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janumun · 9 months ago

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A Lemurian’s Guide to Love (LaDS Rafayel – General NSFW Headcanons)

Rated: NSFW/18+

Tags: oral and vaginal sex, body worship, fingering, praise kink, facial, hand kink, Rafayel shenanigans, allusions to spoilers for Rafayel’s myth dates, certain ASMRs and his character story

Words: ~3k

Author’s Notes: The chokehold this man has on me (!!!) has led me to exploring Rafayel’s sexual foray as well as smidges of how I imagine his relationship to progress with his beloved in these headcanons.

Please take careful note of those tags and rating and proceed at your own discretion!

With that said, I hope you enjoy your read.

Rafayel has stood by and waited for you; over the course of several years — from that fated meeting and the result: a promise borne and broken — and through the descent of the sands of time.

And while he likes to consider himself a patient man — and to a degree, he has been just that; endurance incarnate over the course of those long, arduous years without his beloved at his side — when he does finally come across you, Rafayel finds his resolve ripple, and then gradually implode, into paper-thin fragments of yearning and fond desire.

From how Rafayel oft presents his public persona to the world — cool and dispassionate; a tepid smile on the ready for strangers who wish to garner his favour or attentions, one wouldn’t even think to scratch past that surface. The task of avoiding unnecessary engagements, especially since his return to Linkon City a few years prior, preceding his debut as an artist, is one he finds particularly cumbersome.

But during intimate moments, reserved for just the two of you, you see that exact same Rafayel — that handsome, charismatic artistic talent plastered, glossy, across covers of magazines and billboards — mould into silly scowls. A flair for the dramatics the minute he senses your attentions are not his alone for the taking. Ridiculous and feline-like in his excuses of demands from his ‘bodyguard’, to allow him her company.

After an endurance survived this incredibly long, he finds that in certain matters, he can no longer wait.

Great Lemurian entity he may be, but his habits fit firmer akin to a cat’s rather than any fish you’ve kept as a pet.

He likes to tease and prod at you, wind you up and then, burst into subdued laughter the moment you take his bait. He’s frighteningly adept at stringing you along to his whims, a certain boyish charm you’ve never seen him utilize on any of his vast majority of fans in public.

He loves to drag you out to impromptu sea-shell collecting ‘dates’ along the shores of Whitesand Bay, to capture the perfect pearlescent pink and silvers, to grind into paint on days he moans of “not having enough inspiration to paint’.

Tows you along for long drives in the vermillion convertible he was provided by Thomas, purchased from Rafayel’s private funds [the correct color he insisted on getting for the car before a poor Thomas was finally able to fulfil his request].

Had you both stranded miles away from home once, when he had a punctured tire and ‘forgot’ to ensure he had a spare to change, in case of emergencies.

And when you biked him back the rest of the way on a rental bicycle, you had the very nagging suspicion he wasn’t too upset about the mishap as he hummed an odd tune, seated behind you. Bodies close enough you felt the gentle vibrations of his voice deep within your bones, along with the steady movement of the tires hitting the paved road.

Truly a feline more than any amphibious creature.

A wondrous man, a delightful dissonance of character.

That very same man, when the two of you hold each other for the first time:

His digits scour a delicate path across your face, your jaw, down your neckline; Rafayel is incredibly, uncharacteristically quiet the first night you are his. Bathed a sterling blue under the watery gaze of the moon. Save for the thick hitch of his breath with the unveiling of bare skin, he is mute.

His eyes, however, a crisp indigo, seem to set an inextinguishable fire to the rest of your clothes.

He observes — engraves into memory — first with his gaze, and then, his fingers follow. Long, tapered digits mapping the shape of your breasts, thumb denting gentle at the peaks of them. A grip he tests, firm, against the supple flesh of your waist, flaring outwards into the soft squish of your hips.

He makes a sound then; incoherent, incomprehensible. Perhaps, an unconscious break of language into his native Lemurian tongue; the hoarse, barely compacted passion of it, however, conveyed to you in feelings.

You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Your first night is incredibly long, Rafayel shows you truly what it means to be made love to, you nearly weep of joy and pleasure.

He has waited, oh he has pined and wanted, for so long. It’s a surreal and soul shattering experience for him, just the blessing of you naked underneath his fingers alone, has all of Rafayel’s pretenses unravelling, all masks and facades falling away.

The first time, there is no teasing, no hiding.

Rafayel is immaculately thorough in his exploration of your body. His fingers; his preferred medium of following the swells and dips of his canvas — your body.

Unfortunately, and yet so very delightful for you; he takes his time sketching across your body throughout the night, providing no chance of rest or relief from the torrential waves of pleasure he crests through your body. His eyes trained fast on your face, for every slight quiver and break of you, witnessing your response to each single pinpoint of pleasure his fingers brush against.

Responding obedient to pleas of “oh, there, right there, Rafayel.”

This very first time, the sounds of you alone, moaning his name, could bring him to completion but he resists. Your pleasure, first and foremost, in his near-tunnel vision.

When the calls of his name upon your lips become unbearable, with the curve of his index and middle up into your warm wetness, Rafayel caves, like sand carried back into the depths of the sea, underneath the unrelenting break of waves. Long fingers indenting into pliant thighs as he cleaves them up and apart for unobstructed access to your weeping slit and presses a parched tongue to lap up your essence.

Curling his tongue up into your fluttering walls as his fingers dance against the tight bead of pleasure in between your legs, to the steady compresses of your thighs against the strength of his shoulders.

Rafayel adores and encourages your honesty in bed.

Ready to slow down when and if you tell him how overwhelmed you are. Takes you faster when you beg him to make you come with his mouth. All the while, that dark azure gaze is fixated upon you, the flush beneath them turned a deeper crimson with each sound of satisfaction he triumphantly plucks out of you.

Lashes descending involuntarily, only when you crest at the peak of your pleasure and flood yourself onto his waiting tongue. The taste of a delectable sea; he laps up every single drop of until he is sated.

And it is only when you implore Rafayel to put his cock inside you does he startle at the negligence of his body; hard and leaking, soiling the sheets beneath him.

When you finally, finally connect, painfully slow; the push comes without resistance offered, from how wet he has had you from his ministrations, for a good part of the night.

Rafayel has to struggle to breathe at the sensation of your warmth around him, tight, herculean control the likes of which he hasn’t ever had to scrabble for, ever in his life. To not just spill the moment he is inside you.

Her pleasure, I want to feel it. I want to make her feel good.

Still the sole thought behind that glazed, hot gaze. A moment of odd, emotional vulnerability when your eyes finally lock, your hands wandering now, to cup across his face.

And when he begins to move, Rafayel needs to feel each and every single part of you with every single fibre of his own. Fingers resuming their trek of their now favorite canvas as you murmur love and praise into his ears. The weight of a breast hefty against one large palm, the other with his fingers intertwined through yours as he propels into you.

Both of your releases, one and the same; as his eyes remain on the scrunch of your brow, just before he too falls, burying his face against the crescent of your neck.

Rafayel’s style of love-making is firmly passionate.

It is emotional, relieving and often times fun. He is incredibly adept at reading your cues and adjusting his pace according to your wants. Sex, in his mind, is an activity, as deserving of time and patience as his art — an intricate worship — and hence he usually requires the two of you have those several, long hours to spare before he gets to undressing you. Quickies, as such then, he isn’t a massive fan of.

Neither public spaces — a private dressing room at one of his events, requiring the two of you to be out within a certain time period — no matter how desperate or wanting he might be. Silencing your own protests with a long, hushed kiss and a skewed mischievous, flushed smile that has your heart quivering inside your chest. “Be a good girl now and wait,” he remarks before setting your disheveled collar back in order. The graceful sweep of his hand; for you to take, once you are done, ready to escort you out into the venue.

Open but private spaces, however, where you have time to spare and none to disturb, his private beach behind his home, is where you might find yourself spread wide across soft cloth. The cool waves of the shore lapping gentle at your tightly furled toes while Rafayel’s mouth works at the slick in between your legs. Truly his idea of a well-enjoyed romantic date.

On the note of basking in the benevolence of seas, Rafayel loves giving oral as much as he enjoys receiving it.

He isn’t incredibly vocal when it comes to giving voice to his desires, for having your mouth on him, often because he is more than happy [and engrossed] to have his mouth do all the talking (and lapping), while you luxuriate underneath the feel of his tongue and lips, like the [his] Queen you are. He loves servicing you to completion, no matter how much his tease of a foreplay may point to, otherwise.

It is only when your mouth takes him in for the first time, on your request do you make the delightful discovery of Rafayel’s little give-aways. The quiver of his fingers threaded firm through your hair. The clench of a fine toned abdomen, ripples of tight pleasure splaying across his torso.

“You’re doing so well, baby— hah, just like that. What have you done to me? You’re so good.”

