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glassbxttless · 1 day ago

Note

Hi there! 👋🏽😊 As promised I have made it here to your little sandwich shop!

I would like salami and provolone on rustic sourdough, with mustard and why not make it a combo with hush puppies!

Excited to see what you whip up 😍

Much love,

- T🌙

Dinner for Two

older!eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 4.9k+

summary: Sandwich Shop Request from 28bohemianmoons | when your car breaks down and the very handsome mechanic that promises to fix it invites you over for dinner, he gets a little more than he bargained for.

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, smut, bit of an age gap, eddie’s 46, reader’s in her 20’s (i picture her as late 20’s but it’s never explicitly stated. so it’s up to you), oral f receiving, pinv

notes: Order up for T! Thanks for coming by and checking out the sandwich shop 🫶🏻 There’s some parts of this I feel like I could’ve elaborated more on, but it’s already almost 5k and these fics were supposed to stay under 2k lmao (I’m also just a bit tired of fussing with it). So I hope you enjoy! Big thanks to @prettycalla & @keeryhours for reading this over and as always, the biggest thanks to @peachyproserpina for editing! I’m a mess without her.

Your engine coughs once. Then it sputters. Then it fucking dies completely.

You coast to the shoulder of the road with a sinking feeling in your stomach. Your hazard lights blinking uselessly in the evening dusk. You’re not far from town, but far enough to know this is going to be a pain in the ass. You sit behind the wheel in silence for a few seconds, trying to will the car back to life as you turn the key again. No turn over. Of course, just your luck. You should’ve taken your friend’s offer to borrow their car while yours was “being weird”. But no. You had to prove that your own car wasn’t possessed by Satan.

The irony is strong when you hear the low rumble of a motorcycle approaching behind you. You glance in the rearview mirror and catch a glimpse of it— black, sleek, and loud. It’s pulling in behind your stalled car like some kind of metal savior. The guy gets off it in one smooth motion, worn in denim and soft leather with wild curls, and to top it all off, rings glinting as he pushes his hair out of his face.

“Hey,” he calls as he jogs up beside your window, ducking down slightly with one hand pressed to the top of your car. “You okay in there?”

You roll the window down halfway and blink up at him. He looks like he walked out of a hot biker calendar. Except, you know, a bit more real. His jeans are grease stained, you could see a homemade faded Corroded Coffin T-shirt that looked like it had seen better days since the 90’s, hair greying slightly, and a pair of wide brown eyes that seem way too gentle for someone built like a God.

“Car died,” you say softly, suddenly a little sheepish under his gaze. “Pretty sure it hates me.”

He grins, standing up a bit straighter, “Let me take a look, yeah? I speak fluent piece-of-shit car.”

You stare at him through your half opened window, unsure of what to make of him, “You a mechanic or just… good with insults?”

“Both.” He winks at you, then adds with the most charming smile you’ve ever seen a man wear, “Name’s Eddie. Eddie Munson.”

Of course it is. A perfect name for a dreamy man.

You pop the hood, and open the car door to slide out of it. He slides off his jacket, placing it out of the way and then he leans over, poking around while you stand back. You watch him mutter to himself as he checks connections, pokes at belts, and scowls at your battery. That faded grey t-shirt had a few holes in the hemline and it was riding up his back to show just a sliver of skin above the waist of his jeans. If you look close enough you could even see a bit of his soft belly. You flick your eyes up, taking in the set of his jaw. He was focused, wound tight as he tries to locate the problem, there’s a few wrinkles by his eyes, laugh lines settling close to his mouth. You smile. He’s one of the most handsome men you’ve had walk into your life. After a few more minutes of your silent gawking, he slams the hood down again— it’s not hard, just enough to snap your attention back to the present. He wipes his hands on his jeans as he turns to you.

“She’s gonna need some love. Maybe a sacrifice or two,” he says with a chuckle. “Starter’s shot, and your alternator isn’t looking too friendly either.”

