easing the panic of the darkness.

With every minute wrapped up in his embrace, the cold and fear melted away, but it was the tender intimacy of the moment that pulled you toward sleep despite your best efforts to stay awake.

“Hey,” Charles whispered, sensing your struggle. “You know you can go to sleep, ma chérie. I’ll keep watch for when the power comes on.”

His voice was soothing, the way he said “ma chérie” made your heart flutter.

You opened your eyes slightly, looking up at him, and the gentle smile playing on his lips felt like sunshine cutting through the storm outside. “Are you sure? I don’t want to burden you,” you mumbled.

“You could never be a burden to me,” he replied with sincerity. “Just let your mind drift; I promise I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

His words wrapped around you like a soft blanket, urging you to surrender. You nodded, allowing yourself to relax further into his arms. “Okay, just for a little while then.”

“Good,” he said, his voice a low hum, like a lullaby. “You’ve been working too hard; you deserve this.”

With that, your eyes fluttered closed, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest lulling you into a deep slumber. As the minutes passed, the silence around you deepened, punctuated only by the howling wind outside.

It was peaceful, and you let go of the fear, allowing yourself to drift into dreams. . . . .

Now, waking to the gentle patter of your heart echoed by his own, you lifted your head, squinting against the soft light. The lamp had returned, illuminating the cozy chaos of your living room.

Your heart fluttered in your chest—there was Charles, asleep, his arms wrapped protectively around you.

You noticed the way his long eyelashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks, and how his messy hair curled adorably above his forehead.

He looked almost serene, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to truly admire him. The stubble on his jaw gave him a rugged charm, one that made your cheeks flush with a warmth that had little to do with the safety of the blanket cocooning you both.

As you reluctantly pulled away, careful not to wake him, you thought to yourself, “You like Charles.” It was a revelation that sent a flutter through your stomach.

You didn't just like him as a friend anymore; it was something deeper, a connection that pulsed between your hearts.

Just as the thought settled in your mind, Charles stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He blinked at the sudden light, then smiled at you with a sleepy grin.

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

He blinked at the sudden brightness of the fireplace, then smiled at you with a sleepy grin. It made your heart race in a way that surprised you.

“Hey,” you replied softly, a shy smile creeping onto your face. You remained nestled on his chest, and he didn’t seem to mind at all.

In fact, he pulled you in a little closer, the wool of his sweater prickly against your cheek.

“Sorry for sleeping on duty,” Charles joked, a playful glint in his eye. “The power came back on, and I couldn’t resist the chance to sleep with a beautiful lady.” His words hung in the air, charged with an unspoken tension.

You looked up at him, your heart skipping a beat. “What if I told you I was using the opportunity to sleep with a handsome guy?”

Before he could respond, a knock interrupted the bubble you’d created. You pushed yourself up, reluctantly leaving the sanctuary of his embrace.

Charles followed suit, his expression turning serious as he prepared for what lay outside your door.

You opened the door to find Carlos, his eyes moving from you to Charles behind you. He looked shocked for a moment, surprise flickering across his face, but quickly regained his composure.

“Hey Y/N! I was going to ask if you’ve seen Charles since everyone is looking for him,” Carlos teased, crossing his arms. “But he’s been hiding with you the whole time.”

“Cut it out, Carlos,” you said, trying your best to sound reproachful but failing miserably as warmth spread through your chest.

“Really? I came bearing news that half the town is without power due to this winter storm, and you two look pretty cozy,” he declared with a theatrical flourish, throwing in an exaggerated wink that made you laugh.

“Yeah, nothing like a good old-fashioned power outage to light a fire under romance!” Carlos continued, his tone mockingly serious. “What’s next, a candle-lit dinner?”

You felt your cheeks flush; you had scoffed at the idea before, but now, nestled against Charles, who sat on the floor beside you, you savored the closeness that the power outage had inadvertently sparked.

“Everyone wanted to go out after the lights came back on, but we tried to call your phone, and you didn’t answer,” you replied, trying to keep your tone light.

“Really? In this weather?” He raised an eyebrow, half-amused, half-concerned.

“Yeah, mate,” Carlos said with a big grin on his face. “But if you don’t want to come to stay with ta copine, then that’s okay.” He smirked, the teasing glint in his eye directed firmly at Charles.

You caught the French word “copine,” realizing it was Carlos’ playful jab at Charles’s affection for you. It took you a moment to piece together the implication—“girlfriend.”

You shot a glance at Charles, but his expression remained steady, a smile playing on his lips as he grinned at Carlos.

“I think you’re mistaken, Carlos,” Charles replied, his voice light yet purposeful. “I’ll always want to stay with my friends. Especially in a weather like this.”

You felt your heart skip a beat. Was that a hint? A whisper of something more?

Carlos saw the moment linger and leaned forward with mock curiosity. “Right,” he continued, turning to you, “you don’t want him, do you? I can just take him away and give you peace.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the banter.

“Thanks for your concern, Carlos,” you replied, your voice laced with a playful edge. “But I’m happy enough for Charles to stay if he wants to.”

You glanced up to catch Charles looking at you with an unmistakable glow of pride that made your cheeks heat up. He opened his mouth, seemingly ready to respond, but Carlos, always the instigator, cut in.

“Well, I guess I can’t take him away. Enjoy your cozy cuddles,” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows before pushing himself off the couch, the playful glint still dancing in his eyes as he headed towards the kitchen.

As soon as Carlos disappeared, the atmosphere shifted. The faint glow from the emergency candles flickered around the room, casting gentle shadows on the walls as you turned to face Charles.

“So, what do you want to do?” you asked shyly, hoping the question would open a door to something fun.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m so hungry,” Charles declared, patting his tummy dramatically like a cartoon character. “All that sleeping made me hungry.”

You couldn't help but chuckle at his antics. “Alright, Mr. Pancake, let’s see what we can whip up.”

With a nod, you walked past Charles toward the kitchen, and he followed closely behind, his energy palpable as it filled the small space between you two.

“How about we whip up some pancakes?” he suggested, already gazing into your kitchen cabinets as if they held the secrets to the universe.

"Pancakes sound amazing," you replied, your heart fluttering at the thought of cooking together. “Do you want them with blueberries or chocolate chips?”

“Honestly?” he asked, eyes twinkling. “Why not both? Live a little, right?”

You laughed, grabbing a mixing bowl and the ingredients. “You’re a bad influence, Charles.”

“Guilty as charged,” he teased, leaning against the countertop. “But pancakes are a serious matter. We need to tackle this thing together.”

The sun streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating the flour dust floating through the air. The scent of vanilla already danced around the room, teasing your senses as Charles organized the countertop, a wide smile plastered on his face.

“Okay, you’ve done enough, you can go relax,” Charles said, rolling his sleeves up, exposing his toned arms, ready for action.

“What do you mean? I’m helping out!” you protested, a grin creeping onto your own face as you grabbed the baking powder and some eggs from the fridge.

He chuckled, shaking his head knowingly. “Nope, I’m treating you today. Just sit there and enjoy the show.”

You could tell he was attempting to take charge of the kitchen. But before you could grab more ingredients, two strong arms snaked around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the ground and placing you on the counter.

“Hey! Put me down!” you squealed, squirming as you tried to escape his grasp.

With a playful glint in his eyes, he tightened his grip slightly. “Not a chance. Now you stay here and watch me cook if you want.”

Puffing out your cheeks in mock annoyance, you crossed your arms. “You’re impossible, you know that? I just wanted to help!”

He leaned closer, his face hovering near yours, the warmth of his breath making your heart race. “And I appreciate that, but I want to spoil you a little today.”

You had no words. The way he watched you made it impossible to think clearly. All you could muster was a reluctant nod.

“Good, ma chérie,” he murmured, stepping back with a satisfied grin. “And you can speak too! I like to hear the sound of your voice.”

“Is that so?” you replied, trying to inject some playful sarcasm into your tone.

“Definitely,” he said, whisking together a bowl of flour, baking powder, and eggs with long, confident strokes. “You make everything sound better.”

“Flattery is the way to my heart, I see,” you teased, leaning back on your hands as you watched him work.

He shot you a playful look, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I thought you were already in my heart?”

“Touché,” you laughed, feeling the butterflies surge in your stomach as he began pouring the batter onto the hot griddle. The sizzling sound filled the kitchen, and you couldn’t help but lean forward, intrigued by his skill.

“Just wait until you taste these pancakes. They are going to be the best thing you’ve ever had,” Charles declared, flipping a pancake with flair.

You rolled your eyes, though a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. “No pressure, then.”

He glanced back at you, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “Oh, there's plenty of time for us to go out for breakfast if you don’t like them.”

As he stacked the pancakes high on a plate, you could feel yourself warming up to the idea of indulging in his culinary creations. “You know,” you said thoughtfully, “you could really make a career out of this.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said, turning down the heat. “But I definitely know how to make someone smile with pancakes.”

The kitchen filled with laughter and conversation as he poured syrup over the stack, letting it drip down the sides. “Ready?” Charles asked with an exaggerated air of anticipation.

“Always,” you replied, accepting a plate filled with fluffy pancakes topped with fresh berries.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you intently as you took your first bite. “And?”

You closed your eyes and savored the taste. “Oh my God, Charles! These are amazing!” You grinned, your heart soaring at his happiness.

“See? I told you.” He leaned in closer, pride shining in his eyes. “I’m a magnificent chef after all.”

“As if I’d ever doubted that,” you said playfully, taking another mouthful, wishing the moment would last forever.

You were about to say more when you caught the sparkling mischief in his expression. “Hey, do you remember that time we tried to make dinner together? And almost burnt down the kitchen?”

You burst into laughter, remembering the smoke and chaos. “I still can’t believe we thought we were ready for spaghetti bolognese. The kitchen was a disaster!”

Charles mimicked the exasperated look you’d given him back then, sending you into fits of laughter again. “Never again, right?”