The drop of his jaw, the fine, dark dusting of red smeared across his cheeks and ears. His slow, stuttered groans and pants. A deliberate suckle at his tip has him throwing his head back at the sensation, fingers spasming against the back of your skull. Your own resistance shattering and you take him in whole, the moan that chokes out of Rafayel’s throat in reward for your efforts is heaven enough, you keep returning for more.

Rafayel is loud and has no shame in showcasing his love and desire for you through the sounds he makes, just for you.

Part of the reason also why he prefers privacy to public displays of affection or quick sexual encounters. And he encourages just the same for you.

Be it the sounds of appreciation that leave his mouth, muffled and undulating, into your pussy or while he is inside of you, enjoying every single inch of your drenched, clenching flesh against his length.

“If you squeeze me that hard, I’m going to—”

Words fracturing apart into a long, stuttered moan he presses right against your lips. Foreheads slick with the sweat of your desires as he bears down against you. Bright blue gaze meeting yours — the gentle florid fringe of pinks — steeped in pleasure as his fingers curve about your jaw, pleading a kiss from your lips.

“My pretty girl.” A flushed devastating grin. “Let me come inside you. I want to feel the way your body clamps around me when I do. Gods, please.”

Rafayel is an immensely flexible lover. No rules are set in stone, no bedroom innovations entirely over-ruled before the two of you knock it at least once.

There is no sole lead; only the steps you weave in between you two, together. He is receptive to a wide variety of tastes and kinks; ever the most studious, eager participant, save for the rare personal boundary or two, he has set in place (see above: feelings regarding public sex).

Grasping your hand to fold a kiss against your palm as he moves within you. Bidding on sex-hoarse whispers to entrust yourself to his care while he sets to plunging your entire being into flames, pleasure so exhilarating you’re left grappling for air by the end of it all. All the while, he shapes his marks of adoration against your skin, soothing warmth to set nerves lax from all their previous exertion.

Or, when you ask it of him, supplicates himself — a willing, grinning participant — loving, puckish desire set to blaze within his dark eyes. Tracking each single move, the delicate fingers that sketch against his heaving abdomen, the hand that moves to enclose his cock in between eager digits and pump, slow: a delectable torture. And he responds in kind to your enthusiasm, if you leave his mouth unbound and able — sings for you as you so enjoy, in that rapturous voice you so adore. Lent a lascivious flavour from how his head rolls back across his neck in the throes of incoming release, the flush of him flooding down across his chest from how aroused he is for you to be doing what you are to him.

The sight of him in his entirety is enough for your own patience to wear paper-thin, drenched wet from the erotic picture he paints beneath you.

Rafayel’s house is a mess.

...Something he often brushes off as personal ‘creative choices’, declaring he finds a certain order to his disarray of things strewn about.

The colors he knows exactly where to pluck off the floor of his studio. A second draft of an upcoming painting, pinned underneath a [fish] magnet against the kitchen cabinet. A spare shirt draped across the arm of a sofa for when he wants to quickly switch out of pigment-stained clothes in between paintings.

However, he takes special care to keep his bedroom — or at the very least, on worse days, one sofa — in acceptable, spruced order. Especially so, after you start coming over to visit or stay the weekend, accompany him on days he holes himself up in his house, to pore over an artwork. Often so preoccupied, by the time he snaps out of it, several hours later: to a velvet sky outside and you scrunched up in an upright position, with your head coasting sideways at an uncomfortable angle, in your sleep.

The first and last time that happens as he carts you into his arms and off to his bedroom to tuck you into his bed and insists you retire to his bedroom on your own, the next morning, whenever you feel like dozing off. Making a point, then onwards to always have it ready and at your disposal.

For sleep and when you’re both not; tangled within each other and the sheets, cooling down from your highs.

Rafayel craves chaste physical intimacy post-coitus as he drags you into his arms, your breath warm against his chest. He despises being away from your comfort for even a moment’s breath; extra adorable and tetchy in his phase of dramatics if you try and squirm away.

Has startled you on one particular occasion; hunched, stark naked, by the door of the bathroom as you stepped out of it. A frown knit in between his brow, a disagreeable moue to that beautiful mouth and a simple, “I’m cold, warm me.”

An amalgamation of just how Rafayel is like and something else; deeper, you suspect it stems from unspoken fears of loneliness. There are nights you don’t quite understand, when his emotions run rampant and his need for physical affirmation and constant connection are strong; the man immediately soothed to rest the moment your hand is across his cheek, fingers caressing down the sculpt of his jaw. Tiring him at last into exhausted sleep. A vulnerability to his visage only you are allowed to stand witness to.

There is something so incredibly erotic about his girl when she lets him put his cock against her mouth...

Testing every single mental fortitude, he has ever had thrown up, walls of iron built over the course of centuries, crumbling at the feeling of your wet mouth against his length. Drawing him in before you swallow him, right to the base.

Taking his seed down your throat like the damn, amazing girl you are but if you pull back at just the right moment, firm fist bringing him to spill against your cheeks, traversing down the arc of your neck—

Rafayel’s thoughts frizzle into a numb void, mouth agape and panting. A scarlet flush dashed across the ridge of his cheekbones, his ears, to witness your face dirtied by smears of his cum. The sight truly untethers a carnal, primitive want in him, he isn’t able to fully parse himself.

Truly imprinted upon as the bride of the Sea God.

Your sexual sessions are more often than not, kicked off on sensual, fun notes and back-and-forths.

A stray jibe you might throw his way at one of his odd habits and he’s plucking you right off your feet. Nimble digits feathering down the expanse of your abdomen in retaliation before you’re reduced to giggles; both of your fingers catching at the other’s clothes in an attempt for dominance before you drift, natural, against the other’s mouth in soft, scheming smiles.

Or, when you reach to strike the firm muscle of his behind, the sweet, silly twist to his mouth right as he startles, an indignant, scandalized gaze he rolls your way. “Why, you—” Before you reach to grasp him by the collar and drag down towards your waiting, open mouth. Lips drawing wide into a smile as you feel his reciprocated urgent squeeze across your ass; the pads of his fingers tracing the lining of your panties beneath your skirt. “Don’t make me return the favor several fold, pretty siren.”

The bite of restive teeth he sinks into his lower lip as he hauls you up and against his rigid length. Before you reach forward, disengaging his lip, to suckle it into your own mouth. “Try me.”

The act itself leaning more into the romance of the moment and slow, deep thrusts into your body as Rafayel drifts against you. Mouthing every piece of spare skin in sight, affirmations and assurances as clear and heard as the moans that tumble from his lips.

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#lads rafayel #lads rafayel smut #ns/fw text #lads smut #love and deepspace rafayel #love and deepspace fanfiction #love and deepspace headcanons #lads headcanons #l&ds x reader #l&ds smut #l&ds rafayel #rafayel #lads x reader #janussary

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overtake · 2 months ago

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I’m sorry we need about 5k more words of mechanic Daniel driver max pls and ty!!!

Part One

I’m actually so shocked (but pleasantly surprised and honored!) by people enjoying this verse because I almost deleted it without posting. I don’t have 5k more, but I can offer 1.2k!

I still lowkey hate this - and you can definitely tell I have no vision for where this story would go, hence why it’s just harping on the same 3 details we already knew - but it’s all yours and I hope you have a good time reading it anyway :)

Five minutes into pretending to examine an engine instead of obsess over what Max said, Daniel breaks.

“Did you mention me to Max?” he asks Cyril, trying to come across casual.

Cyril looks at him disbelievingly. “Max Verstappen is in our garage and you think I talked about you at all?”

Daniel lifts a hand to his chest and feigns being shot. “People love me, you know. Guys are all over this.”

Cyril heaves out a long-suffering sigh. “Get to work, Daniel.”

Daniel’s lucky, given his condition, that everything is relatively routine today. He does three oil changes, and he could kiss those people’s feet for it.

He’s mentally preparing himself to slide under a car, wincing at much more congested he’ll be once he emerges again, when Max suddenly appears in the corner of the garage.

“Hello,” he says. He does a cute little half-wave to get Daniel’s attention.

“Hey,” Daniel says, straightening and rubbing his grimy hands on his thighs. “Cyril’s working on your car, so he’ll have any updates you need.”

“It’s not my car, just a rental,” Max dismisses. “No, I just have …” He cuts himself off, turns a sweet pink on the apples of his cheeks. “You sounded sick earlier and looked really pale. I brought you soup.”

He lifts a takeaway bag from the cafe down the street, which usually specializes in ten dollar lattes and sandwiches with names so cutesy, you have to practice five times to order without shame.

Daniel smiles at the idea of Max Verstappen, world champion, saying one of those horrible names for Daniel’s benefit. “You didn’t have to do that. Thank you. Let me pay you back.”

Max shakes his head. “It’s my thanks for fixing the car.”

Daniel raises his eyebrows. “So what soup did you get Cyril, who’s actually doing that?”

Max scrunches his nose in disgust. “You cannot expect me to say the name Noodle Nest Paradise more than one time.”

“How many times did you laugh trying to get that out?”