“Awesome,” you mutter. “You have tow trucks too? or do you just deliver bad news on the side of the road?”

He laughs and shakes his head, already pulling out his phone. “No, but I’ve got a buddy at the shop who can come grab it. We’ll get it to my garage, fix it up cheap. No dealership shit. I swear on my Iron Maiden collection.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and look him over again. “And you’re not just saying that to lure me into your mechanic lair?”

Eddie grins wider, those laugh lines and dimples on full display, like he appreciates the sass you’re shooting at him. “Hey, you’re welcome to keep your guard up.” He chuckles, sending a text out, as he shakes his head. He might as well give it a shot, “I do have a lair. It just also happens to have a killer lasagna and a very patient dog.”

“…You cook?”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he says softly, cocking an eyebrow up as he tests the waters. “Could come by sometime. I promise not to kill you. Unless you’re allergic to good conversation and metal records. Then maybe I’ll have to make a sacrifice… you know, for the car.”

You roll your eyes and let out a laugh, pulling up the contacts in your phone just to humor him. “I’ll think about it.” He flashed you a grin at that. He leaves you with his number and a promise that your car will be better than it was brand new— or at least newer than it looks now.

You don’t mean to text him. Really, you don’t. But a few nights later, after a really long day at work, a too-long shower, and a look in your fridge at the leftovers from the night before— you find yourself in your bed. Aimlessly scrolling through social media, that man and his greying curls heavy on your mind. You bite your lip as you think of his arms, splattered with dark ink. You think of that little bit of skin you saw as he leaned over your car. And you let out a breath, opening up your contacts app. You think about it a moment, really weighing your options. It’s just dinner, yeah? If it turned into more you’d be okay with that. He was funny, not too bad on the eyes, certainly one night of a lapsed judgement wouldn’t kill you. But he’s double your age. And you shake your head, scrolling past his number in your phone. But then you pause and scroll back.

Hey. That dinner still on the table?

You half expect him to ignore the message, it’d been days and the last time you spoke was about your car. But he responds shortly after..

Hell yes. Tonight? Come hungry.

When you pull up to his house— a small place outside of town with a beat-up mailbox with MUNSON scrawled across the side, you can see an old blue Chevy in the garage through the open door, right next to that pretty metal savior from the week before. His neighbors are close enough to almost share walls. But the porch light is on and you knock gently. Hearing shuffling around on the other side of the door for a moment, you wait, holding your bag to your chest. The door creaks open and there he is. He’s got an apron on, a shirt with the sleeves cut off showing each of the intricate tattoos adorning his skin. His hair is pulled back in a bun messily underneath a bandana to keep back the flyaways. His face a little flushed and red from the heat of the kitchen.

“You came,” he says softly, clearly shocked to see you standing at the door.

“Of course I did,” you say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “You said to come hungry… and I wanted to meet the dog.”

The dog is a sleepy little border collie named Ozzy, who’s spread out on the couch not paying any mind to the new visitor in his home. “He’s a real killer, can’t you tell?” Eddie jokes softly as he steps back to let you step in. He shuts the door behind you and makes his way back over to the kitchen with you close on his heels. He hands you a glass of red wine and says it’s “the cheap kind, on sale.”

The lasagna he whipped up is genuinely amazing. So is the music— a vinyl spinning in the background, something heavy that makes him close his eyes and nod along like he’s feeling it in his bones. You think you’ve hit the jackpot of men; handsome, a great cook, and has a great taste in music? You ask him about his band when he mentions it in an offhand comment— he still plays sometimes, mostly local gigs. You ask about the shop— he owns half of it now. You ask about the rings— he shrugs and says he’s always had em, “Sweetheart, these fingers were born for flair.”

By the time you finish with dinner, you’re laughing way more than you had planned to. You rest your elbows against the table top, watching as he leans back in his chair. He’s looking at you with a smile that’s almost shy.

“What?” you ask softly, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish yourself.

“Nothing,” he chuckles a bit. “I just…didn’t think you’d actually show. Let alone stick around… I really can’t believe it.” He shakes his head a bit, the bandana holding back midnight colored curls from his face.