“Agreed. I think I’ll leave the cooking to you from now on,” you said with a grin.

He raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Oh? So you’re just here for my cooking and my good looks?”

“Maybe,” you replied, biting your lip as you leaned forward, adding a conspiratorial tone. “But I have to admit, I also like the way you roll up your sleeves in the kitchen.”

“Is that so?” His voice dropped to a low rumble, and he moved closer, the playful banter shifting into something deeper.

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks. “It’s just… you know, you make this whole cooking thing look good.”

“Just like that?” he teased, leaning closer. “I make pancakes look good?”

Your heart raced at the closeness. “Well, that too. But mostly, it’s because... you make me feel good, Charles.”

He smiled, that infectiously warm, sincere smile that sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

The atmosphere felt electrifying, as if the world had slowed just for the two of you. “Incredible? Really?” you asked, playfully batting your eyelashes.

The atmosphere felt electrifying, as if the world had slowed just for the two of you.

Charles was everything you had ever wanted—handsome, kind, and brave.

As he stood close to you, the heat between you was palpable. The faint scent of the lavender he wore mixed with the aroma of fresh pastries, creating an intoxicating blend that felt uniquely him.

Charles instinctively hooked a finger and tenderly lifted your chin, tilting it up so that you could look into his eyes. His touch felt electric, sending shivers cascading through you.

“Ma chérie. Look at me,” he commanded softly, and you listened, entranced.

His hands were now brushing against your waist, fingers resting on your hips, anchoring you to the moment. You could see the hunger in his gaze, an unspoken connection simmering between you like a spark begging to be ignited.

Your heart raced, caught in the precarious balance of anticipation and excitement.

“Can I?” he asked, his voice low, almost husky, that familiar spark of temptation igniting the air. His fingers brushed against the hem of your trousers, soft and tentative, as if he were seeking permission more than anything else.

You had often fantasized about this moment, the air heavy with unspoken words and a desire that had simmered beneath the surface for far too long.

Your heart raced, torn between bashfulness and undeniable longing.

“You… you can,” you whispered, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you could think twice.

A pleased smile blossomed on his lips, and Charles leaned in, the world around you seemingly fading away. He closed the distance, breath warm and inviting against your skin.

“Because I’ve been wanting to for a while now,” he murmured, leaning closer, his lips inches away.

Your heart hammered in your chest, anticipation crackling in the air. His kiss was gentle at first, a soft brush of warmth against your mouth, but as you surrendered to the moment, barriers that had once held you back crumbled under the weight of passion.

You kissed him back, boldly entwining your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper.

Time ceased to exist as you melted into the sweetness of the moment, the world around you dissolving into nothingness. His hands found their way to your waist, holding you firmly as he deepened the kiss, tilting your head just so to fit together perfectly.

When he finally pulled back, he looked into your eyes as if searching for something.

“I really like you,” Charles confessed, sincerity etched into every feature.

The walls around your heart began to crumble as you met his gaze, feeling exposed yet completely safe.

“I like you too,” you managed, the words swirling like a warm breeze amidst your fluttering heart. “I’ve liked you for a while.”

Warmth flooding through your body as he reached out, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. His fingertips lingered on your skin, sending shivers racing down your spine.

You locked eyes, the air between you crackling with anticipation. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, leaning closer.

“I… I was scared,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Of what?” he probed gently.

“Of ruining what we have,” you confessed, your heart pounding in your chest. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

He stepped closer, closing the gap between you until you could feel the warmth radiating off his body. With a surge of courage, you reached out and touched his arm. “But I can’t pretend anymore.”

“I don’t want to either,” he murmured, his voice low, filled with unspoken wishes.

Without another word, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours softly at first, a hesitant question that quickly turned into a passion-filled exchange. The kiss deepened, a sweet exploration that tasted like hope and yearning, sending fireworks exploding through your very core.

As you pulled back, breathless and dizzy, the lights above flickered ominously before plunging the kitchen into darkness. The power had gone out again.

“Charles!” you exclaimed, panic creeping into your voice as you instinctively clutched the edge of the counter, fear coursing through you like ice.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice steady and soothing, wrapping around you like a protective barrier. “It’s just the power. We’ll be fine.”

But your heart raced, the darkness closing in around you, invading the safe space you’d just carved out together. “I hate the dark,” you admitted, trembling.

He stepped closer, grounding you with his presence. His hands found your waist, a steadying grip that felt like a lifeline. “I’ll be here, I promise. Nothing is going to happen.”

“Can you… can you just hold me?” you asked, feeling vulnerable, your heart pounding like a drum.

“Always,” he replied, warmth radiating from his body as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a protective embrace.

You leaned into him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. “I can still feel you,” you murmured, comforted by his closeness amidst the engulfing darkness.

“Good, because I’m not going anywhere,” Charles reassured you, the deep timbre of his voice soothing. “You’re safe with me.”

“Thanks, Charles,” you whispered, gripping the apple tighter, as though it could shield you from the darkness that felt alive, drawing closer with each passing moment.

“No worries, ma chérie.” He leaned closer, planting a gentle kiss on the top of your head, his lips lingering for just a moment too long. It sent a wave of warmth cascading through you, dispelling some of the shadows still clinging to your heart.

You always felt inexplicably calmer when he was around, more grounded. . . . .

[stochastique-blog]

hmm...

Wall Clock Copper Brown Cream Wall Clock Birthday Gift Him Melamine Wall Clock Retro Clock Brown E Inder Designs secret santa Kitchen clock ❤ liked on Polyvore (see more rectangle clocks)

[the-family-business-83]

Unexpected Calling – Part I

Part 1 | Part 2 | Masterlist

Fandom: Marvel

Prompt: A world class contract killer finds an envelope at his dead drop. Inside are $23.42 in short change and a letter handwritten by a 9-year old girl.

Type: Series

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader's daughter (platonic obviously), Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Genre: fluff, action, slight angst, might get smutty but idk yet

Warnings: Be prepared for some adult language! Nothing too crazy in this first part though, we're just getting started so that's my only warning for now.

Word count: 1.6k

Send me an ask to let me know if you wanna be added to/removed from the taglist!!

This post was Beta'd by @mariekoukie6661. Thanks a million!

A/N: Thought I'd throw my hand at a prompted fic! Hope you guys like it, I'll add a chapter directory and update as needed as the next parts are posted. So stay tuned 👀 Text dividers made by @firefly-graphics <3

Every morning is always the same when you're paid to kill. He'd been trying to be better about the whole actual killing part lately, but that didn't change his morning routine very much. He woke up to the sound of his alarm clock going off—yes, he still used one. If you asked for his reasoning, he'd tell you it's because it's less complicated and you can always count on it to work because it simply stayed plugged into the wall; in the event that the power went out? It had batteries for backup power, and you can't find that kind of peace of mind with just the alarms on your phone. He's still an old soul, sue him. He woke up at 6:45 am, on the dot, every morning without fail that way so it was rather effective.

After the blaring sound of his trusty alarm clock came the process of forcing himself out of bed and cleaning up for the day; shaving if necessary, freshening up, getting dressed, the works. This was generally when he'd change his appearance should the need arise, as well. But he didn't need to do that this morning and so he flicked the light to the bathroom off as he left the room when he was finished, heading out to his kitchen thereafter. The next step? Food. It was always 7 am sharp by the time he got done with his wakeup process, the only time that changed being when he added any extra steps in the bathroom. And breakfast was always simple: a cup of hot black coffee, sliced avocado, and bread toasted to perfection with an egg over medium to be dipped in. And it never failed to be a pleasant way to start his morning, usually followed closely after by a session of watching the morning news. He found it a good way to see what was going on in the area and across the country so he could plan accordingly.

If he didn't have a job, which by chance was the case today, he'd generally find any sort of quiet way to spend the rest of his morning; reading a book, cleaning up all his weapons, or a walk in the park if he felt like it. Today, he felt like it. And it was mostly peaceful, if you excluded the grating sound of car horns, tires squealing, and buses chuffing past. And of course, if you chose to ignore the rumbling from the subway, the people shouting either in their urgency to get to work or just simply because they were an ass, then it was really utterly plain and quiet to walk through Central Park. By this point Bucky had truly gotten used to it. He supposed in some ways it wasn't too much different from his home in the past. But that didn't mean he liked to spend too much time there anyway. So long as he got out and went back home just in time, he could skip the gradeschoolers and dog walkers that came around for the afternoon.

There had been nothing unusual about his day so far, and he liked that. He liked the rhythm of it all, and how it always went according to his carefully curated schedule. He began the process of unlocking his apartment door after making his way up to his floor, and pushed it open to take a step inside. Crunch.

What the helll...?

Bucky frowned as, seemingly, something sat under his boot and crinkled where he'd stepped, making the same sound again as he carefully pried his foot off. The poor, crisply folded, paper envelope that had earlier been slotted through his dead-drop, suffered a dirt-covered footprint but aside from that, it seemed harmless and intact as he picked it up to inspect it. A curious thing to find when you hardly get mail aside from the bills. What was even more curious was the contents within it, feeling a bit lumpy and—quite frankly—heavy for a letter-sized envelope. He closed the door behind himself with one hand, locking it once again out of habit while the other kept hold of the envelope. Moments later he flicked out a switchblade to slice it open revealing not only a handwritten letter but also $23.42.....Exactly. All in small change.

It was quite honestly the oddest thing he'd seen or received to date, and that was including the number of quite-literal backstabs he'd received, numerous other maiming injuries, and the odd encounters he’d had with a talking raccoon, tree, and robot...man…thing. To name a few. That was also including the number of odd jobs he'd been offered and peculiar payment methods he'd been given. Never had he come across such a specific payment with a letter that….upon further inspection….looked as though its penman couldn't be much older than 9 years old, at most.

'Dear mister,

My name is Rosie Jones. I am 9 yeers old. My mommy says you're vary good at helping people. Well, I need your help. Mommy also said you like to be paid for helping, so I broke my piggy bank open so you wood help us. Mommy doesn't know yet thoe, so please don't tell her.