Max shudders. “I pretended to speak really bad English and just pointed at the menu.”

“So you could’ve ordered multiple,” Daniel points out. Max very blatantly pretends not to hear. He focuses instead on pulling a little bag from the order and holding it up proudly, smiling a crinkly-eyed smile.

“I got you crackers!”

Eating soup with Max Verstappen is an out of body experience.

Daniel’s been eating his soup over the coffee table in the office because it felt wrong to make Max sit at the grimy, wobbly table in the closet-sized corner of the garage where Daniel and Cyril usually change and scarf down meals. This, however, means they’re stuck together on the loveseat. Max’s expensive skinny jeans knock knees with Daniel’s greasy coveralls when they get too into the conversation.

Daniel knows he’s being a terrible conversationalist, especially at first. His normal easy charisma is buried somewhere in the pile of tissues he’s burning through. He’s basically just answering Max’s rapid-fire questions about his life, his job, his family, his non-existent partner (“do you have a girlfriend or boyfriend or anything?” Max had asked, and looked remarkably pleased by Daniel’s answer of no).

Daniel’s about 87% sure he’s being hit on right now. It’s a nice confidence booster given how much of a mess he looks, but it’s not like it matters. Max is Max, and Max is F1, and Max doesn’t live here.

He likes Max, though, the longer they talk. He likes his eagerness, his down-to-earth nature, his total lack of interest in discussing racing. Max delights in all Daniel’s behaviours that usually make people roll their eyes and wait for him to be done, whereas Max leans into Daniel’s dumb songs or drawn out jokes. He likes the long lashes that frame Max’s bright, happy eyes, and soft double chin he gets when he ducks his head into his laugh.

Daniel’s not sure how much time passes before Cyril comes in, but he knows his voice has faded to practically nothing, and he’s having to constantly turn to avoid coughing on Max.

Cyril’s timing is rather unfortunate, entering just as Daniel breaks into a particularly rough wheeze. Max is patting his back gently, which Cyril will definitely have words about later. Presently, however, he seems too concerned about Daniel’s wellbeing to lecture him about appropriate contact with famous customers.

“Daniel. Go home,” he orders, voice kind but firm. His tone leaves no room for argument, not that Daniel really wants to fight him on it. He’s enjoying this, but his brain and body feel as if they’re wading through a pool of thick custard.

“Are you okay to drive?” Max checks. His eyebrows are knitted in sweet concern, like Daniel actually might keel over and die in the ten-minute ride home.

“All good,” Daniel promises. He stands, then promptly has to collapse back onto the couch when black spots dot his vision.

“I’m driving you,” Cyril says firmly.

“I just stood up too fast.” Sure, he’s a little woozier than expected, but he could do this drive blindfolded and half-dead.

“I’ll drive you,” Max says. “I mean, Cyril has work to do, but I’m just sitting here.”

“How do I know you won’t kidnap me or steal my car?” Daniel rasps.

“He’s not worth kidnapping, and selling his car probably couldn’t cover an oil change for the kinds of cars you drive,” Cyril informs Max. He ignores Daniel’s protests, then pushes Daniel back down to the couch when he half-rises from it.

“Stay. I will get your keys and bag.”

The second Daniel’s brain understands that he’s off-duty, that it’s no longer expected to carry him through the day, it mostly blacks out, and everything is a blur from there.

He’s pretty confident Cyril steals his phone to call his mum, which is vaguely embarrassing but perhaps necessary given his current state. He knows Cyril gives Max directions to Daniel’s parents’ place instead of his own. He feels Max’s hands help him into the passenger seat, and he definitely mutters some fever-addled sentences on the drive. That’s about all he remembers until he wakes up in his childhood bed, shivering and sweating while his mum runs a hand through his hair and forces medicine down his throat, before he falls back asleep again.

When he finally comes to enough to make his way downstairs, he finds his parents seated at the kitchen table. His mum jumps up, forces him into a chair and fusses over him while simultaneously lecturing him about going to work sick. His dad just sits there, eyebrows half-raised, until Daniel is settled with food and water.

“So. You had an exciting day at work.”

He slides a piece of scrap paper across the table. There, under some advertisement for gardening services, is a scrawled message in red pen:

It was lovely to meet you (again). I hope the terribly named soup made you feel better! :)

- Max

Under his name, Max has scrawled a phone number.

Daniel runs his finger over the lines, feeling the imprint of each number that Max etched into the paper. It’s neatly written, far more cautious and intentional than the rest of the words, as if to ensure that no digit could be misread or smudged.

Daniel pauses, processes the full note, and double backs to the word ‘again.’

“Yeah,” Daniel croaks through the stabbing pains in his throat. He stares at the word harder, like it might reveal what the fuck Max means by again. “I guess today was pretty interesting.”

#fics #maxiel #thought i’d only manage a few hundred words since i just wasnt feeling this verse #but shock of the century: i don’t stop talking #me versus my need to describe every minute of a day in excrutiating detail #i would be an editors worst nightmare #they would have to scrap basically everything #they’d be SCREECHING at me to advance the plot #good thing i’m never writing a book

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kiradical · 4 months ago

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EMERGENCY FUNDS NEEDED:

I’ve just been informed, 5 days before my lease ends, that my lease cannot be renewed. This means I need to get me and my cats out of here by August 1st. I am disabled and haven’t been able to find a job, and I don’t have anywhere local I can go. My only option other than literally being on the streets is to pack my life into either a rental car or moving truck and go back to Virginia with my family.

I need to raise money FAST. I will need at least $800 but $1000 is better to cover a rental and help loading the truck here since it’s just me.

I am alone, I am scared, this is literally the most scared I have ever been in my life. I am truly about to be homeless if I cannot get this. I don’t even have a car to live out of. I am desperate. Please please help me.

Please donate to kiradical on cashapp and Venmo, message me for PayPal. These are the only ways I can accept payment right now.

0/800

#mutual aid #mutual assistance #community support #aid request #signal boost

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fairyysoup · 12 days ago

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the devil i know

chapter ten: i'm gonna stay faithful to the devil i know

(repost)

fic tag | fic playlist | fic masterlist

pairing(s): crossroads demon!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: Your full moon rite sparks some unexpected confessions.

cw: explicit, smut, monsterfucking, piv sex, rough sex, name calling, public sex, exhibitionism, mild choking, brat taming, dumbification, reader is in heat, sex in a cemetery, eddie is a tease, marriage mention, sex pact, demonic rituals, love confessions, animal death mention, dead dove: do not eat

please check masterlist and individual parts for content warnings before reading. this fic contains dark themes. your media consumption is your own responsibility.

ALL OF MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

It doesn’t take you long to find a rickety motel in the middle of rip-roaring Cleary, across the river from Eastwick. You don’t imagine you’ll stay long enough to warrant another rental house or apartment, but you don’t want to think about what you’ll do when this is all over. You didn’t stop to collect anything besides a change of clothes after your apartment went up in flames; you hopped out the bedroom window and took off in your car, trying not to focus on how the fire never burned you, or how Eddie kissed your hand before disappearing into the flames.

The motel is backed up by trees, trees, and more trees. It’s a sprawling campus with two two-storey buildings, and a bungalow of a few cottages. The check in desk is inside a small reconstructionist Victorian-style house that doubles as a tavern on the weekends.

Thankfully, it’s not the weekend.

You stalk up the stairs of the second building, careful not to be heard by other guests. The motel still uses physical room keys; yours boasts a tag that reads 237. You slip mostly quietly into your room, and shut the door before leaning heavily against it. Checking in took more confidence than you have at the moment. You weren’t sure if the clerk could still see blood in your hair or your skin, smell the smoke on the clothes you’d quickly snatched from your dresser before the flames could touch them.

You’d washed off by pulling over and jumping into the river on your way out of town. The water was fucking freezing, and now instead of blood you have river water in your hair. Go figure.

You walk forward and collapse onto the motel bed. The box spring squeaks, the A/C unit clatters as it turns on, and you flop over to stare at the asbestos popcorn on the ceiling.

You laugh. You got out of everything easily; being attacked by Andy, your shithole apartment burning to a crisp, and (god forbid) skinny dipping in the Eastwick river. Eddie’s mark still burns on your wrist, under the sleeve of your sweater.

You don’t have anything now, aside from your car and the clothes on your back, and the money in your wallet. The police are stupid enough that they’ll assume you’re dead. You’re sure that if the complaints about gunshots aren’t enough to convince them, the blood on the walls that hasn’t been boiled away by the fire will.

Dante emerges from the shadows, barks happily once and hops onto the bed to settle beside you. He doesn’t have blood on him anymore, thank god– you don’t know what you’d do if you had to leave the motel with random bloodstains all over the white linens.

And the darkness forms into the shape of your lover, who sinks onto the bed beside you and stares down at you with the darkest, most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen in this life or the last. Eddie’s cheeks flush the prettiest carnation pink to match his lips when you reach up and trace them with your fingers. You lift yourself up to settle into his lap, all smiles as you wrap the demon around your little finger and catch his bottom lip between your teeth.