You tilt your head, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Why not?”

He shrugs, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. Bashful. “People don’t usually stick around this long.” He says it like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop with you. But there’s something in his voice— something that makes you want to lean closer, so you do.

“You’re not as scary as you look, Munson.”

He smirks, that playful confidence you’d caught more glimpses of than the coyness he’s been exhibiting tonight.

“Careful. I’ve got a reputation to protect.” He pushes back from the table to stand, so you follow suit. And then there’s that moment— the pause that stretches quietly. A question that hangs in the air between two people who are both wondering the same thing; Are you going to kiss me? He steps closer just as the thought crosses your mind and you don’t move back.

“You want to see the garage?” he murmurs, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. His voice is low, a little rough, nothing like before. The apron he’d been wearing before dinner was long discarded, showing the front of the cutoff Dio shirt he’d been in. He reaches up, tugging the bandana from his head, the bun still keeping most of his hair contained.

You grin, biting the inside of your cheek. “That code for something?”

His laugh is quiet now. He’s nervous, that blush that had graced his cheeks earlier is back, plastered across his nose— mixing with the freckles that peppered his skin. As embarrassed as he may be, he holds your gaze. He bites the inside of his cheek and lets out a breath, whispering, “Only if you want it to be.”

You nod. You do. You so desperately want it to be.

And he moves closer in a blink of an eye. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it since the moment he saw your broken-down car on the highway. His hands are tentative at first, one sliding up your back so gently you barely notice it’s there. And when you melt into him, your front pressing up against his body, he moves more confidently. The hand that wasn’t occupied by holding you close to him slides up and tangles in your hair. The pressure makes you gasp into his mouth. And he presses you up against the kitchen wall right between his dining table and countertop. The warmth of his chest is seeping through your shirt, his rings cold where they skim your waist.

You break the kiss just long enough to whisper, lips brushing against his as you do, “So, is this part of the tune-up package?”

He laughs again, cheeks redder than before and a bit more breathless now. “Oh, sweetheart. This is way more than the tune-up package… this is the extended warranty.”

You laugh, still pinned to the wall when he kisses you again. He’s slower this time, taking his time. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he’s memorizing the way you taste for when you’re inevitably gone again. His hands settle at your waist, his thumbs slip under the hem of your shirt and press in against your skin just enough to make you lean into him, instinctive. You’re needy and you both know it.

“God, you feel good,” he mutters against your lips before he’s dragging his mouth across your jaw, down your neck. He doesn’t stop until his teeth graze the spot just under your ear. “Can I—? Shit. I didn’t think you’d actually come, and now I’m two seconds from ruining my chances at a second date completely.”

“You didn’t ruin anything, Ed,” you breathe out softly. Your hands brushing over his shoulders. “You’re doing great, actually.”

He huffs a laugh as he shakes his head. Hair working its way out of his bun. You feel the rumble of his chest more than you hear it— his breath hot against your skin, his chest is rising against yours. And then he gets quieter, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

You reach down between your bodies and grab the hem of your own shirt, whispering, “Help me get this off before I change my mind.”

For him? That’s all it takes.

He tugs your shirt over your head and tosses it somewhere behind him. He scans your newly revealed skin so slowly it almost hurts him. His eyes are glinting in the dimmed light of his kitchen, words stuck on his tongue like he’s in the presence of something so holy that he can’t believe he gets to touch it— that look makes heat coil deep in your stomach. He kisses your chest so gently, you barely even feel the press of his lips. Then he’s trailing his fingers over your hip, up your side. He settles on your ribs, thumb brushing over your skin— he’s not in a rush, he can savor his time with you. He dips his head down again, stubbled chin scratching against your chest as he presses another kiss against your shoulder. His nose brushing against your neck as he slides up to press another kiss below your ear, against your jaw, and then finally your lips. He kisses you like he’s starved for it. His hands are warm and a little rough as they slide up your sides. One reaches back to settle on the clasp of your bra, greedy. You gasp into his mouth when he presses his hips into yours, he’s already hard, straining against his jeans.