My mommy dissuhpeered disappeered last night. She told me to hide and I did but now I can't find her and so I need your help mister becuz you're really good at finding people too, mommy said so. Please please help me find my mommy, I don't know what to do mister.

– Rosie'

"You've gotta be shitting me." He muttered to himself. The first question Bucky had, quite honestly, was how did this little girl even know who he was? Or where he lived? Not many people did, if any, truth be told. If they did? They were usually dead within minutes. It was one of many reasons that kept his renowned status intact. But here he was, sitting at his own table, with proof that some little girl knew both of those things. Frowning down at the paper and envelope of change, the assassin ran his hand back through his dark brown hair momentarily, processing what he'd just read. On one hand, it could be an elaborate trap. By all rights he had to assume it, considering the nature of the letter and the fact that a little girl of all people had written it. But on the other hand, there was a certain dedication there that he simply couldn't ignore. And some part of him couldn't help but at least look into it. So moments later, the man was pulling out his laptop and began searching for answers, anything that could give this little girl's story any sort of credit.

Much to his surprise? It checked out. Every last bit of it. There was a mother, connected to the Rosie Jones in question, who had gone missing under rather mysterious circumstances. "I'll be damned, mystery kiddo."

'Y/N Jones, aged 37, a single mother, was nowhere to be found the next morning after reports came in that a struggle and silenced gunshots were heard from the house that night.'

He probably could have gotten away with just keeping the money and letting it go. It was some little kid somewhere hoping for someone to hear her plea, he could get away with it. But it was that name…. he'd seen it before, he knew he had. In all fairness though, he really only remembered faces exceptionally well. Names didn't matter in the long run, names didn't tell him who he was shooting within a crowd of people. So why did it keep nagging at the back of his mind?...

Spoiler alert: he shouldn't have went digging. He should have just left it alone. But he had always been a curious mind and he was nothing if not thorough on top of that. Popping open the top to his bottle of whiskey, Bucky carefully poured out a favorable portion into a glass tumbler, before letting it down onto the counter as he heard an agreeable noise coming from his laptop to signal it had finished its task. Glancing over his shoulder, he sipped on his drink as he made his way back over to the table, having waited for what seemed like an hour to get the information he wanted. And the minute he looked at the screen was the very same minute he regretted it.

He knew that face.

He knew it like the back of his hand almost, he knew it the same way he knew the taste of bourbon or the sound of a .22 magnum. That was the face of Y/N Y/L/N and it was a face he had been trying to forget for years now. But most of all he knew it was a mistake to have even touched this with a ten-foot pole. Because now he had a target, he knew what the target looked like, and he had been paid in- well, maybe not-so-full, but in 9-year-old currency $23.42 was basically a million dollars considering it was all her savings.

In short?

He had to do it now.

He knew that. And it damn near made him groan at the prospect. Because this was going to be a long-ass job, and if he was going to ensure the rescue of that little girl's mother, then he needed to ensure that child's safety. The less leverage the 'enemy' had, the easier his job was. So as he sighed out, "Damnitall, this better be fuckin worth it kid," the hundred year old assassin finished off his drink and went about packing his things to take on a job that he never asked for, but knew damn well he was stuck with until it was over.

But at least if he had to go through with this, he was going to be damn sure he did it right, that was for sure.

Taglist: If you weren't tagged it's because I couldn't get it to tag you or I didn't know which account was yours – @aingealcethlenn @deaan @idabbleincrazy @impala-1979 @kadet-jb @myinconnelly2 @princessmisery666 @rosedemica @tvdspngirl314 @darsynia @buckys-zomdoll @cookingglitterfairy @emilyshurley @fictionalabyss @jotink78 @mariekoukie6661 @manawhaat @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @scarletwinchester84 @sorenmarie87 @until-theend-oftheline @starryeyes2000 @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @betweengalaxies2 @focusonspn

[a-bit-of-writing]

FNAF - Third Shift

Fandom: Five Nights at Freddy's 

Character: Mike Schmidt 

Words: 596

Summary: 

Mike knew the job was shady, but he didn’t expect the walls to whisper or the lights to die one by one. By Night Three, it’s not about doing the job anymore. It's about surviving whatever’s crawling closer when the cameras go dark.

By Night Three, Mike Schmidt stopped pretending the animatronics were "just faulty programming."

The cameras lied.

The lights flickered in places they shouldn’t.

Sometimes - only sometimes - he heard his own name whispered through the static.

He sat hunched in the security office, sweat sticking his uniform to his back, the muted hum of the fan slicing through the silence like a blade.

Stay calm, he told himself. Just six hours.

The clock above the door, old and yellowed with grease, ticked sluggishly.

It was 1:11 AM.

Mike checked the East Hall camera.

Bonnie, the rabbit, stood there - too close to the lens - face a blur of cracked plastic and dead, staring eyes.

He snapped the camera off.

Took a breath.

Swallowed down the nausea.

They couldn't hurt him. Not if he stayed careful. Not if he stayed awake.

————

2:23 AM.

He heard it - the wet scrape of something dragging against linoleum.

A heavy, broken sound.

Mike flicked on the hallway light, hand trembling.

Nothing.

Just shadows pooling unnaturally, reaching a little too far.

The monitor buzzed.

The backstage camera glitched and then - movement.

A twitch of metal fingers.

Mike lowered the monitor.

Turned.

Chica was standing just outside the office doorway.

Not moving.

Just... waiting.

Her beak was chipped open in a mockery of a smile.

Her bib - LET’S EAT!!! - was smeared brown with some old, unidentifiable stain.

Mike hit the door button.

The security door slammed shut with a shriek of rusted metal.

Chica didn't even flinch.

She simply tilted her head at him, slow and unnatural, as if wondering how long he could last before he cracked.

Mike stared back, breathing shallowly, heart hammering like a trapped bird in his chest.

————

3:49 AM.

The power levels were dropping fast.

Too fast.

No matter how little he checked the lights, how long he sat in the dark, the battery gauge sank steadily, an executioner counting down seconds.

And all the while, the suits moved.

Sometimes he thought he could hear them just beyond the door - 

metal jaws grinding, motors whirring faintly, broken voice boxes letting out warbled notes of a song he almost remembered from childhood birthday parties.

Sometimes he swore he saw something else - 

a shape half-glimpsed in the corner of his eye, something slumped and golden, twitching with malice.

But when he turned, there was nothing.

Nothing but the humming fan.

Nothing but the cold, sweaty grip of fear.

————

5:55 AM.

Minutes left.

Just minutes.

Mike could see the finish line, could practically feel the paycheck in his hands, cheap ink bleeding onto his skin.

But the monitors were dead.

The lights were dying.

And Freddy was singing.

Softly.

Somewhere in the dark.

Mike closed his eyes.

He could hear the footsteps coming down the west hall.

Slow.

Measured.

Almost gentle.

He wondered, distantly, what his obituary would say.

Maybe they’d call him a hero.

Maybe no one would even notice.

He thought of the others - those who came before him.

Phone Guy’s last garbled message played back in his mind like a broken record.

"See you on the flip side..."

————

When the clock turned 6:00 AM, the bell rang.

The power blinked out entirely.

Mike sat there in the dark, alone, waiting.

And somewhere in the hollow ribs of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza,

something laughed.

A slow, rasping sound,

as if the building itself was breathing him in,

pulling him down,

claiming him piece by piece.

He didn’t realize he was crying until the first tear hit the floor, soaking into the grease-stained carpet.

But there was no one left to hear him.

Not anymore.

[pascalpvnk]

glimpse of us

pairing: sarah miller & joel miller & ellie williams

summary: sarah was his sun. ellie was his moon. both equally beautiful in their own ways, one more sought out than the other in the darkness of joel’s mind.

word count: 647

warnings: angst, major major spoilers for tlou part II/season two, survivors guilt, mentions of insecurity, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of religion, possibly ooc, very open for interpretation.

a/n: joel's thoughts are italicized. i'm sorry for the pain this may cause. self beta'd, all mistakes are my own. based on 'glimpse of us' by joji. dividers by @saradika-graphics

She’s written in the walls. Swirls of pink and purple paint contrasts the similarly beige hue that matched his living room back in Austin. Joel’s eyes must’a been deceiving him. 

The remnants of a solo movie night shifted to his similar ones with his sweet girl, every one of them ending with her curled up in his lap. She would murmur in her sleep, her accent heavier than she typically allowed. 

Joel feels immense guilt for surviving this long without her. Looking down at his lap, there isn’t a mane of curls covering her beautiful face. It’s just the denim of the jeans he fell asleep in the night prior. The dark leather of his watch feels tighter on his wrist for a moment. 

His arm timidly turns. The glare of the late morning sunshine’s reflection pierces his vision. Pointed glass shards attempt to cover the battered, rusted, stilled clock hands. The battery gave out over a decade ago, but he can still hear it tick tick tick, another constant reminder of his beloved.

I’m not her, you know.

But he also feels the weighted guilt that he cannot let go and give his kiddo the father she needs. The honest, do good dad that doesn’t have to watch her from afar, doing anything in her power to be away from him. Not that he deserves more with all he’s done for himself all these years. 

Her deep greens and red splatters taint the pretty pastels on his walls. They’re not the same person, he constantly has to remind himself. The part that comes with more difficulty some nights being and that’s okay.

How can he have screwed up this bad? His first was attached to his hip, goofing around with him, gave him the time of day and then some. But she was fourteen.

He doesn’t know how to conquer mid to late teens. It doesn’t make him feel any less of a failure. Because this may be new for him, but he damn well knows this distance is abnormal. Naively, he’s still hopeful that she’ll forgive him. He’s hopeful for a second chance at what he lost rather than to accept it and move forward. 

We’re done.