And you… you’re alive, and you can do anything that you want.

Whispers in the dark. Footfalls behind rotted trees, scuffs of earth that haven’t actually been stirred. It can’t entirely be in your mind. The crossroads is a volatile place at night, and even worse when the moon is full.

You asked a very confused motel clerk where the nearest crossroads she knew of was– she directed you to something in the center of town. That wouldn’t work, of course. You could only imagine Eddie throwing you down in the middle of an intersection and fucking you halfway to Sunday in front of the entire town.

You’re sure he’d love to do that, too.

You sighed and just ended up asking Eddie if he could tell you where the closest one was. If he’s a crossroads demon, it only stands to reason that he’d have a spidey-sense for that sort of thing.

There’s one about a hundred yards into the trees behind the motel. Take your time.

Of course, he isn’t there when you arrive. You don’t know why he’s drawing things out, while your body is breaking out in a cold sweat at the thought of him. Considering you fucked again last night, after you got to the motel, managing not to blow the place up this time, you would think that you’d gotten your fill.

But no, your body is still going insane with fever and lust, like it just can’t sit still without him there. The moon hangs overhead, bright white in the sky. There’s the littlest peek of it through the tree cover, but it’s enough to let you know that you have the right time, and you’re certainly in the right place. Your body knows that it’s in a more liminal place, now.

You tear at your clothes. You throw your shirt over your head so that your bare chest can hit some sort of fresh air and, theoretically, find some relief. You yank your pants off roughly and toss them into the bushes. All it does is cause another form of stimulation– the cool night air on the dampness of your skin, paired with the burning realization that you’re undressing in public.

Sort of. You’re the only one here. Or, at least, the only living person.

You’re not… nervous. Per se. You just don’t know what to expect out of a full moon rite. Will the ground split open and swallow you? Is it just gonna be a normal fuck with your demon boyfriend? Are you going to be able to walk afterwards?

“Probably not.”

Eddie. His presence pulses, screaming at you from across the clearing. Two paths cross in the center of it, creating an X on the ground where he stands, like he’s dead on a target.

“Look at you, getting started without me.” He chuckles. “And here I thought I was excited.”

The rabid animal in your chest leaps for him, and you follow it, like everything that you’ve felt and done for him up to this point has been preamble. Eddie’s arms come around you like they’re meant to be there, and you want them to be. Forever and ever and ever, until the meek inherit the earth and the sea swallows the land, et cetera.

Until the only thing left in the universe are your intertwined souls.

Your kiss is brutal, bordering on desperate rather than sweet. Eddie giggles into it– you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing that soft, manic giggle, or feeling it on your lips as you kiss him.

Eddie is too sweet for Hell and too chaotic for Heaven. You’re not sure how to reconcile it. At the end of it all, you don’t really see how spending eternity with him could ever be a bad thing. You don’t see why you wouldn’t give him your soul, again and again.

Eddie’s hands cradle your face, stroking strands of hair away from it while his eyes glow warm and inviting. “Did you get everything you wanted, sweetheart?” he asks, his fingers toying with a little strand beside your ear, curling it tightly around his fingertip before letting it slip free.

You think about it. In total, roughly two weeks have passed since you first signed over your soul to Eddie, and so far you have everything to show for it. You had your promotion, you got your car, a new dog. You killed your shitty ex and now you have a real reason to get the hell out of dodge.

It doesn’t seem like it makes sense. It doesn’t seem like a happy ending, but it is. It’s the happiest ending in the world for you, because you don’t have to stay in Eastwick with all the stones being thrown and taunts being yelled in your direction. And you’re in love with him.

You fell for the demon you sold your soul to, in a grand fucking total of two weeks and counting. And if that doesn’t scream irony, you don’t know what does.

“I did,” you say, nodding between his hands. You suck in a deep breath, smelling his smoke and the warmth of his body, and it makes your chest ache. “You’re what I want, Eddie. I love you so much.”

Eddie stops, blinking his fiery eyes at you. “What– what’d you just say?”

“I said I love you,” you repeat. You’re not taking it back. Not now. And you don’t have the ability to feel embarrassed about it, either. “I love you, baby. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before–”

“That’s because you’re in heat, baby,” Eddie insists, anxiously stroking your hair again like he’s trying to self-soothe. “Your body’s just gearing up for the rite, it’s not– you’re not in love with me–”

“Yes. I. Am.” You shoot him a caustic glare, balling your fists against his shoulders. “You can read my mind, right? You must know, Eddie. I think I started falling in love with you the minute you showed up with that stupid smirk and I– I fell for you, and I don’t care about the deal or heat or fucking rites, I just want you.”

Shushing you, he pets your head with a gentle hand. He sounds pained when he says, “I’ve loved you since Lacey brought me your petition.”

You freeze at that. “Lacey?”

Eddie nods.

“My… my dog?” You can’t wrap your head around it. Your blood is pounding in your ears, adrenaline making your hands vibrate as they grasp at him. Your dog– your sweet little girl who you thought was simply gone forever– is still protecting you, still pulling strings to give you a happy ending? “Lacey brought my–?”

“She chose me,” he tells you honestly. “She chose me for you. Because… she knew I was meant to be yours. And I am. I am yours. Forever, if you’ll have me.”

You’re nodding, excitedly, but you also smother him in a kiss before he can continue. You’ll have him forever, and ever, and even longer after that. Your need and your love both stretch on for eternity, and Eddie won’t say no to it. He’s kind of selfish that way.

He takes your wrist, and raises it to kiss the mark of his name on your skin. His eyes meet yours, and the mark burns, glowing orange and bright like it’s just been placed there.

“Eddie, what–? ” You whimper, your grip tightening on Eddie’s shoulder, but he just cradles you against him, soothing his lips over the mark on your skin until it stops burning, seconds later.

“Have to start the ritual, baby,” he says, and winks at you. “Doesn’t count if we just fuck like idiots without clocking in, y’know.”

His hands on you are wretched as sin, kneading at you like he’s just trying to memorize your body. You make a soft noise in your throat, letting your head fall to his shoulder with a huff of breath. Your eyes feel heavy as you breathe in his scent– his smoke, his fumes. They surround you, shrouding you in comfort and warmth, safety in the unforgiving cold and empty night.

“I’d do it without the ritual,” you hear yourself murmuring into his shoulder, your lips grazing across his tattered denim vest and up onto his neck. There’s a pulse beneath his skin, something that feels so human that it makes your own heart tremble in your chest. You can’t seem to stop yourself from talking, now. “I’d fuck you anywhere. All the time. I just fucking want you…”

“I know,” he chuckles, his hand cradling the back of your neck. “So let’s have some fun, yeah?”

You nod. You expect him to lower you down onto the ground, something like last night but with dead leaves and dirt all over you instead of blood. But instead, he just presses a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth, and then he swats your ass so hard that it makes you gasp.

“C’mon baby,” he whispers into your ear, his eyes and touch burning hot. “I know a spot.”

And with a blink, Eddie disappears, leaving you alone in the crossroads.

“Wait, what–”

A noise in the bushes makes you startle, and then something pushes you from behind, urging you into the trees. You yelp, and then a voice in your ear says, Trust me.

Stumbling, naked and delirious with lust, you trip and throw your hands against a tree to steady yourself. Darkness clings to the black night around you, just like your mind clings to every sound behind you, alerting you of Eddie’s presence.

It takes a good amount of you stumbling through the trees, guided by gentle prods at your back and sides, before you start to hear things behind you. You wonder if he’s climbed up into the trees and he’s watching you from above, like some angel of death.

The ground is uneven and damp from recent rain. There’s no path before or behind you, just infinite trees, looming out of the abyss apathetically. The trees don’t care what you do. They’ve been here, time and time again, and you’re sure that you are the least horrible thing they’ve seen.

In retrospect, you probably should have brought a flashlight. At least you’d be able to see him, wherever the fuck he is. Or where you’re going. You’re moving by the light of the moon in the trees.

He wouldn’t let you, like… actually eat shit, would he?

Eddie appears close to your shoulder once, just a flash of glowing eyes and a brush of a hand on your bare shoulder, a huff of breath in your ear. Toying with you, letting you know that he’s still there, guiding you in the direction that he wants. You whirl around to grab for him, but he’s already gone, leaving nothing but a giggle and a puff of smoke in his wake. He makes it clear, you can’t catch him; he’ll just appear, whenever and wherever he pleases.

You watch him skulk through the trees up ahead, just wandering as though he has all day. As if you aren’t aching for him and seething with rage at the trees that appear out of the darkness just to get in the way. His eyes are yellow, glowing in the dark like beacons, letting you know exactly where to go.

He leads you to a cemetery.

The back fence backs up to the trees, bent and mangled from teenagers breaking into it at night to party. Eddie disappears into the shadows, phasing out of existence in your periphery, leaving you alone to duck into the cemetery and weave through the weathered stones.