It’s good. So good. So good you almost don’t notice when he adjusts his grip on you, trying to work the clasp loose (he’s been out of practice for longer than he’d like to admit), his free hand knocks something off the counter. You both flinch, breaking from the kiss, as a metal mixing bowl hits the kitchen tile with a clang that rings through the room like a damn alarm bell.

“Shit,” Eddie mutters, lifting his head to look you in the eyes. He’s breathless, cheeks flushed and lips kiss bitten. “That was… expensive-sounding.”

You lean forward resting your forehead against his jaw as you laugh softly. “That’s what you get for trying to fuck me next to your Gran’s stand mixer.”

You’re still catching your breath when you catch his eyes flick toward the back of the house. “You know,” he says slowly, voice dropping to a raspy whisper, “there’s a lot less cookware out in the garage.”

You lift a brow, that’s the second time he’s mentioned the damn place. “That supposed to be your version of romance?”

“It’s where I’m my truest self,” he says solemnly, nuzzling his nose against your hair, lips pressing a kiss against your temple. “Surrounded by tools, loud music, and we have absolutely zero chance of knocking over my Nana’s cornbread tin and denting it beyond repair.”

You narrow your eyes as he speaks. “If you’re just trying to get me out there so I’ll see your stupid truck, you left the door open and on my way in, I already—”

“No arguing, sweetheart,” he says with a tut, already tugging you toward the door. He reaches up and presses a button, until you can hear the tell tale sign of the garage door closing. “You’ve questioned the sanctity of my second favorite place in this entire house. Now you have to come see it, and that isn’t code for anything.”

You let him lead you with all his golden retriever enthusiasm— one hand in his, the other folded across your chest to keep your bra in place. You’re still half-laughing, that spark between you hasn’t dimmed in the slightest— it’s just waiting, simmering, threatening to boil over the second you get your lips back on his. He opens the door, helping you carefully down the two steps until you hit the cool concrete floor. The garage is warm and faintly smells like gasoline, it’s lit by a few overhead bulbs and the sliver of moonlight pouring through the window. You hadn’t realized it was this late. His tools are organized along the back wall in a way that only he would know where anything was. The blue chevy truck’s parked square in the middle, just as you had seen it earlier. His bike parked next to it. Windows rolled down and the hood closed.

“Wow,” you say, mock impressed as you look around the room. You take in the posters along the wall, worn in and incredibly obvious he’d saved them from his teenage years. “A whole garage dedicated to metal bands. You trying to marry me or something?” You joke softly, feeling hot as soon as Eddie turns his gaze back to you.

He tuts softly with a roll of his eyes, backing you up until your body is pressed between him and the front of his truck. “Careful, sweetheart. This truck’s seen a lot of action.”

“Uh-huh. Bet it’s jealous.”

“Oh, it will be in a minute.” He dips his head down letting his lips hover above yours. His breath is hot, his eyes are flicking from yours, down to where he’d like to be. He presses his hands against the hood of the truck on each side of your hips, leaning in until he can close the distance between the two of you in a kiss. It’s deeper this time, all of the teasing now burned away by the low throb of tension that’s been building since you stepped through his front door. He shifts his hips closer, until he’s flush against you— one hand leaving the hood to settle on your hip, like he’s finally letting himself have you. He slides it beneath your waistband, toying at the hem of your panties as he lets out the lowest groan you’ve ever heard a man make.

Your own hands snake upwards, resting on his shoulders. Your fingers brushing along taught muscle before you’re tugging the bun he was wearing loose, a shy little smile on your face. He shakes his hair free, letting his forehead fall onto your shoulder. His breath against your skin ragged as you grind your hips towards him— the bulge in his jeans growing by the second. He swears so much blood is running downwards, his knees may buckle. And before you can even catch your breath, he turns you around— your back to his front— and bends you forward over the cold metal hood of his truck. He leans his body over your own, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades, his mouth at your ear as he finally unsnaps the clasp of your bra. “You okay with this?” he asks softly, his voice a little hoarse, from want, from need.