Little by little, Joel’s whiskey migrates away from his coffee corner. He lets himself enjoy the natural, full boldness of his mug, lets himself live awake rather than his comforting numbness. Yet still punishing himself with the headaches he endures when his vice slips into his nightly routine instead. Failure. Failure. Failure. 

Nights when he slips back into his lost faith, kneeling and silently whispering to his fallen angel above. Begging for her guidance, her love once more.

I miss you, babygirl. 

He yearns for her wit, her sarcasm, creativity and passion used for what she loved. He finds in a different form with her, this time being used against him.

Her once genuine laughter turned to pitiful chuckles and ultimately to nothing. Multiple conversations with his sister-in-law ending with everything’s fine, it’s just a phase. But she sees him lying through his teeth, the dull heartbreak his eyes hold. Everyone does. 

Everyone witnesses his soul crumple and turn to dust in the church. Pushed away by her once more but only this time verbally. He feels the burning gazes watching his defeated form, tail between his legs as he retreats to his home, finding comfort and solidarity in his hand painted mug. Pure black coffee. He deserves to feel this weight. Deserves to stay up all night with this pain.

He expects her to yell at him once more as he sees her come into the dim light, porch rail creaking as she finds herself a spot near him, not next to him. 

“I would like to try.”

Tears flood his vision. Joel got his dying wish. Another chance to have a glimpse of her once more.

to stay up to date on when I post fics, follow @pascalpvnk-writes and turn on notifications! i hope you enjoyed xx

[shmowder]

No don’t worry!! I did find it cool to figure out Daniil actually has a canon height lol! I’m just autistic and get insanely embarrassed when I get things wrong about my special interests is all!! You didn’t come off as “erm actually at all” don’t worry!! It’s just me having a oh god I got this minor detail wrong i’m so cringe moment…i genuinely love learning new things!! Even if i feel a bit silly cause i got things wrong as a result!! And you’re absolutely right it’s always nice to see some content for strong and tall characters getting the damsel treatment that’s always fun!!

However that being said can I get some short Daniil and short reader content!! Because short Daniil just itches a part of the brain so it’s the short transmasc part of the brain that’s the part of the brain it itches.

Also your screenshot edits are so good!! “Never read Frankenstein” absolutely took me out because yeah I don’t wanna imagine what would happen if that man read the Frankenstein…..however I’d also love to see what would happen if he read Frankenstein, don’t know if he can due to time period reasons but….if it’s possible get that man a copy immediately!

-immune anon

Short Daniil with a short reader

[fluff, slight comedy, comfort]

[GN Reader]

-

The one thing Dankovsky abhorred the most about this town was the sheer quantity of tall people. Gaint freaks roaming the streets, causing his neck to crane just to hold eye contact with them, already developing a sore muscle.

Was it something in the water? Has their bottled milk been blessed by some deity to be 10 times as effective? Even the herb brides were taller than him. Daniil doesn't want to think about what he might look like to people while standing directly next to Dr. Rubin.

This is why he didn't feel the least bit ashamed of the great amount of relief that overcame him once he first set sight on you. Finally, he can meet someone eye to eye.

Well...someone near his age, to be more precise.

Straightening his posture, Slightly puffing his chest and thanking whatever powers that be for letting him remember to put on his good shoes thise morning–the ones with the subtle platforms integrated seamlessly into the design—Daniil was more than delighted by the discovery that he in fact did surpass your height...

...by 2.5 centimetres.

which were mostly his shoes–But, a victory nonetheless.

But at least, this was the start of something beautiful. You haven't said a word yet and already made a good impression on him.

Months go by, and the two of you only get closer and closer. Like two peas in the pod, height accuracy, and all. Struggling to reach things on the high shelf, bringing any new clothes you buy to the tailor for hem adjustments.

Going on strolls together, naturally keeping up with one another's pace. A mutual understanding between you two when Daniil found you climbing atop a table once just to reach the clock on the wall in order to change its batteries, or that time you saw him use the pistol barrel to hook through a mug's handle and bring it from the wall cupboards.

One day, Daniil managed to sprain his ankle—just another average day of almost being thirty—and you let him lean his weight against your body as you helped him back to the house.

A seed of suspicion was planted in your mind that day, one that questioned if you could, theoretically, carry him?

There is no better time than the present; you went to put your hypothesis to the test immediately. Much to Daniil's confusion as you march up to his sitting figure on the couch after he just finished checking over his ankle, bending down, putting one arm around his waist, another under his knees.

And without warning, lifting upwards.

You discovered that without his heavy snakeskin coat, leather shoes, and medical bag, Daniil was relatively easy to lift up. His body barely put any strain on your arms, or maybe it was you who was getting stronger? You knew munching on these rather expensive protein bars had to pay off one day.

Would it have been anyone else, the Bachelor might have put his gun to use, or maybe borrowed a page or two from the Haruspex's book and got creative with a scalpel.

Luckily for you, and your lifespan, since you weren't just anyone to Daniil, you only got away with an earful about immediately putting him down.

Despite his initial apprehension, as the days went by, your discovery was proven more and more useful. The amount of times you've moved a sleeping Daniil from his desk to the bed, slowly carrying him up the stairs, careful not to accidentally bump his head against the wall–who was the architect that thought a curved staircase was a good idea?

Dankovsky wasn't stupid. He knew he didn't magically teleport from downstairs to his bed after he woke up.

His pride prevented him from outwardly expressing gratitude, the idea of being picked up still leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but he attempted to show his thanks in other ways.

[thatweirdbitchjax]

Silent Death

Days Gone Bye <pt 1>

{Rick POV}

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The soft buzz of the ventilator, and continuous beeps of the heart monitor is all I hear as a distorted Shane comes into my view.

"Hey, bud," he said, his voice sounding far off as my labored breathing over powered his voice. He leaned down, his voice becoming slightly easier to hear, "We're still here. We're still hanging in." He looked down at me before shaking his head, "I'm sorry man. I know I say the same crap every time I come in here," he sighed before messing with the flowers that were in a vase that seemed familiar to me. "Everybody pitched in on these. They... they wanted me to bring 'em down. They send their love and they just..." he took a deep breath, "They hope you come back real soon." He sighed again before looking from be to the flowers, then back at me again, "Linda and Diane from dispatch, they picked these out," he began picking at one of the flowers, "Probably could tell, huh?" He took another deep breath before speaking, "I'm gonna gonna sit these on your side table, okay?" He walked out of my line of view and I heard his footsteps head away before I heard nothing at all.

I took slow delayed breaths, "That vase... That's something special." I spoke, my throat sore as I speak. "Fess up, you steal it from your Grandma Jean's house?" I chuckle softly, "Hope you left her that spoon collection." I begin laughing even more before coughing.

"Shane?" I questioned, looking over towards where I'd seen him walk off to. "Shane, you in the john?" I ask again, my voice bouncing off the walls in the silent hospital.

I look over at the flowers again, just to find that they were wilted. I slowly reach a hand up to touch them, a crackling sound emitting from it as I rub the hard petals between my fingers. I look over at the clock, 2:17.

I blink my eyes repeatedly before moving my other hand, removing the clip off my thumb. I grunt softly as I take the air-tubes out of my nose and begin trying to sit up. I grab the IV pole before beginning to stand up, immediately collapsing.

"Nurse, help," my breathing comes in quick, raspy gasps. Maybe they didn't hear me? "Nurse, help," I repeat, a deep pain in my throat as I try to speak.

I continue huffing as I make my way to the bathroom, opening the door and pushing the rest of the medical equipment from my arm. I look at my self in the mirror before I lean down and turn the faucet on, cupping my hands under the flowing water and quickly drinking water.

{???'s POV}

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fuck,��my car had broken down miles back and I had been walking for hours now, Glitch following closely behind. Every now and again a geek would pop out from nowhere and I would put an axe through it's head, but other than that it was boring. My tracking devices battery had died a while back so I had no way of finding Vesper.

I felt a cold nose press to the back of my thigh and I turned around, noticing a geek following behind the two of us. A small sigh escaped through my nose as I walked up to it, pulling out an axe and slinging it down, directly down it's skull. It took a bit of hacking as it had gotten dull about five and a half geeks ago. I shook my head slightly before I began walking again.

I look to my side, noticing a hospital. I bet their are some sterile scalpels and needles in there. A few of the stitches keeping my mouth shut had popped or began bleeding and it was what was probably leading these son of a bitch'n geeks towards us. I look back at Glitch with a smile before tapping my right heel against the ground, signaling for him to follow closely behind me.

I walk up the stairs to the door before trying to open it. Locked, great. I sigh dramatically through my nose again. There has to be some sort of fire escape or something. I think walking around the front. Eventually I find an unlocked window.

I snap my fingers twice, signalling to Glitch to go climb a tree or something to stay safe. I knew the inside was going to be dangerous, and I would much rather be dead meat inside rather than him be dead meat for trying to protect me. He growled slightly while glaring at me, his baby blue eyes looking at me with worry. Me and him had an understanding, almost as if he could read my mind much like Vesper.

Vesper. Please be safe Ves, I sighed thinking about my second in charge, however I knew making her go on without me would keep her safer, I just wished I had contact with her, our walkie talkies had been long forgotten in a completely different room so we had no way to contact each other, not unless I could get some batteries for my tracker.

I shook my head slightly, knowing she was safe. She always was. She hated hurting people, but she'd watch me do it for her for breakfast. We just had that kind of bond. She always knew what I wanted to say, even if I couldn't. I had often tried to get my mouth free, but without a doctor, the chances of me losing my tongue were high, plus, with my mouth all stitched up and my tongue stitched to the roof of my mouth, I was a lot more threatening.

I glared right back at him and he shook his head before walking away, hopping into a tree for safety. I sighed again before I began struggling with the window. I eventually was able to tug it open and climb in, I was in some sort of waiting room. I look around for anything and everything before noticing some things that look like they might have batteries in them.