You can feel Eddie’s breath on your neck, even though your other senses tell you that nothing is there. It ignites every nerve in your body, raises the hairs on your skin. You stumble around a mausoleum, and that’s precisely when a looming shadow figure steps right in front of you. Clawed hands solidify out of the darkness, clad in heavy rings, and grab you by the waist.

“Eddie!” you screech as he materializes in his full form, monstrously large and covered in writhing, living tattoos. Enormous pointed horns and sharp teeth, black bat wings curling around you as he pulls you into him with a grin.

“You know you can’t hide from me,” he purrs at you in his low, demonic voice, and it might come off as disconcerting if you weren’t entirely in love with him. If you didn’t know that his claws will never bring you any pain that you don’t want, and his wings caging you in only serve to protect you, rather than imprison you.

You press in close to his hot chest, smelling his smoke and his aether, near purring, yourself. “Thank God for small favors.”

Eddie laughs, dragging his hand up to cradle the back of your skull. He bends down and kisses you sweetly, in a way that disarms you. So much more tender than you expected, savoring and long. He gives a deep sigh, and looks down at you with his beautifully glowing eyes, swirling with lava and ash, warm and near doting. “Much more romantic, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” you scoff, glancing around at the lonely tombstones in the darkness. “Real inviting spot you picked, honey.”

“I knew you’d like it,” he murmurs. And then sharper, when a mischievous grin crosses his face.

And he grabs you by the hips and spins you around to throw you down across the steps of a mausoleum.

“What– Eddie?!” Your stomach hits granite, your hands slapping against the hard, cold stone beneath you. Your knees brush the edge of a step and you squeak at the shock of the temperature, but something long and thin like rope wraps around your thigh and yanks you back towards him, spreading your thighs and making you collapse forward, your torso bumping the stone.

You yelp. “Do you have a tail?”

“Surprise, surprise,” Eddie murmurs into your ear. Then he drops the seductive tone to add, “Kinda cool, isn’t it?”

You find yourself giggling, pushing backward to press into his warm chest. He’s so big in his true form– hulking, like all of his bones have to grow in order to accommodate the amount of power he emanates. He crowds you, hovering over your bent body on the steps. “I fucking love it.”

“I know you do,” he hums. His tail, still wrapped around your thigh, pulls your leg until your knees widen. A quiet gasp leaves you when his hand, large and weaponized with sharp claws, cups your sticky cunt. “Think I can’t tell how much you fuckin’ love this? You were just made to be my whore, weren’t you?”

His teeth scrape your shoulder as he rubs your pussy, his whole hand rocking between your legs and kicking up a lewd squelch into the air. You choke, arching your back and wiggling your hips further toward his.

“Please, Ed– fuck!” He replaces his hand with his cock, and the moan you make is pornographic. Your breasts scrape against the stone underneath you, your nipples hard from the cold and the rough texture of it. The chill is fading, slowly being warmed by your body and his, practically burning hot in comparison to it.

His cock glides teasingly through your folds, making you keen softly; the sound still echoes, bouncing off the granite and into the cavernous mausoleum, louder than hell. Straight ahead is an abyss full of the dead.

Eddie pauses. “You know, it occurs to me that this is technically our wedding night– I mean, right?”

“Oh, nevermind about that,” you huff, wiggling your hips back against him. He’s right there, and you’re so fucking wound up that you can’t bring yourself to have a goddamn conversation at a time like this. “Just– dammit, Eddie, fuck me already.”

“No, I mean, really,” he muses, still not moving. You groan. “Like, if we got married on the dark moon, then isn’t this technically the consummation? I mean I know we already fucked and everything last night–”

You growl and jam your hips back against his. “Eddie, shut the fuck–”

His clawed hand clamps down over your mouth. You squeak, and then roll your eyes as he continues, “Prepare for the first day of the rest of your life. That’s how it goes, right? Or– no, wait. That’s not for weddings…”

You slam your hands down on the granite, roaring as hard as you can against his hand while you writhe back against him, trying to get the words that are running around in your brain across without saying them. The empty mausoleum creates an echo chamber that throws the sound of your roar back at you.

Eddie obviously gets the message, because he chuckles and pinches your cheeks between his fingers. His claws press into your skin as he tuts, “You want to fuck me so bad you’re gonna throw a tantrum about it? Really?”

You whimper, shaking your head slightly but still trying to force back against him. His tail yanks your legs further apart, making you lose your little bit of balance and slip back down against the granite again.

“Oh no no, baby, that won’t do,” Eddie coos, sounding so saccharine sweet, but you don’t think there’s anything sweet about what he’s thinking. “Look around. You’re in my house now, and I get all night to fuck that attitude out of you. Consider this a courtesy.”

And then he all but slams his cock into you in one go, throwing you forward across the steps with a wail that could scare all the ghosts back into their graves. He doesn’t give you time to adjust– just starts fucking into you with abandon, letting you scratch at the granite beneath you while you scream from the overstimulation.

You’re so sensitive after having gone a full day in heat, even though he’d given you everything you wanted and more last night. He’d been so gentle and giving, made love to you slowly and passionately on the cheap mattress in your motel room, careful to make sure you didn’t burn that place down.

There’s nothing of the sweet and slow of last night when he weaves his fingers into your hair and yanks your head back by the roots, growling, “Say, ‘Thank you, Eddie.’”

“Thank you, Ed– FUCK!” You moan obscenely loud, arching your back as your eyes nearly cross. His brutal pace is too much all at once, making you go slack, literally fucking you dumb.

You can’t think. You drop your head onto the granite step beneath you and just let him use your body, because nothing in heaven or on earth will ever feel as good as it.

In Hell, maybe.

“That’s it,” Eddie snarls at you, with the sound of skin on skin filling the air as punctuation. “Little brat always telling me to shut up– how’s it feel when I do it to you, huh?”

He strokes over something inside you that makes you lose all train of thought. Fire burns inside you, your voice cracking as you moan, rutting back against him to get him to hit there again–

And Eddie snatches you by the hips and lifts you until your back is entirely against him as he pounds into you. Manhandling you until you can’t move or kick, you just have to stay and take it.

“Stay down, like a good fucking girl,” he spits, his fangs scraping your shoulderblade as he bends over you. Your hand wraps around the edge of one of the steps, nails scratching audibly against it.

His balls slap your clit from each angle, and a moan dies with a squeak in your throat when he hits your g spot again, making you contort and writhe despite his hold. Eddie hisses behind you, feeling you tighten on his cock, his breath breaking across your skin in waves of warmth.

“Right there, sweetheart?” The snicker in his voice is infuriating. You’d snap at him if you weren’t unable to speak from the way that he fucks into you again with the same fluid motion, making stars burst behind your eyelids. His breath hitches, an audible groan in his throat when he says, “Love all those little noises you make when you’re getting fucked dumb. I could do this for ages, baby, you have no idea–”

“Oh fuck, please, Eddie–” You’re so wet, the sound of the slickness of it nearly echoes in the cavern of the mausoleum. Your face burns, your body breaking out into a sweat.

“Mmm, what is it?” Eddie’s clawed hand comes up to wrap around your throat, completely eclipsing it and pulling you to him. “What more do you need, huh?”

It’s like the minute he finds the pace and angle that has you mindless, he focuses all his energy on it. You feel like you’re melting, your body turning into that same lava he embodies and molding with his own. Spinning and swirling until you’ve fused together and nothing can separate you.

You let out a noisy whine. “N-need– I need to cu– hmm–”

Eddie croons, “Yeah? Little witch needs to cum? Gone all day without it, you just have to cum so soon?”

Your eyes nearly roll back into your skull when his wings slam down on either side of you, cracking the stone steps you lean on with the force. He uses his free hand to stroke down your tummy, over your pelvis to where the lips of your pussy part around his cock. Eddie parts his fingers, gliding them around the seam of your cunt to feel the way that he pumps in and out of you, your body stretching to make room for him.

“You think you deserve it?” He whispers threateningly, beginning a torturous back and forth with his fingers, avoiding your clit entirely. You don’t think you can stand much more teasing– everything in you is wound up tight and ready to snap, your toes curling hard as your muscles flex in warning.

“Yes– yes, Eddie, for the love of fu–” You get cut off because Eddie squeezes your throat a little bit, making your sentence die with a moan.

“Just do one thing for me,” he rasps, sounding wretched and beautiful and so close to losing it, himself.

“Anything, I’ll do anything–”

The push and pull is intoxicating. You feel ecstasy vibrating in your limbs, removing any other thought or sensation from you until all you can focus on is him. Eddie, your demon, the one who was made for you and the one who was fated to be brought to you.

“Say that you love me again,” Eddie says, a gentle waver in his voice that makes your breath hitch and your heart race. “Tell me again, I want to hear it.”

You were always going to end up here. It just so happens that you came together sooner, rather than later.