You nod, letting your own forehead rest against the metal. Your breath hitches in your throat, “More than okay, Eds.”

He laughs. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about doing this since the second you popped your damn hood up on the side of the road.”

His hands slide the straps of your bra down off your shoulders, and he carefully tugs it out from under your body, tossing it over the mirror of the truck. He lets one hand trail forward, cupping your tit before giving it a squeeze. He presses another kiss against your shoulder, moving his hands back down to your hips. He thrusts against your ass, fully clothed. You gasp, a little dazed by the sudden shift in energy. He’s not teasing you anymore. He’s hungry, he’s greedy. And he wants you so badly.

You barely have time to register that his hands have left your body and he’s no longer pressed up behind you. You glance over your shoulder, gasping softly at the sight. He’s on his knees behind you, letting himself look up at you through those pretty eyelashes before his hands are back on you, parting your thighs with an ease you hadn’t seen him display before. “Are you—”

“Yeah,” he says softly, his tongue darting out to wet his lip. He lets his hands drift to your front, unbuttoning your pants and dragging the zipper down so slowly. When he’s finally got it, he makes a big deal of slowly tugging your pants down. He’s deliberate, letting himself get worked up by every inch of cotton that’s revealed to him. “I fuckin’ am.”

He runs a palm over the swell of your ass with an appreciative hum. Then he dips his head lower, pushing your thighs a bit further apart. He presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses up, up, up— until he’s right where you want him. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his breath hot over your clothed core, his eyes flick up to watch you, pressed over the hood. “You cold or just impatient?”

“Eddie, pl—”

He doesn’t make you say it. He really doesn’t need to. Not with the way your panties are sopping wet for him already. One hand settles on your hip as the other drags the soiled cotton down to join where your jeans are bunched around your feet. Dipping his head down once again, he slides his tongue over you, so slowly. You nearly collapse forward at the sensation. His grip is firm on you, keeping you steady, holding you there— his mouth is relentless, tongue plunging into your cunt before alternating to lick a fat stripe through your folds. He’s focused, intentional in a way that makes your toes curl with each prod of that muscle against you, with each nudge of his nose. He groans into your pussy when you moan his name, like he’s getting off on the sound of it. Like he could live here between your thighs forever. And it sends a shockwave of vibrations through your spine. That white hot coil in your belly starts to build oh-so-slowly.

You press your forehead to the truck, your eyes fluttering shut. You rock your hips back into his face, desperate for more. Desperate for him to let you cum.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he pulls away to press another kiss against your thigh, muttering softly. “How the hell am I supposed to let you leave after this?” And if those words didn’t make you keen, the flat of his tongue surely did when it runs up your thigh, almost to where you’d like him to be.

Your laugh stutters out halfway into a gasp, fingers curling into fists where they had been pressed against the truck. “Who said I wanted to leave?”

That earns you a sharp nip of his teeth, followed by a kiss right over the bite— so gentle it almost makes your head spin. And then just like how he’d gotten down there, with no warning at all, he pulls away.

“Eddie—” you breathe out, standing on the edge of what may be the best orgasm of your life.

He’s already standing, his own chest heaving— sweat clinging to his bangs and plastering his curls to his forehead. His eyes, blown wide as he unbuckles his belt— tugging his own jeans down just enough to free himself. “You still good?” he asks again, waiting for you to pack it up. Tell him you don’t fuck the town freaks. Even in his forties, Eddie’s scared of letting anyone in.

You nod, turning your head slightly to rest your cheek against the metal. “Fuck. Yeah. Please.”