I grab the multiple remotes and tossed them into the bag I was carrying before walking out and down a hallway, past a reception area. I was keeping a close eye out for geeks, I know that almost all hospital's had been cleared out, but you never knew what things found their ways in. My ear twitched as I heard movement.

I refrained from slinging my head in that direction, not wanting to bring unwanted attention onto myself. I slowly turned and after seeing nothing, I decided to go the other way. I found another hallway, noticing a body laying on the ground. The lights were flickering as I pushed a wheelchair out of the way while approaching it, grabbing a knife just in case.

Is that a geek? Or is it already done for? I question, looking at the seemingly dead girl. Her face had splattered blood covering it while the rest of her body was drenched in her own. The girl was very pale and had platinum blonde hair. I gagged mentally as I looked at the brownish blood that covered her. I was one to like looking at gory stuff, but this was just sick. Her stomach had been ripped open and her organs spilled out of her stomach, now that I looked closer, the majority of her skin had been ripped off as well, those monstrous things skinned her.

As I approach it to walk past, I here another noise, this time it was through the doors in front of me. Was that, a match? I question as I slowly approach, putting my knife away and grabbing one of the axes I hadn't used yet, ensure it would easily go through anything in case of the worse case scenario, a herd of them things. But geeks can't light matches, can they?

As I approach I hear slow, deliberate footsteps. I notice a room and hide just in case, realizing I might be able to make my way around to attack from behind. As I find my way to the other side, the person had already turned to face me, I went to swing but I realized pretty quickly that it was human, in fact it was a man.

He flinched back, but quickly realized I had stopped my axe. I look down and notice a bandage on his stomach. I looked back up at him, a questioning look on my face. He was staring at my mouth, more like the bloody beds that was my mouth.

"Who are you?" He spoke slowly. I just kept looking at him silently, not much I could say anyways. He looked back at the thing before looking at me again, his focus re-arriving at my stitches. "Right. Uh, my names Rick, Rick Grimes. Do you know what the hell happened here?" I look at him before looking back at the little girl, shaking my head softly.

I look down at his bandage again, pointing at it with the tip of my axe as a way to ask, what happened to you?

Thankfully he knew what I was asking and answered, "I was shot."

I raise my eyebrow softly before shaking my head, deciding that if he's lying and he turns, then I'll just kill him, no big deal, I've done it before, I'll do it again. I look around and notice a medication room. I nod towards it before tossing him a knife while I enter it. He looked at me like I was crazy before eventually deciding to, slowly, follow me. I simply pushed him back out and began taking all the medical supplies and medication that was in there, which was a lot.

Why didn't I think of this before? I wondered walking back out and noticing him holding the knife in the hand that wasn't clenched to his stomach. I tap his shoulder slightly and he turns to face me, a disturbed look on his face. He handed me back my knife before he began walking away down the hallway again. I noticed two double doors at the end of it. I could hear the chains clinking together as we walked up towards it, me trailing behind him, I was still on the lookout for needles. Of all the things I had seen, needles were the only thing I couldn't find, and I didn't want to leave the man who looked like he just woke up from a coma -he definitely did- alone for too long, just in case he turned. For some reason, I had tossed him my favorite knife, and I was not going to let a geek have it.

He continued walking and looked at the walls, multiple splatters of blood and gunshots were in a line on the wall, At least we know where the dead came from now. I thought with a shrug while looking at the bullet holes. I run a finger across one of them as he continued approaching the door, looking at all the blood on the walls and floor. I slowly began following him again, looking up at the broken ceiling as he walked. How all the glass wasn't hurting this dude's feet? I have not a single clue.

As we approached the double doors we noticed the words "DON'T OPEN, DEAD INSIDE" wrote on it along with a plaque above it that said cafeteria. I grabbed Rick's shoulder as a way to tell him to stop. And I pointed at the handles that were tied together with a chain and lock. His breathing was starting to pick up, and I could hear his heart beat quicker with fear as moaning and glass breaking could be heard behind the door.

He began backing into me as the board lifted slightly while the geeks pushed against the door while groaning. They know we're here. I thought, not moving as he practically stood on top of me, yet he continued trying to back up. They started banging on the door, shoving it while the plank struggled to stay inside the door handles.

He begins panting as they push their fingers out while trying to grab onto the board and the chains. He quickly pushes off of me and runs into another quickly before trying to get an elevator to work. It's not gonna work you idiot. I scoff in my head while following him.

I walk up to him before tapping his shoulder and pointing towards a fire exit. He quickly makes his way into it, holding the door open long enough for me to enter before closing it again, leaving us in complete darkness. He coughs slightly before lighting a match. He coughs again as he adjusts to the light before grabbing onto the railing and slowly walking. I grab his hand that was holding into the match box before attempting to lead him. I remember being here before, or somewhere similar at least before the dead started walking. I heard him gasp as the match burnt him, I moved my grip to his wrist so he could light another one.

I would have done it, but if he has been bitten and he didn't tell me, I'd rather him burn his finger tips rather than me. He lights another one, his breathing shaking as he slightly leans on me for balance while walking down the stairs. Could you breathe any louder? I question. If there was a herd of geeks around, I would feed you to them, with your heavy breathing ass. While I could understand if he had just woken up, and this was his first time seeing them, which it probably is, it's still annoying. Almost as annoying as the fact that he wasn't wearing anything other than a pair of boxer shorts, and a hospital robe. I would offer him some clothes, but I doubt mine would fit him. I chuckle softly at the thought, the sound slightly muffled due to the stitches. He glanced over at me almost looking in thought before the match burned his hand again, causing him to drop it and it to go out.

He lit another one just as we approached the exit. Where do I remember this from? I question myself, while looking at this exit. I was receiving a strange sense of dejá vu. It was like I had been here and done this before. I heard him gasp again as the match burned him, I smelt the burning flesh this time so I softly grabbed the matches out of his hand, stopping him from lighting another one before grabbing his hand after tucking the matches away in a pocket. I carefully led him towards the door, my eyes finally adjusting to the dark. I carefully lead him down the stairs and to the door. I feel around it until I find the handle. I push towards the door and open it squinting as the sun assaulted my eyes. Rick didn't let go of my hand, but he did move his other to block the sun as it's rays attempted to punch his eyes.

He finally pulled out of my grip as he kept looking back and forth, trying to block out the sun. My eyes quickly adjusted, like always but I noticed a putrid smell. Body dump. I thought while looking at all of the bodies on the loading dock. Rick stepped away, leaning against the wall while he attempted to adjust to the brightness. He began walking down the stairs with me following not to far behind as I remember why I had the strange sense of Dejá Vu when my eyes landed upon a familiar body.

Dad? I thought, while looking at him, Rick slowly heading down the stairs as the sound of crickets and flies buzzing around filled the empty silence. I walked down behind him, stopping him just before he stepped on a body. He slowly began walking with me following after him, a somber look on my face while I look at my fathers body. His face hadn't been covered so I could still see the bullet wound on his forehead. I walked past Rick and up to his body, moving the body bag up, covering his face. He might not have been a good man to me or anyone else in my family, but he was still my father. Still the man who taught me to shoot, who taught me to fight, who taught me how to hide weapons on myself, no matter the kinds of tests I might have to go through, he was still the man who'd taught me everything I used to survive now.

Rick looked at me and then at the body before speaking, "Was he someone important to you?" He questioned, I nod softly before standing again, tapping my thigh twice, Rick looking at me questionably before jumping back with a gasp as Glitch jumped out of the tree and came running towards me, stopping when he sat just beside me.

Rick looked like he was about to throw up as he actually looked around as I pet Glitch's head. He began walking again, carful not to accidentally step on any of the dead, people? Geeks? Where they people when they were shot? I shook my head softly before following him, Glitch following closely behind me, looking at the bodies in disgust.

Rick began tripping over his own feet as we walked out. I tried to help him stand straight as we walked up, but he simply pushed me away and continued struggling. I looked at him like he was crazy before looking back at Glitch with a 'You see that too, or am I tripping?' look just for him to be looking at me with the same look. I chuckle softly before following Rick up, noticing all of the military vehicles. Military Jeeps, planes, and even a tank sat at the top of the hill.

(Wee Time Skip)

We had been walking for a while, so much so to the point I had offered Rick water a couple of times before placing the bottle to my lips, the liquid slowly dripping past the stitches and into my throat. We were coming up to a park area and I seen a bike, I tapped his shoulder before pointing at it. I had no clue where he was going, but I was going to help him anyways. He hadn't done any wrong to me yet, and something was telling me that this man was going to need my help.

He noticed the bike thanks to my tap and he began walking towards it before something caught his attention. While walking with him, I noticed it too. It was the upper half of a geek, it's intestines hanging out of where it's legs should be. As he grabbed the bike, it started waking up, it's wheezing sadly not foreign to me.

"Ah. Ah. Oh shit." Rick wheezed, falling over with the bike. I walked over to him, Glitch looking at the geek with disgust while I helped Rick up. His breathing got heavy again as the geek growled at us. He stood up and got on the bike as it reached out towards him before looking at me as I still stood there. I would have killed it, I could have, but I would rather not go through having to track down Rick, and it wasn't causing any trouble as of now, so me and Glitch began running after him. He stopped briefly and looked back at me, I nodded at him to go ahead while me and Glitch ran after him, a small smile gracing my stitched mouth, another stitch popping free as we ran causing blood to drop out of my lips.

As we came up to a house he slowly began getting out the bike before tossing it to the side and climbing up the steps of the path that led to the front door. Me and Glitch followed him as he opened the door and ran in.

"Lori." He said as he opened the door. I lifted a brow at the name before looking around.

This must be his home, Lori must be his wife. I thought to myself, I for some inexplicable reason felt a tug on my heart. Whoever this Lori chick is, she's lucky to have someone this distraught over her absence. I thought to myself, patting Glitches head softly, If I went missing, you'd look for me, wouldn't you, boy? I though while looking down at him.