“I love you,” you whisper back, and it feels like your entire body will burst with the intensity of it. And he kisses your shoulder once, just enough for you to know that he heard you. Enough for you to know that in spite of his teasing and his mind games, this is the truth.

“I love you so much,” Eddie tells you as his breath ghosts your ear, lighting a fire beneath your skin. And his fingers drift up to your clit.

When you cum, it’s with a cry that resounds in the cavernous chamber of the mausoleum and bounces back out into the hazy night. He grips your hips hard and fucks you through it. You feel lazy, sated, unable to move or speak or do anything other than take everything he gives you with weak whimpers that sound so much louder to your ears than they actually are.

Eddie growls and fills you, until you drip with him and the evidence of what you did here; the first of many full moons to come.

He cradles you there on the mausoleum steps, giving you sweet kisses as your body stills and lowers into a thick, post-orgasmic lull. You curl into his warmth, naked in the pale moonlight and shivering a bit from the early autumn chill.

“Hey, you know…” Eddie says after a moment, pulling you from the soft refrain of your thoughts, “I wasn’t entirely kidding about this being… my house. I guess.”

“You live in a fuckin’ mausoleum?” You slur tiredly, your head lolling to the side to look up at him.

“What? No, not the—” he sighs. “We’re, ah. Technically in the Otherworld right now.”

“Oh.” You blink up at him, watching the way the embers in his eyes swirl and glow bright orange. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, a bit of a half laugh that lets you know he’s embarrassed. As embarrassed as a demon can be, more or less. “It’s kind of where stories of the Witches’ Sabbath come from. Certain rituals… when the demon is present… they take place in the Otherworld.”

“And what does that mean?” You whisper up at him with a conspiratory grin.

“Just look.” Eddie gently tilts your head up, prodding you to look out across the cemetery. And you gasp.

Spirits. Ghosts and ghouls and the like. They mingle among the stones, the above ground tombs, the trees. A bonfire in the distance– the near distance, just in the treeline– shows you another rite happening. Another sabbath.

There are more witches in Eastwick than you thought.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, sitting up in Eddie’s arms. Mist hangs in the air, getting thicker the more your presence within the realm solidifies. Everything is eerie, foggy like it’s happening in a dream.

“A lot more fun than your standard crossroads,” he muses. “Am I right?”

You glance back at Eddie, all scars and horns and sharp teeth, but looking no less beautiful than he always does. You’ve chosen the prettiest of all the demons, you’re sure of it.

Or, is it that he chose you? Or… weren’t you chosen for each other?

A little figure materializes in the darkness, galloping toward you on tiny legs that don’t seem to touch the ground. The smoky figure of the Dachshund shifts in and out of focus– she’s getting the hang of manifestation, slowly but surely. It’ll take more work, but she’ll get there.

“Lacey?” you whisper, bending forward to let the little figure sniff your hand. She doesn’t need to, though. She barrels toward your hand and bonks into it at full force, her smoky head dissipating for a second with her excitement. Despite how much you wish you could pet her, you giggle, and it sounds echoey and strange in the liminal atmosphere. “Oh my gosh, I missed you so much.”

“She missed you, too,” Eddie says fondly, twirling a lock of hair at the base of your neck around one of his clawed fingers. “She might have to wait a little bit until she can hang with you in your realm, but as long as you’re here…”

He trails off, watching as Lacey yaps and happily runs back and forth in front of your legs, excited to see you again.

“Well, it’s only appropriate, considering who brought us together,” Eddie concludes, chuckling a little when she tries to jump on your legs and still passes right through them. “Lacey, she isn’t from this realm. You won’t be able to cuddle just yet. Aww– she’ll get there. She’s a smart one.”

You turn to gaze at him, teary-eyed and lovestruck in spite of your surroundings. “What do we do now?” You ask him shyly, in a whisper, as if you’re afraid that one of the spirits will hear you and take exception. As if you didn’t already fuck nasty right in front of them.

Eddie smiles, and the embers in his eyes explode into picture perfect fires. Roaring with love and affection. “Whatever you want, baby.”

There’s a rhythmic drumbeat from within the trees, where the witches dance around the fire with their respective demons– just as you always imagined a stereotypical witch’s Sabbath might look like, if old accounts from ye olden days held any merit. You tug Eddie by the arms, leading him toward the bonfire, the drums mimicking the rhythmic thump of your own heart. Lacey excitedly zips around your ankles, passing directly through them in her haste on occasion.

You dance.

And you dance.

And you fuck on the tomb of some guy named Roland, whose stands off to the side as a ghost, glaring at you the whole time. You don’t care at all. You’re looking at Eddie the whole time, anyways.

He’s everything you could have wanted and more.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #tdik!fic #stranger things fic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #demon!eddie munson #demon!eddie #roses*

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wimsiecal · 9 months ago

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I no longer have any money. I'm now -$35

Please if you can spare even a penny it would help me.

I sorta need help again and this time I don't know if I'll be able to offer anything in return.

My phone bill was due a few days ago but I just had to make an almost $400 car payment so I only have $6 to my name right now. I should have more money yes. But it's been tough at this new amazon I work at. The building is a complete disaster. It's not safe to operate ops/pits because the building doesn't follow proper safety precautions.

These boxes aren't supposed to be sticking out with nothing to keep them in the bins. Some of them are very heavy and could fall and hurt someone.

And unfortunately for me, since this is a crosstrained site they told me that I cannot come to work if I don't operate those because saying "I don't want to, it's unsafe" is not a "good enough of an excuse and I need accommodations" only after that to be told "usually when people use safety as a reason to get accommodations they get denied"

So with all that batshittery I've either been taking vto and not going to work at all or going but only staying for a few hours and then dipping out. I applied for a transfer to another facility but I'm still waiting for it to be approved. So until then I feel kinda screwed.

My account was just suspended today. If anyone is willing and able to help me I would appreciate it immensely.

My PayPal is [email protected]

My venmo is @ onyxtruth

#i have to go to my dad's house after work tonight to get the rental car cause i was in an accident and i have no idea how to get there #i get really anxious driving and i have to use maps everywhere cause I'm horrible with directions #but i can't access it without my data #help me out #help #emergency #please help

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adnauseum11 · 9 months ago

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Emergency Rendezvous (John Price x Reader)

You spend the weekend with John and have an unexpected visitor.

1k words

CW: swearing, reference to explicit sex (MDNI)

feedback welcome!

You spend the better part of the weekend with John, doing menial tasks made more interesting just by his presence. Setting the kitchen to rights and replenishing the contents of your vegetable crisper being the first priority. John makes apologetic sounds about your broken glasses the next morning but you can tell his heart isn’t in it. The smirk that threatens to escape containment doesn’t help his case. You swat at him but for a big man he’s surprisingly quick on his feet.

You needlessly ply him with kisses to convince him to use his car to get more groceries than you normally would walking on your own. Even though they’re out of season and expensive, you can’t help buying two pints of blueberries, your favourite. You eye the raspberries, but the line must be drawn somewhere with your impulsive spending. John seems to enjoy himself, watching you squeezing and fondling the produce as you wander through the aisles.

As you pass a hardware store on the way back John tries to convince you to purchase a new lock for your door, which you decline. You know you’re driving the man insane with your resistance to improving the security of your rental, which he brings up at least twice more over the span of the day. You just can’t justify the expense of improving something that doesn’t belong to you. Making it more comfortable and affordable by putting up plastic over the drafty windows – sure. Installing complicated locks and window coverings to a place you don’t own? No thanks, sounds like burning money to you. John thinks you are nuts to not want to be a secure as possible regardless of ownership or cost. You have to ask him to drop it, which he does reluctantly, but you catch him testing the locks on the bathroom window anyway.

He wheedles you into spending Saturday night at his place, ordering your favourite Thai takeout and lazily making out on his couch with re-runs on in the background. Every inch of you feels suffused with contentment, John taking every opportunity to run his hands over you until you feel like a beloved house cat, well fed and petted.

When John takes you to his bed that night, he insists on taking your clothes off piece by piece himself, pressing his hot mouth to each newly revealed section of skin. He worships at the altar of your hips and thighs, making you cum with a guttural cry that would have the neighbours calling the police back at your run-down place. You’re more than ready for him but instead of the intense, urgent sex you had in your kitchen he takes his time. He trades hard thrusts for rocking, grinding friction, his face buried in your throat, his lips on any skin he can reach. The steady rubbing contact on your clit and panted whispered praise in your ear makes you writhe under him. He makes you cum twice more before he chases down his own pleasure. You finally fall asleep tucked into his side, your heart feeling tender like a bruised muscle.

Sunday finds you in no better shape, your throat aching when John serves you breakfast with a side of fresh raspberries. You joke that you must be getting your period soon if you’re getting weepy over fruit when John’s face registers alarm at your reaction to his gesture. The relief that sweeps across it would have made you laugh, if your throat hadn’t been choked off with emotion.