That’s all the confirmation he needs. He wraps a hand around his cock, thumbing the base to line himself up with your pretty cunt. He’s so hard he can barely stand it, so he sinks into you with one smooth, steady, hard thrust that knocks the air completely out of your lungs. You gasp, bracing yourself on the hood. Your knees are already trembling. “Jesus Christ,” Eddie breathes behind you, both hands tight on your hips. His thumb rubbing circles into your skin. “You feel— fuck. You feel like a dream.” It’d been too long since he’d been here, balls deep inside a pretty girl. Let alone one probably half his age.

You try to respond to him, but the words in your head die in your throat before you even have a chance to speak them. He pulls back out until there’s nothing but an inch or so of his cock left inside of you, and then thrusts in again, harder this time. That stupid blue chevy rocks beneath you. You moan loud, unable to hold it in— and that’s when his hand snakes up from your hip, covering your mouth from behind as he leans over your body once again.

“Shh,” His lips are brushing against the shell of your ear. “You gotta be quiet, sweetheart. I’ve got neighbors.”

You whimper against his palm, letting your eyes close as he grinds his hips deeper inside of you. The hair growing back in at the base of his dick scratching against your skin burns in a way you’ll know you’ll feel it tomorrow. And he groans, letting himself get an eyeful of you. Fuck, you’re so pretty like this— bent over his truck, desperate and begging with just the rock of your hips. Taking everything he lets you have. He rocks his hips hard, steady, pushing deeper each time like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else. His pace is unrelenting as you clench around his cock. One of his hands slips down the front of your body and between your legs, deft fingers finding your clit. He starts working against that little bundle of nerves in tight little circles, and it’s enough to make you start seeing stars. The pressure in your stomach growing more taut by the second “That’s it, baby.” he grits out between his teeth. “Let me feel you cum. You’re squeezin me. I know you’re close.”

And that band finally snaps with a particular hard thrust of his hips, dragging against that spongy front wall of yours. You cum with a choked out cry against his hand, in which he just presses harder against your lips. Your body is clenching around him so hard he nearly follows you into euphoria right then and there. He drops his head to your shoulder, the hand on your hip sliding around your waist to hold you as close as he can. His thrusts are slowing, getting a little sloppier. There’s another slip of your name, and two more thrusts, before he buries himself deep inside of you one final time. He squeezes his eyes shut, burying his nose against the nape of your neck as he spills inside of you. Cumming hard.

You stay pressed against one another there for a second— both of you panting, trembling, bodies still resting over the hood of his stupid truck. After another minute passes, he pulls his head up and presses a kiss to your shoulder. He’s a little shaky and a little pussy-drunk. “Well,” he chuckles a bit. “This service is definitely going in an ad for the shop. Imagine the business boom.”

You laugh breathlessly, turning your head just enough to catch a flash of his smile. “You put this in an ad and I’m keying your truck and the bike.”

He grins, curls falling every which way as he gives a gentle shake of his head. “Fair.”

He tugs you upright as he pulls out. And then he’s tugging your clothes— at least your panties and jeans— gently back into place, pressing soft kisses to your neck like he’s trying to soothe the bruises he left behind. And then he’s stepping back, grabbing your bra from the side mirror to help slide it back up your arms. “Next time,” he says softly, turning you to work the clasp closed. He smiles as he reaches down, tugging his own jeans up and zipping them with a little hiss, “I’ll show you the actual bedroom.”

You arch a brow, teasing him. “Next time, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, grinning like he’s already planning it and knowing you aren’t going to object, “you’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

tags ;; @peachyproserpina @missjadesfics @iheartgrayson @meetmeatyourworst @punkrockmlchael @prettycalla @getaapologist

#eddie munson #joseph quinn #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #mechanic!eddie #older!eddie #joe quinn #joey quinn #joseph anthony francis quinn #cw: smut #cw: age gap #cw: oral sex #cw: piv

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if-divinepunishment · 3 days ago

Text

If a soul is born without resonance, what does it echo instead?

✦ Rating: 18+ (Mature Themes, addiction - substance use, Strong Language, Emotional Abuse, torture, violence, sexual assault, explicit sex)

✦ In Thalwood, the trees don't just whisper, They sing. And when they fall silent, we hold our breath.