"Lori!" He said again, walking into another room. I wanted to shush him, tell him to be quite, but I couldn't.

I waited at the front door, not wanting to be disrespectful as he went through his house looking for his wife. She's probably long gone by now. Either dead, or on the way to being dead. I thought to myself, Glitch popping down beside me. I sat down next to him, prompting him to lay his head on my lap as I ran my fingers through his fur.

"Carl. Carl!" He yelled. That must be his son. I guessed again, laying my head on the wall. I watched for any movement whatsoever knowing Glitch would move in an instant if he noticed danger. "Shoot." I heard him mumble. "Lori! Carl!" He yelled again.

Glitch quickly moved, recognizing this as danger. I quickly stood before running through the house to find Rick, finding him in the living room by the front door. He was stooped down, either on the verge of crying or crying. I approached him, hearing him sob, a worried look on my face. I approached him even further, him simply looking at me before going back to crying.

"Lori! Carl." He continued, even after a laid my hand on his back, hoping to calm him down. If he continues yelling like this neither of us will survive. He almost fell onto the floor so I grabbed him and pulled him in, hugging him as he cried. I was never good a consoling people, but I was trying my best, just to keep him quiet. He sobbed in my arms while I held him before he placed a hand on my thigh, looking at it before speaking again. "Is this real?" He questioned.

Oh, come on. Not the "Is this real?" type. I thought to myself, having dealt with this type of person before. He eventually pushed himself off of me before speaking again.

"Am I here?"

And, he's, spiraling. I sighed to myself.

He began hitting himself in the face repeatedly, "Wake.. Wake up." He sniffled as I grabbed his hand to stop him from hitting himself. He looked over at Glitch who was more worried about the fact that I was caring for someone who wasn't him or Vesper, than the fact that he was looking at him.

Rick stood and walked past him, out into the yard, leaving me sitting there. I heard his footsteps slowly leave before I let out a sigh I didn't know I was holding in. I looked down at my chest where his tears had stained my shirt. I remember torturing people for even so much a spilling the tiniest bit of water on me, but right now, I just wanted to make sure this man was ok. Maybe losing everything I worked so hard for was enough to drive me mad. I thought to myself before standing as I heard a yell outside.

"Daddy! Daddy!" I seen a little black boy say while I ran out, Glitch trialing not too far behind me.

"Carl." I heard Rick say, "Carl. I found you." He continued.

"Daddy, I got the sumbitch! I'm gonna smack him dead." I heard the boy say, a twig snapping under my foot as I approached them, causing him to quickly turn around and point a shovel at me. Did this kid really just knock Rick out with a shovel? I questioned myself, making a mental note to laugh at him about it later.

I noticed a man walk up to a geek before shooting it in the side of the head. The man ran up to us, pointing the gun at me before pushing what I'm guessing is his son behind him. "He say something? I thought I heard him say something." He asked his son as I put my hands up, tapping my left heel for Glitch to hide behind me.

"He called me Carl." The boy said frantically.

"Son, you know they don't talk." The man said.

So he is the son then, nice. I guessed right. I thought to myself.

"Hey, mista, what's that bandage for?" He questioned, not moving the gun off me.

"W-what?" Rick questioned, I felt bad for him, but there was nothing I could do about it.

"What kind of wound?" The man asked again. Not receiving an answer he turned to me, but before he couldn't ask he noticed my lips. He looked back at Rick after that, realizing that he wouldn't receive an answer out of me either. "You answer me, damn you." He continued, grabbing the shovel and placing it to his neck. "What's ya wound?" He questioned again.

I noticed Rick slowly losing consciousness and took a step forward, just for the man to raise his head and fix his grip on the gun while pointing it at me. "Take another step and I will kill you." Rick finally passed out as he threatened me.

Tags:

@puppet200 @zeroisreallygood @purpleeggyboi @th3-r4t-48 @im-a-simp898 @aflairforthemelodramaticc @luciluck2046 @caretaleandotherstuff @evry1h8s-me

[waterloggedtomorrow]

I emailed facility services about a clock in one of my classrooms that's stopped + they responded saying they need to know if it's battery-powered or wired to the wall before they can do anything about it? It's a tall classroom, and the clock is probably 10 feet up the wall. I do not know what kind of clock it is and also??? Obviously if I had more information that would be helpful, but? That absolutely Cannot be critical information for you to solve this problem...

[moledroxisms]

. ⭑ ˗ˏˋ𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫.ˎˊ˗⭑

open to: anyone! muse: amelia damen. 21. she/her. hunter. love and deepspace mc. connection: up to player! plot: it's mid-winter when a blackout occurs and amelia wakes up from her slumber

✎ . . . ❝𝒔𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈❞ .ೃ࿐

The flat was a shell of itself, stripped of the gentle hum of modern life. The usual warmth that lingered even in the early morning was conspicuously absent, replaced by a biting cold that seemed to seep through the walls. Pale, frosty light filtered through the curtains, casting a dim, silvery hue over the room. The radiator, too, was silent and inert, a clear indication of the blackout that had overtaken the neighbourhood.

The air was still, unnervingly so, with none of the subtle buzz of electricity. No clock ticking, no fridge humming, no faint vibration of power lines in the distance. The faint whistling of the wind outside, slipping through the cracks of the windows, was the only sound. In the kitchen, the digital clock on the stove was blank, its red numbers gone. The faucet shone faintly, glistening from condensation that had begun to form in the cool air.

Outside, the street was unnaturally quiet. The usual hum of passing cars and the sporadic chatter of night owls returning home was all that can be heard in the midst of a blackout. The glow of streetlights was gone, leaving the faint silhouettes of neighboring buildings to blur into the horizon, the occasional window glowing faintly from battery-powered lanterns or candles.

೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 𝗢𝟭. ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇ⠀ᰋ

Amelia slowly stirred awake to an unsettling chill enveloping her room. It was a biting cold that seemed to seep into her very bones, and the silence around her felt almost oppressive, amplifying her unease.

With bleary eyes, she blindly reached for her bedside lamp, her fingers brushing against the cool metal, only to discover, to her dismay, that it refused to turn on.

"Huh?" she muttered, confused and slightly anxious.

Clutching her blankets, she cocooned herself tightly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet met the frigid floor with a sharp gasp, and she immediately regretted the boldness of leaving her cozy haven. Though she often enjoyed the freedom of moving around her flat without slippers—much to the dismay of some friends and family who worry for her health—tonight was different; the chill was unbearable.

With a wince, she delicately searched the floor with her toes until she finally located her neglected indoor slippers, the soft, fluffy things offering a welcome reprieve from the cold. As she slipped them on, she sniffled, her breath visible in the frosty air, and tried to devise a way to ward off the chill while reaching for her phone. She needed to check for any updates, hoping to uncover what had caused this unsettling silence and the strange cold that had invaded her night.

Just then, a sudden commotion interrupted her thoughts. Not from her door, but from her bedroom window. She froze as she heard several soft taps against the glass. "Hello?" she called out, unsurely, wondering who or what it was at such a late hour.

[quincytheacademicvictim]

・❥ 5 Desktop / Alarm Clock Recommendations ⏰ ❀。• *₊°。

Hello, Quincy here! If you’re looking for some room decor to up your room aesthetic game, look no further than this (mostly digital) cute/quirky desktop clock guide! [not sponsored!😵]

Here is a list of five of the most eye catching clocks I found:

① SEIKO's Doraemon Talking Digital Alarm Clock Model JF374A

Seiko is a reputable and well-known Japanese brand that sells clocks. There is also an analogue version of this clock. Its bigger, so it probably isn't fit for your desk, but it still extremely cute!

If you're looking to get this, there is one problem. Unless you live in the US or Japan, I can't seem to find where you could buy this (other than ebay).

Keep in mind as well, the buttons on this clock are in Japanese, and the letters displayed (such as the day of the week) is also in Japanese.

This could be a golden opportunity to start learning some Kanji!

② Tamagotchi Light Up Alarm Clock

A huge tamagotchi, an alarm clock... a TAMAGOTCHI ALARM CLOCK? That's right, this exists!

Guess what, it LIGHTS UP!

It has a date and temperature display as well. The clock can run on both AA batteries or use a USB power cable, making it very versatile.

It only comes in this design though, but I think its plenty cute!

③ CASIO's TQ134-4 Alarm Clock

This is a quartz clock by CASIO, another well known watch and clock making company. It features a striking but simple design that contrasts the some of the other clocks I have on this list.

Many of CASIO's clocks have glow in the dark numbers, and this one has it too! Easy on your eyes, its great for those who are not bothered to press a button on their clock to light it up in the night.

This clock runs on batteries and its reported battery life is 12 months.

I personally don't like analogue. Its cute, but I find it more convenient to have a digital clock. Unless reading analogue clocks have become second nature to you, be real to yourself - reading analogue is annoying.

④ Oregon Scientific's 'Atomic' Bear Digital Clock

This clock comes in both green (above) and orange.

Okay okay, its marketed as a kid's clock. BUT LOOK HOW CUTE IT IS.

Here are some of its features that make it my favourite clock on this list:

Shows the seconds and temperature!

Easy to use: One you set an alarm, it automatically goes off every 24 hours! Moreover, you do not need to manually adjust the time at all, leading onto the next point...

is radio controlled, meaning its VERY accurate! How it works: using the radio built inside, it finds the nearby signal from an atomic clock (the most accurate clocks in the world) and automatically sets your time!

Sorry for the next setback, but the company behind this clock (oregon scientific) seems to have shut down. Their official website is still up, but it seems dead, with everything out of stock. However, listings of this clock is up on amazon. You can try buy these on ebay as well. I bought mine off HKTV mall, which is like Hong Kong's amazon. I live in AU btw :)

⑤ SEIKO's Yellow Marathon Alarm Clock

Sorry for the second SEIKO mention, but their clocks designs are just way too loveable!

This big clock can be put on the stand it comes with or be put separately, whether on a wall or your bedside table.