You make him take you home to your place Sunday night, wanting to get organized before work the following morning. When he makes to follow you in you have to gently explain that he’s too distracting for you to get anything done. His frown softens at the reasoning but he still keeps you in the car for another 10 minutes before reluctantly letting you go. You promise to call him after work and wave him off, feeling another wave of emotion sideswipe you as he drives off. Certainly, your period must be around the corner.

Monday night comes and you’re almost home when you pull your phone out to call John. You prefer to keep your phone put away when you are on public transport, but now that you’re walking the rest of the way home, you thumb through your contacts. You look up as the call rings, and see someone stepping in to your apartment. The call connects a few seconds later and John’s familiar rumble comes down the line.

“Did you just beat me home? I didn’t know you were going to stop by.” You ask playfully, not minding one bit if he has. Except he hasn’t.

“What? I have plans later darling, I can’t stop by.”

“What do you mean? I just saw you go in.” You’re perplexed, pulling your keys out by habit and then stopping dumbly at the door handle hanging at an odd angle. You can hear John moving on his end of the call, but your brain is still trying to understand the angle of the doorhandle. Could someone have fallen into it? Dropped a package on it?

“Love, are you sure?” John’s voice is taking on an authoritative quality that normally would rile you up but you feel frozen, unsure what to do. His tone breaks through your brain fog and you take a step back. And then another one.

“Yeah. The door handle looks all jacked up. I’m going to call-“

Your voice is soft, preoccupied.

“NO! No, don’t hang up. I’m coming, right now. You can call the police once I get there. Stay on the line with me.” John’s voice goes from panicked shout to soothing in the course of a few seconds.

“I don’t know what to do, John.” Your own panic is starting to spiral, and you fight the urge to turn and blindly sprint down the sidewalk.

“It’s alright, you’re alright love. Head back to the bus stop, I’m just leaving now.”

“All my jewellery!” You cry out suddenly, realizing all your valuables are vulnerable to whoever is in there. You turn to head back, uncertain.

“Fuck the jewellery, get your ass out of there.” John growls and you reluctantly follow his direction, casting glances back over your shoulder as you retreat.

Next Chapter

Taglist:

@deadbranch @beebeechaos @cadotoast @syoddeye

#fanfic #call of duty #captain john price #john price x reader #john price cod #friends to lovers #this work has smut #john price x f!reader #john price #captain price #fanfiction #unexpected visitor

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cleolinda · 4 months ago

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As mentioned (I think?), new spinal/pain care doctor is switching me from a steroid to not a steroid so I can have a big steroid in two weeks for a pain block. This is my first day making the switch and I am dizzy and loopy and not allowed to post on the internet until I’m more lucid. (Oops.) My queue is a mess, don’t know what’s on it. Might wake up and reblog a ton, might sleep all day, nobody knows.

Remember that wreck my mom was in two months ago, because another driver was rubbernecking a DIFFERENT wreck? For a minute she was afraid her arm had a hairline fracture as pain emerged over time, but x-rays have said she’s good. That said, yesterday the repair shop has finally pronounced her car totaled, insurance is about to stop covering a rental, and so she’s got to run out today and use what insurance is giving her for the old car to finance a “new” (used) car and my point is, I’m just sacked out with my dog hoping that I’m not having a reaction to this Very Different Non-Steroidal Medication. idk, telling people “I’m concerned about this” tends to cosmically inoculate me against it happening. Here we are.

Side note: Hello, new followers! It’s just chaos like this all the time honestly! In 2022, a shit ton of workers descended upon my street one day and dug up all our yards and broke the street’s water main and cut down somebody’s tree without even asking (they brought a crane) and flooded my basement with sewage and we had to gut all of it. Turns out it was a rogue internet provider that was cramming their fiber optic lines into the public easement part of everyone’s yards. Our city works rep told them “uh no you’re paying for the damage,” so within about a year, we were through repairs okay (Internet Provider fucked up the sewage pipes so bad that we had to get an entire new driveway by the time the plumbers were done digging under it). That is kind of the pattern: we get through crises okay, but it sure is a roller coaster to get there!!!, she said with wild-eyed laughter.

But then. Yesterday, my mom came home to discover our front yard marked up with spray paint and tiny flags. They had the logo of a rival provider. It Is Happening Again. So I’m just like. Please do not let me have a reaction to meloxicam while I’m home alone. I don’t need this right now. I don’t need this ever, I didn’t need a second herniated disc at all, but I don’t need this right now.

#listen I’m not even gonna get into how we discovered our 20 yo electrical breakers were mismatched incompatible and a fire hazard last week #‘yeah your house is gonna burn down’ the electrician said cheerfully #so we uh we got that fixed #it’s fine #this is fine #me for some reason #health #tribulations

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leiascully · 15 days ago

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X-Files OctoberFicFest Day 28: Have It Your Way

Thanks for the inspiration @sagan-starstuff and @illaisland

tw: menstruation mention, canon-typical gore, food

Autopsies make Scully hungry. Not the autopsies themselves, obviously. The process doesn't exactly turn her stomach after all this time, but they aren't appetizing either, and having a snack as she gazes into a retracted rib cage isn't exactly sanitary. It's difficult, exacting work that takes a lot of thought, and it's cold in the morgue, so by the time she finishes the last of the autopsies Mulder thought they needed to really solidify their evidence in the case, she's starving. She showers and changes as quickly as she can, emerging from the morgue to find Mulder waiting.

"I didn't hold with your Biblical plagues theory, Mulder, but you weren't entirely wrong," she says, tipping her head from side to side to crack her neck. He winces at the sound. "The last body was full of grasshoppers. Or locusts, as you will."

"The one before that had burns and frostbite," he says, his eyes lit up. It occurs to her that they are well and truly twisted at this point. Professional detachment is one thing, but they're beyond that.

"And, improbably, frogs in this morning's corpse."

He shrugs. "You've seen one body with frogs in it, you've seen 'em all."

She laughs, just a little bit. "I'm starving."

"I'll drive around," he says, taking the keys to the rental car out of his pocket. "You sing out when you see something."

She peers out the window as he navigates. They do this sometimes, this dinner divination, when there are enough choices to feel like fate. This particular metro area is a big town or a small city; fast food abounds. She sees the white and blue sign of a Culver's looming like an angel. Her stomach growls. On top of everything else, she's on her period, and the idea of a burger stokes a need deep inside her. "There," she says.

Mulder parks obediently in the lot and escorts her in, his fingers brushing the small of her back like they're entering a much nicer restaurant.

They look incongruous in the Culver's in their suits and dress shoes. They usually do. Scully ignores the sideways stares from the ultrapolite locals and strides up to the counter. She orders the curd burger, and feels ridiculous doing so, but the lure of fried cheese is too strong to resist. She adds onion rings and fries to her order, because why not, and a chocolate malt. Malt is nutritious, after all. Mulder, looking amused, asks the cashier for a double bacon butter burger with cheese, plus fries and a vanilla shake.

"He doesn't think we can throw down, Scully," he murmurs to her as they fill their water cups at the soda fountain, leaning close to be heard over the clatter of ice.

"I guess he's going to learn," she says.

The food arrives. Mulder carries the tray to their table, carefully selected for its views of the exits, because they can't not keep everything in line of sight. They hang their jackets on the back of their chairs. Mulder rolls up his sleeves, clearly ready to do battle with the pile of food. Scully unwraps her burger with its glorious patty of fried cheese and bites into it. It's possible that she moans a little. Mulder licks his lips.

"That good?"

"Mm," she agrees with her mouth full.

He bites into his own burger and now Scully's the one trying not to look at him, because his expression of bliss is too close to something else. They eat, dipping onion rings into the tubs of ketchup. Scully dunks a fry in her chocolate malt. It's an excellent combination.

"I was so hungry," she says.

"I gathered that," Mulder teases.

"You spend all day in a freezer," she mutters.

"I'm not judging you, Scully," he says, leaning back in his chair and taking her second-to-last onion ring. He leaves her the big one, though, so she doesn't lunge across the table and bite it out of his mouth. "I'm always happy to help you satisfy your appetites."

She eyes him up and down, considering five or six different witty retorts, fairly certain he can hear each one of them even though she says nothing. Most of the time, menstruation is somewhere between routine and annoying, but every now and then, it stirs primal hungers in her. She could sink her teeth into the muscle of Mulder's forearm where his sleeve is rolled up and lick the salt off his skin.

"I'll call you next time I feel the need to take down a rack of ribs."

"Oh, I'll be there," he assures her. He reaches over with a napkin and dabs at her mouth. The napkin comes away red with ketchup. "You're a messy eater, Scully. You need me there to spot you."

She looks away and tugs at the straw of her malt, pulling the thick liquid through. The effort hollows her cheeks. It probably looks like she's sucking something else, although the technique doesn't really carry over. God, she's got to calm down. Maybe she can pour her ice water into her lap. It's not like she could get any soggier down below, between her flow and whatever else.