It has been many centuries since you made the mistake of stepping out of line. Before this room, and before the horrors inflicted upon your body and soul you were someone – something.

Anger. Rage. Wrath.

Though, those titles were much prettier when first bestowed upon you like an act of love. Now the only acts of love given to you are the cuts of a blade and the painful tugging of a cleaning cloth.

After years, and years of pleading to be forgiven and begging for your sins to be released, you are dismissed from the celestial realm to continue your divine punishment. As if centuries of pain weren’t enough. You find yourself vulnerable in a world you’ve dreamt of exploring before.

Altheria.

Unfortunately, your newfound freedom is fleeting.

Just as you awaken on the moss-covered ground, you’re struck with the bubbling frustration of a man standing no more than ten meters in front of you. His sloppily managed magic shackling you once again. Not by a God this time, but by pale, shaking, mortal hands.

✦ In this interactive fiction you will be able to

‣ Customise your character’s appearance, gender (male, female, non-binary), personality, and sexuality.

‣ Meet and romance (or don’t romance), antagonise, or befriend some interesting human companions. - Please note that being in a romantic relationship does not mean you have to persue sex or physical intimacy.

‣ live as familiar and experience whatever that entails.

‣ Explore the town of Thalwood and learn about the Ethereal Harmonics.

‣ Find about about Thalwood's history and solve some of it's mysteries.

‣ Escape from the chains binding you to your abusive creator and their flock of angels and enact revenge.

✦ Nyneve Minowa (he/him) RO

Age: 25

A 5’11, pale, slender man covered in black clothing. He has silky, black hair that cascades down his back. His blue eyes seem to look past your skin and right into your mind sometimes. Though, you suppose that’s because you’re his familiar.

A scholar in Ethereal harmonics, he holds the ability to gain power from the Angel he worships – rage. Which happens to be you.

Currently, he spends all his time with you. However, he used to primarily spend time studying the Ethereal Harmonics.

Tropes: Worshipper/worshipped, stuck together, forced proximity, secretly pining.

Green flags: smart, protective, observant, dependable, curious, loyal.

Ethereal Harmony - Emotant

Red flags: Possessive, emotionally constipated, prone to anger, cynical, confrontational.

✦ Nami Lovecroft (she/her) RO

Age: 26

A 5’6, chubby girl with deep, cool tone brown skin and a flat nose. She’s covered from head to toe in modest clothing. Her black hair is natural in a small Afro. She carries on her a beautiful rosary and you can help but notice how her dark brown eyes light up when she looks at it, a stark contrast to the uncomfortable grimace she pulls when she speaks to you.

Often seen volunteering in the church, maybe she can give you a mortal perspective on Altheria, your creator and the angels.

Tropes: apprehensive friends to lovers, deconstructing harmful religious beliefs (together), forbidden love.

Green flags: Kind, generous, Passionate, Merciful, gentle.

Red flags: initially hostile, heavily (toxic) religious, very guarded, insecure, Naive,

Ethereal Harmony - Virtuant

✦ Crew Ledger He/him (RO)

Age: 40

A 6’4, stocky man with tanned skin with a roman nose. Usually wearing his ‘comfortable inn-keeping clothes’ for the inn Harmon’s Rest. His curly brown hair reaches just past his ears and his cheeks are flushed. His sleeves are rolled up and his arms are covered with hair. His green eyes seem to almost sparkle as he talks about his seven-year-old daughter Laverne. On his right wrist he has the names Liren and Laverne tattooed in cursive.

He spends most of his time with Laverne or manning Harmon’s Rest.

Ethereal Harmony - Virtuant

Tropes: Single parent, big secret.

Green flags: Eager, nice, affectionate, good parent, animal lover.

Red flags: Cagey about past, stubborn, addiction.