If you love big, bold and simple, this is perfect for you.

It's a quartz clock featuring seconds that lights up in the dark.

If you find this two big, they have two other designs that are smaller but feature a similar yellow theme :)

•❣•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•❣• •❣•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•❣••❣•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•❣•

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked my recommendations.

Please tell me if this inspired you to get anything, I would love to know!

Anyways, hope you have a lovely rest of your day. Drink water!

[fawna12]

a clock with no hands attached to the wall the hands are still there inside of the cover but the clock can no longer do what it was made to do

Does it still have power left? Has it been wound? Does the battery have juice? Does it still tick? There's no way to tell.

The clock in a gym It is in a cage

The cage was meant to protect it from this fate. The cage is dented, showing that it has to an extent But the cage did not work The clock is now broken.

How long has it been broken, Without being fixed?

How long has it been unable, To go tick, tick, tick? A child whose brain does not work in the same way. The things meant to protect them have worked against them, and now nobody can help. Nobody can put their hands back on, unbend the seconds hand Nobody can show them how to tick again No longer is anyone able to help them go tick, tick, tick Like all the other clocks

[thetorturerwrites]

Entrapped Ch 2: No Such Luck

Summary: The bathroom next to your room is too fucking small.

Historic tags: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT; rape/non-con; extremely dubious consent; age difference; Flip is a bad bad man; seriously: beware

Brand-new tags: Piss, fellatio, battery

A/N: You should not read this, but if you do, remember where you are and what we do here.

January 9

Flip gave you a week to heal. For seven days, he spoke to you normally, treated you kindly, and behaved as though nothing had ever happened between you. The house was quiet - a perfect nuclear family. Lottie clucked on and on about how pleased she was the two of you got along so well, and it was all you could do to not throw the nearest knick knack or lamp at her. But after the third day, he started looking at you with that predatorial gleam in his hazel eyes. It wasn’t just that he tracked your movements; it was that he made sure you knew he did so. In a subtle power move, he’d shift his boot or tap his lighter against the table - any small thing to draw your gaze so you’d see him clocking you, taking stock of how wobbly you walked or how deeply you winced. You couldn’t remember a time when you felt so fucking anxious.

Your clock ran out at 7:57 a.m. on a Monday morning.

Having learned your lesson about locked doors, you stood at the tiny green bathroom sink brushing your teeth with your eyes closed. You couldn't bear to look in the mirror these days. The person who stared back at you looked haggard, conflicted, haunted. She had no options and wouldn't know what to do with one if it hit her square between the eyes. Instead, you spent every day praying your tormentor was busy, uninterested, or just fucking gone. His job kept him away, and as nice as it was to take a breath in his absence, Lottie was unbearable when he wasn't there to witness her performances. When she didn't have him to focus on, she hyper focused on you and all the ways you differed. For the last three days, you'd wondered if you'd prefer his scrutiny to hers. He was a walking terror, but at least he was something to look at.

Shaking off the foolishness, you chided yourself for that line of thinking because nothing good would ever come your way at the hands of Flip Zimmerman. You needed to get that shit out of your head post haste. Yesterday, even. 

The man must be fucking psychic, though, because as you spit out the last of the toothpaste, telling yourself to get it the fuck together, the rickety door creaked open, edging inwards at the behest of a dusty boot. A veritable wall unto himself, Flip filled the frame completely, observing you for so long you fidgeted. Crossing python arms over his white thermal clad chest, he leaned against the jamb and sucked on a toothpick obnoxiously loud.

“Lottie?”

You didn’t recognize your voice. It was small, afraid, and it trembled where you wished with all your might you could be strong. If she was awake, though, the likelihood you’d suffer for the next however long was much lower.

His voice, however, burned into your gray matter. It raised your heckles, curled your toes, and set your teeth to grinding. 

“Asleep.”

You smashed your lips together, as if you could stop the fear from escaping the bottom of your gullet. The world closed in, tunnel vision taking over because one person crowded the poorly designed bathroom; so, when Flip pushed off the doorjamb and stepped inside, you felt emphatically trapped. And terrified. He let the door click shut behind him and moved around you, moving far too stealthily for a behemoth. 

You held your breath and dared not look. 

When you didn’t hear the jangle of his belt until he’d passed you, your jaw unclenched in barely restrained relief. You hardly breathed, thanking the almighty that Flip's plan was to pee and not introduce your face to the grimy tiled floor. Cautious, you lowered the toothbrush to the sink, hoping you could flee if your steps were quick and careful. If you didn't agitate the beast, he could forget you existed.

You should have known better. You had no such luck. 

Maybe it was the way you shuddered, or maybe you reached for the doorknob a smidge too fast. Something tripped his trigger, and he snatched the thought of escape right out of your brain with five thick fingers tangled into the hair at the back of your head. He had decades of experience subduing people on his side, and you were just an idiot with high hopes. In a flash, he had you on your knees in front of him, forcing his spongy dick into your mouth.

You didn't register that the floor was cold. Nor the smell of starch in his pants. Nor the burning in your nose, eyes, scalp. You missed it all because the first hot drop of salty urine launched you into an outright atomic panic. Your muffled yells bounced off the dingy walls, and you beat at his corded thighs. Crying wasn’t the right word for what you did. Your eyes leaked, and your chest seized, but it was more than sadness, more than anger or dread. It was revulsion. It was horror, and you flailed frantically against his grip, which did not, even for a millisecond, weaken.

“Shut the fuck up.” 

He groused, but you just could not. What scant bit of self-respect you had left would not allow you to do this without a fight, but it was a fight with which Flip swiftly tired. Further exerting his control of the situation, he stepped closer, tipped your head back more, and bypassed any conscious function you may have had for this vulgarity. He took away your option to even swallow of your own accord and pissed directly down your throat while you frothed and retched, sending it dribbling out at the corners of your mouth and shooting up into your sinus cavities.

It was more than humiliation, more than objectification. He never thought of you as a person, you knew, but this was a level of degradation you could not comprehend.

When he finished, he yanked your head backwards off of his spit-soaked dick but did not release his hold. You heaved and coughed, trying so goddamn hard to do it quietly because there was no snowball’s chance in hell you’d ever be able to explain why you were on your knees at his feet if Lottie showed up. But the smell of it was everywhere, and you sobbed. Confusion and disgust and fury and… fucking everything passed through your mind, but you couldn't settle on only one. Somehow, this was worse than what he’d already done, and you suddenly weren’t sure if he intended for you to survive this bargain.

He meant to torture you to death. To do all the heinous things a person could think of but couldn't get away with legally. He had you dead to rights, and he intended to make the indecent most of it. 

“Why the fuck do you only wear the same three things all the time?”

On another day, you might have pretended to be offended. This was your favorite hoodie, and it had hidden you from many a wandering eye. But today, with your shit rocked so thoroughly, you couldn't argue. Your jeans were more holes than pants, you could barely tell your hoodie used to be black, and your bra only had one good hook left. Your lungs thickened with colliding shames. Your stomach sloshed, and when you thought about why, you battled nausea all over again. Pushing the heels of your hands deep into both overflowing eyes, you forced yourself to breathe in through the nose, despite the smell, and out through the mouth.

“Lottie…”

It was all you could say, and it occurred to you it was the only word you’d said to Flip since he opened the door.

Whatever he felt about the thoroughness of your answer, Flip’s fingers tightened in your hair again, and he drew you back against his groin. You understood what he meant for you to do. Hell, any logical person would understand what he meant for you to do, and the sooner you got on with it, the sooner he’d lose interest and go the fuck to work. Squeezing your eyes shut tight, you opened your mouth and took him once more.

Sucking cock wasn’t historically your favorite thing, but it wasn’t particularly unpleasant. Losing yourself to the rhythm made it easier to bear. In addition, your blow job recipients never lasted very long, which also made the task easier to bear. Instinctively, you knew that would not be the case now, but if you could zone out, everything would be over soon…soon-ish.

With your nose brushing against Flip’s pelvis, you swirled your tongue around his semi-soft dick and coaxed it to life. Each twitch and jump told you what he liked, and it wasn’t long before he was half-mast and long enough for you to bob back and forth - root to tip, tip to root, root to tip, tip to root. He continued growing and hardening far past what you expected, though. His cock was fuller and longer than any you’d had before, and it was overwhelming.

The smell of him was everywhere, as was his taste. Not salty like his piss, but not sweet. It was a heady mix of spice and sweat, and it absolutely should not have tasted good.  The way he guided your head with his large hand and the feel of his erratic heartbeat in the throb of his veins married that taste, and it fucking worked. Without really doing much, he fucked you all the way up, and you lost yourself in the obscenity of it. Sucking Flip’s cock was messy and loud. He coaxed more saliva from the back of your mouth until it was so noisy you were sure Lottie would hear, each slurp joining the roar in your ears. When he’d lengthened too much for you to fit in your mouth, you wrapped your hands around the base to tug and twist.

And when he hummed? That pleased sound deep in his chest? You. Were. Fucking. Gone. There was no bathroom, no house. There was no bruised past or million dollar hospital bill. There was no Lottie, no Colorado. There was only Flip’s thick, weighty cock.

“Not the first dick you’ve sucked, is it? Look at me.”

Maintaining your (surprisingly) enthusiastic pace, you shifted your weight and tipped your head back - far too similar to exactly what he’d done when he pissed in your mouth five goddamn minutes ago - and opened watery zombie eyes on him. Cotton-brained, you stared. You no longer existed in the world regular humans lived in. There was only this, only him.

“Rules,” he said, his large body curving towards you to ensure his low talk didn’t carry. “No more pants. No panties. No bra. Your ass is mine, and I want unfettered access to it. Understand?”

You weren’t in a rush to respond, too drunk on the delicacy of his dick and the way it stabbed at your throat. His words buzzed in the decision-making part of your brain, but you ignored it and forced yourself all the way down on his cock, hungrily cutting off your own airway. He groaned, tightening his grip in your hair and jerking you backwards for the second time this morning.