Mulder balls up the wrappers and rises to slide all the trash into the basket. He stacks the tray with its fellows; it makes that particular plasticky click. He picks up his shake and his jacket and tips his head inquisitively, and Scully follows him, feeling the eyes tracking them out of the restaurant. She ignores them. They always draw attention, regardless of what they're doing. She's just glad no one's hit on Mulder yet. She's not sure she'd tolerate that well today.

"Let's go to the movies," she says on impulse. "I don't want to sit at the hotel."

"If you want to sit in the car instead, we could go to the drive in," he offers. "I saw it on the way into town yesterday."

"What's playing?" she asks.

He grins a little crookedly. "Does it matter?"

"No," she says. "Let's go."

They'll probably talk through the movie, slurping on the remnants of the drinks they'll have to smuggle in, but it will feed some other part of her soul. Mulder, in his way, is even more gratifying than onion rings. He's the after-dinner mint to her day, and she wants to savor that.

"A little mignardise to round off our meal," he says. "Or as I called it, the dessert dessert. Much to the displeasure of my cotillion teacher."

"Exactly," she says. "You get me."

He glances over, still grinning. "I got you."

#xfiles octoberficfest #my fic sort of #leiascully fic

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steddieas-shegoes · 1 year ago

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Hello my love! ❤️

Another for you, if you’re still taking them, though of course feel free to ignore this for any reason (or even no reason) at all!

I would love to see what you can do with Steddie and James Arthur’s “Car’s Outside”. I feel like this is one Eddie would write for Steve, maybe after an argument..? 👀

I had to look this one up because I’d never heard it before and this is some emotional stuff I wasn’t prepared for but should’ve been when you said maybe after an argument 😭

Touring the country had been his dream for so long that when it became a reality, he forgot what was most important.

It happened to a lot of rockstars.

His reality check came like lightning, fast and sharp.

“I’m just trying to understand, Stevie. You wanted me to do this. You told me to go on the tours and record the albums. You supported me. What changed?”

“You did.”

That was the last thing Steve said to him over a week ago.

All he knew now was that Steve was back in Hawkins staying with Wayne and hadn’t told him much other than he wouldn’t take up too much room for long.

Wayne didn’t tell him anything except that Steve was alive and safe, but didn’t seem to be taking care of himself well.

The first two days, all Eddie felt was anger. He was full of contempt for Steve suddenly changing his mind about Eddie’s life and dreams.

But the third day was when it hit him that Steve left.

He’d avoided everyone after that, only answered the phone in case it was him calling and hanging up if it wasn’t him.

He barely got out of bed, barely ate, didn’t even go into the bedroom converted into a music room to play his guitar.

The next tour was set to start in two weeks and he didn’t think he could go, not like this, not without Steve here waiting for him.

- - - - -

Wayne called the night before he was leaving for the tour, said he needed to come to Hawkins, but wouldn’t say why.

“Are you sick or hurt?”

“No, Ed.”

“…is Steve?”

“Just get here.”

So Eddie did.

He called the guys and told them he would meet them at their first stop in New York in three days, that he had a family emergency and couldn’t travel on the bus with them.

When he got to Hawkins, he felt like turning right around and leaving.

He hadn’t been back in years; Wayne always came to see them for holidays and visits.

Nothing has changed, not even the trailer Wayne insisted on still living in, even when Eddie offered to buy him something nicer.

Steve’s car sat in the driveway next to Wayne’s truck, just like it did before they’d moved to Chicago to try to make Eddie’s dream happen.

Eddie parked next to him, the rental from the airport much cleaner and nicer than anything else around here, but not in a good way.

It clicked suddenly, that Eddie wasn’t the same. That the guy who used to drive a beat up van and live in this trailer and loved Steve so much it felt like a physical ache when he wasn’t around wasn’t here.

He walked up to the door, knocking like this wasn’t his home just five years ago.

Wayne answered, sullen face making his chest tight with worry.

“Where is he?”

“He’s asleep finally. Come on in, son. Have a seat.”

“What happened?”

Wayne sighed.

“He’s been overworking himself and not sleeping or eating, and it finally caught up to him. He’s had a migraine for three days now, longest I’ve seen. Can barely sit up to sip water but begged me not take him to the hospital.”

Eddie’s fists clenched.

“Why wouldn’t he go?”

Wayne blinked at him.

“Son, you’re not an idiot despite the way you’ve been actin’ for a while. Think about it.”

Wayne walked to the kitchen and started packing his lunchbox.

“Where are you going?”

“I got a shift to get to. Steve shouldn’t be alone.”

Eddie stayed on the couch for the next two hours, his brain shifting through thoughts that quickly turned into song lyrics.

He wrote them down, but barely focused on what he was writing. Now wasn’t really a great time to be producing something new.

He heard a groan from his old bedroom and shot up from the couch, making his way to the end of the hall and entering the room without a second thought.

Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed, body hunched and eyes closed, pain a physical presence through every inch of him.

“Stevie,” Eddie choked out.

Steve’s head shot up. He winced in pain, but the tears in his eyes didn’t seem to have much to do with that as Eddie got closer.

“What are you doing here?”

“Wayne called.”

“And?”

“If you need me, I’m gonna be here.”

Steve looked away, his eyes closing as he turned his head.

“That’s not how things have been.”

It hurt, but he was right. It hadn’t been how things have been. Not for a while.

“I know. I…I don’t think sorry is enough for any of it, but I am. I’m sorry. So sorry, Stevie.”

Steve looked at him, the haze of the migraine keeping a lot of emotion off his face.

“Yeah. Okay.”

It wasn’t forgiveness, and forgiveness wasn’t deserved yet, but it was a start. And when Steve let Eddie get him water and medicine, and play with his hair, it felt like a start.

- - - - -

Eddie had to go.

If he didn’t go, he’d miss the first show of the tour.

He’d be in deep shit, and the guys would hate him, and he would never make music again.

His manager called him every four hours at Wayne’s asking when his flight would be and he always said “when things are right with Steve.”

It started to feel like that might not happen.

But something about the way Steve was slowly letting him in, allowing him to care for him more every day, gave him hope that he could get him back, get them back.

Wayne didn’t say much to him, didn’t have to. The way he watched was enough to know how Wayne felt about him, this situation.

But he didn’t go.

Steve’s migraine was gone, but he still needed Eddie, still needed to see that he was the priority.

Eddie needed to show him that he mattered more than his band, because he did. He always had and always would.

He missed the last flight that would’ve gotten him there on time.

He called the guys to let them know, to apologize, to tell them that he had to do what was best for him.

They understood, but told him their manager was livid and probably would try to replace him instead of postpone the tour.

He didn’t care at this point.

He’d gotten his taste of fame and it was bittersweet.

Steve stood in the doorway when Eddie hung up the phone, watching him with his arms crossed as Eddie covered his face in his hands.

“You’re not going?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Eddie dropped his hands and sighed.

“If I have to pick, then I pick you. I’ll always pick you.”

Steve’s brows furrowed.

“You think I want you to pick between me and your career?”

“Yes. That’s why you left, isn’t it?”

Steve shook his head.

“I left because you forgot that I was a choice at all,” Steve’s voice sounded choked. “I left because I didn’t even think you’d care if I did. You didn’t seem to care much about leaving me anymore.”

Eddie’s heart couldn’t possibly break more.

“Sweetheart, of course I care. I’m here because I can’t lose you. If it’s you or the band, then it’s you. Always.”

Steve let out a sob.

“I didn’t want you to choose me instead of your career. I wanted you to recognize that choosing your career didn’t have to mean not choosing me.”

“Oh, my love.”

Eddie pulled Steve against him, holding the back of his head against his chest, other hand running up and down his back slowly.

“You’re always my first choice. I’m sorry I forgot to show you that. I’m sorry you ever had to feel like you weren’t even an option. You’re the most important choice I’ve ever made and I’m going to keep choosing you every day. Even if it means giving up the band. None of that means shit to me if I don’t have you.”

Steve nodded against his chest.

They stayed like that for so long, Wayne came home, nodded and smiled from the doorway of the kitchen.

- - - - -

Steve came with him.

He called his manager the next day, said it was non-negotiable that Steve be with them for this tour.

The band was on his side, of course. They loved Steve and they loved Eddie and the last thing they wanted was to see either of them hurting.

The first time he performed the song he wrote while he was in limbo with Steve, he let the crowd know what was most important in his life.

“Gonna slow it down a bit for this next one. Sometimes this life has some downsides, hard to believe, right? It’s hard to maintain who you are when you’re being pulled in so many directions. But I’m lucky to have someone who keeps me grounded. Leaving them for tour wasn’t an option this time around, and I’m glad they’re here with me. I wrote this a couple weeks ago when we were having a hard time. I wasn’t being the partner they needed, and I wasn’t showing them that they’re the partner I want. I’m not loving you from afar anymore, sweetheart.”

Steve watched from his spot backstage, like he did every night.

He didn’t feel like an option anymore, he felt like the choice.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #headcanon #rockstar eddie munson #angst with a happy ending

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