Your mouth hung agape, and your chest spasmed with how hard you fought to suck in air. You didn’t want to think. Flip choking you out with his monster-sized cock was a much more straightforward path to not thinking, and you outright whimpered when he batted your hand away from reaching for him.

“Say you understand.”

“Hnng. I.. un…der…stand..”

His gaze was fire, and it burned you from your crown down. 

“You want more?” You didn’t need him to nod for you this time. “Yeah? Want me to fuck this filthy mouth of yours until you black out?”

Alien noises erupted from your throat, and you felt your body surge towards him, straining to steal exactly what he asked. You even licked your lips when he finally let go of your hair and straightened upright, thinking he would deliver on the promise, but he cracked you so hard across the mouth that your head knocked straight into the sink. 

It's funny, you thought; slaps don’t ever sound like slaps.

Bell rung, you held your swelling forehead and shook the stars from your eyes. He snatched you up by the chin, amazing you yet again at how goddamn fast he moved.

“Too fucking bad.” His tone was lethal, barely above a whisper, and what he said next proved everything you thought about him to be true. “You’re going to suffer for me, Puddin’, and you’ll be wide awake every fucking minute of it.”

Your lips trembled, and your eyes stung with fresh tears. You slumped back onto your ass and shrunk away from him, watching numbly as he stuffed his hardness back into the dark jeans and re-buckled his belt. You’d gone from some sort of fucked up euphoria to burning humiliation and icy terror - AGAIN - so goddamn fast that you couldn’t make a single sound - not a sigh, not a hiccup. Nothing.

“Get up. We’re going into town to get you something more appropriate to wear.”

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One: Domestic Battles

Chapter 23: Updates and Upgrades

He was aware that home was supposed to be their time. He was aware that they'd only been married a few days, and he should want to spend every night by her side. He was aware that he should be counting down the minutes until it was time for bed.

But he was also aware that the sand in his pocket was a ticking time bomb that was going to have to demand his attention. And when he'd explained that to Belle the second they stepped into the house, she seemed to understand and willingly allowed him to go into the basement, where he promptly removed the vial from his pocket, examined it for cracks and flaws, and then quickly began to search the room.

Nickel. He needed nickel. A nickel flask, or a nickel beaker, or…anything! What he ended up finding was small, a box of Regina's that he used to sneak away and store a small rock imbued with her power long ago in the Enchanted Forest. At the rate the dust was expanding, he wasn't sure that it would hold for more than twenty-four hours unless, miraculously, the dust began to stabilize. Once it was stabilized and the magic within it settled, he could store it in anything, but for now…for now, he was curious. Just how powerful was this magic he was dealing with?

After seeing that Belle had eaten and gone to sleep on her own, a sight that nearly broke his heart, he took advantage of the situation and left. He took the box of Regina's he'd found and the dust with him. The pawn shop was his ultimate destination, but first, there was somewhere else he had to go.

The last place he ever wanted to be again.

The barn. He'd only taken a few scoops of the dust earlier, but there was more here, more to be mined, and though the bit he had was already causing him trouble on its own, he wasn't about to risk anyone else stumbling upon this little secret. He had to act now. Still, it was a difficult process. Ordinarily, to get every last grain infected, he'd have used his magic to sift through the dirt by calling the dust to him. But since these particles didn't react to magic…

He had to do it the other way around.

It took a massive amount of power, the power that required the dagger in his hand to slowly lift every unaffected grain of sand into the air until he hit the foundation. The grains that he was left with, the ones that didn't budge for him no matter how hard he tried, those were what he was after. He enchanted a broom to sweep those magical, non-magic grains into a dustpan, then delivered it to him so he could set the floor back down where it belonged. Now he was confident; every grain of that urn was now in his possession. With that in mind, he moved back to the pawn shop.

There, he collected two clocks that he had lying around. He removed their batteries and enchanted them both to work only with magic, then set them both for the same time before setting them side by side. With the dust, he drew a circle around one. The second the circle was complete, the clock within it…struggled. The other clock continued ticking on without a problem, but this clock…it didn't stop, not completely, but it did struggle to continue working, slowing down, significantly hindered by the circle around it.

Intrigued, he broke the circle with a pen, pulled the clock free, where it began working once more, and tied a string to it. Delicately, he reestablished the circle it had been in, and when it began to slow once more, he pulled on the string. The clock in the circle moved…until it was met with an invisible golden wall. Then it didn't budge.

Interesting. Very interesting.

He left the clocks there and stepped away. It wouldn't be perfect, but when the dust wore off, if the dust wore off, the clocks within would begin working again. And then he could use the time difference between them to roughly figure out how long the dust would hold. Of course, it would never be a sure thing. The type of magic it was asked to contain, the amount used, and the strength of the caster would all have an effect on how long until the magic it shielded was spent. But working with his own powerful magic would at least give him a general idea.

Situation handled for the moment, he put the dust aside and began to think back to the books in his basement library. As much as he'd love to go to bed, Belle was already asleep without him. He may as well make good use of the time she wasn't hovering over his shoulder and get to work on that to-do list. He could go back, grab a few books that might tell him more about the hat, about how it worked-

As if it was timed, his phone rang just as he had arrived back in his basement and pulled a particular tomb. At this hour…

Dove.

"I thought you were going to call me later."

"By definition, Mr. Dove, any time I choose to call you would, in fact, be 'later.'"

"Yeah, well, it's late; I want to get to bed."

"Did you get a name?" he questioned, glancing over at the cylinder that was poised on his table.

"Didn't need to," he answered. "I've collected rent from people in this town for decades, I know him on sight. Guy you are looking for goes by the name Yen Sid."

"Yen Sid," he clarified instead. "You're sure?"

"Positive…I saw him coming out of the ice cream store just as you told me he would, cone in hand…serving him was the last thing Sarah Fisher did before she closed early for the day to go sharpen her pitchfork with the other villagers."

There was bait in that information; he could hear it in Dove's voice. But he didn't care. Ingrid had told him that she'd wanted to get close to Elsa first, and he'd had the thought when she turned up in his shop with Hook rather than Emma that it was all part of her plan. There was no news to him.

"You have an address?"

"I do, but Sir…here's the strange thing. This guy used to live in a shack; it was a little like a gardener's cabin, out in the middle of nowhere, cliffs of Storybrooke. The shack wasn't much to look at but at least he had a great view."

"You don't need to sell it to me, Dove. I already own it."

"That's the thing, Sir…when you were still away, and the rent was due, I went out to that cabin to collect rent only…there's a building there now."

"Excuse me."

"Yeah…the cottage is still there, but now there's this huge mansion in the way of that view."

"A mansion on the cliffs…it looks over the ocean."

"Yes…and the cottage in the back, it was there, but it looked abandoned. It was just the same as it always was, it just looks like Yen Sid stepped away and didn't come back. Honestly, I'd have assumed that he was one of the dead in the missing year if you hadn't had me sit there and see him with my own two eyes. I'd have followed him home, but he was on foot, and with everything going on in town…I'll drive up there tomorrow, see if I can catch him at home-"

"No, I'll take it from here, Mr. Dove. Nice work."

A mysterious mansion on the cliffs of Storybrooke.

So, it had been the Apprentice's…so then where was he when he and Belle had been there? And where was the owner? There were more questions than he had answers but a name and an address for the Apprentice…he'd never felt Nimue so giddy in his head.

"Sir, not to cut in, but…are you aware of what's going on around town?"

He sighed. There was that bait again. "With the Arendelle princess, yes, I'm very aware, Mr. Dove. Why do you ask?"

"Well, it's only that keeping tabs on that sort of thing is usually more like what you have me spend my time doing rather than identifying people buying ice cream."

"That's because I'm managing to keep a grasp on the situation all on my own, Mr. Dove, though I do thank you for your insinuation. If it pleases you, I'll endeavor to be more curious in the future."

"No insinuation made Sir, just making sure I'm doing the job you want me to be doing. Especially since your information is out of date."

Bait. Again.

But this bait he found he really had no particular love for. His information was wrong?

"My information?"

"The Arendelle Princess, Elsa…she's not the biggest problem in town. At least she's not if you believe Emma Swan. There's another. The Ice Queen, they're calling her."

"You don't say…" he drawled.

"Yeah, you'd think that Elsa was just lying about the encounter to save her own skin, but apparently, the whole family saw her. Well…Emma and David did, maybe Hook too; I'm still trying to get the story straight…"

"Wait, wait…Emma saw her…you are sure about that?"

"Yeah, that seems to be consistent every time. She and David are personally putting the information out there after Elsa was accused of attempting to freeze Robin Hood's wife to death. Regina stopped it somehow, but they're trying to get the town on their side to face the right monster."

He had to hand it to Dove; he was worth every penny he was offering him for that raise. He knew what to look for even when he didn't know what to look for.

Emma had seen Ingrid. Already? Before she could get Elsa on her side as she'd planned? And now the entire family and Elsa as well were spreading rumors of a monster…that seemed like a very big departure from Ingrid's original plan.

"Emma saw her…so we know who this woman, this…Ice Queen, is?"

"Unclear, Sir. When I have a name, I can get it for you."

Emma saw her but no word on a name yet…was that because Dove was missing information or because the memory magic that Ingrid had used on Emma was holding. Given his experience with Dove he was inclined to believe the former, but that was unproven. It was interesting. Very interesting.

"Well, Mr. Dove, it's not often I find myself corrected, but here I stand. As discussed earlier, you'll be handsomely rewarded for this information."

"I'll keep my ears open, as always."

"And don't forget, rent collection-"

"It's coming up on the calendar, Sir, just like every month."

"Good lad, I trust you to handle that on your own, just as you have been in my absence. But why don't you skip our new friend Yen Sid…I'll handle his debts personally from now on."

And with an unquestioningly "you've got it, boss," Dove hung up the phone.