✦ Ahri Magnolia (she/they) RO

Age: 29

A 5’4, plump person with tanned skin and a flat nose. They wear elegant, ‘sharp’ looking clothes that drape her in a cloak of mystery. Black and dark red, straight hair that reaches her shoulder blades tied in a half-up half-down hairstyle, with a sharp jewelled hairpin that dangles when she walks. their hazel eyes are as sharp as their voice and her confidence radiates into any room she walks into.

She spends most of her time solving disputes in Thalwood.

Ethereal Harmony – Desirant

Tropes: Messing around first, shameless flirt, sworn off relationships.

Green flags: Empathetic, charming, observant, strong willed, capable.

Red flags: emotionally unavailable, non-committal (no cheating), closed off, mildly manipulative.

✦ Cazine (they/them) RO

Age: 23

A 5’6, lithe person with brown skin and a hooked nose. They wear androgenous clothes and heavy jewellery. Their wavy hair is black and is short in the morning and long at night, however they aren’t open to explaining why. Their left eye is black, and their right is covered with an eyepatch. They don’t seem to very invested in anyone, however they are uniquely interested in you.

They lead a hunting and foraging squad in Thalwood.

Ethereal Harmony - Emotant

Tropes: Found family, traumatic past, gender identity issues.

Green flags: resolute, resourceful, independent, flexible, open-minded, preceptive.

Red flags: Avoidant, careless (to self), quick tempered, stubborn, sarcastic, impatient, impulsive.

✦ Aquine (They/She/He/it)

Your creator, and the creator of all things living. Though she was once brimming with ambition, emotion and desires all you’ve seen the last few centuries is their blank excuse soul. You’ve felt her warmth and devotion and now you feel her icy hot bite and the ripping of your wings.

Soon, you will get revenge.

✦ Envy (he/him)

The second Angel ever created by Aquine. conniving, cold and always wanting more. You aren’t sure why, but he hates you, you’re sure if he could have torn your wings from your back without Aquine’s help, he would have. Yet, he settled on exposing your expedition to Altheria. In the end, he got what he wanted.

✦ The Angels

Woven from Aquine’s heart are her beloved Angels. As a testament to his love and affection towards the first living beings they’ve ever created, they forfeited their emotions, desires and virtues. Thus, the first Angel dubbed ‘the Prototype Angel’ was given her hatred. A boon for her future creations to share – the gift of never feeling hated.

✦ The Ethereal Harmonies

Not a person, rather a thing given to human-kind. Given to the people to connect divinity and mortals. Through the Ethereal Harmonies humans may request boons for power from an angel through the devotion of desire, emotions, or virtue.

✦ Demo - TBA ✦ Spotify Playlist - TBA ✦ Pinterest - TBA ✦ Character arts - TBA (when I have some money I want to commission some artists!)

✦ Severe content warnings for the following: Self harm, suicidal ideation, torture,transphobia, child death(mentioned), addictiom, abuse, sexual assault and abuse, flashbacks, recovery from trauma, disordered eating, power imbalances, re-traumatisation, animal death through hunting for food, Sex and suggestive themes, death.

(The sexual abuse, assault, abuse, and torture happen to MC. These scenes will be skippable however they will still happen.)

This list may be subject to change while the interactive fiction novel is in development, please keep a regular eye on the contents warning list on this page as the chapters update.

✦ Additional disclaimers and information

I am a novice writer and am doing this as a passion project for fun. I will try to be as quick as possible but I have zero coding experience. I will give as many updates on this blog as i can though.

(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ

Character asks & POV are okay, nsfw is okay, if I don't want to answer something due to being uncomfortable I won't! I appreciate YOU if you have read this far into my little post.. I'm quite nervous but really proud of this idea!

#divine punishment #divine punishment if #interactive fiction #intro post #twine if #twine wip #twine interactive fiction #itch.io #indie dev #if wip #dp

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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 2 days ago

Text

Unexpected Surprise

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2k

Warnings: fluff

Summary: You up and leave your old life behind for a new job in a state you’ve never been to before. While on the plane, you meet a very interesting genius who has nothing but facts about almost everything. What you think is a cute date turns into something more when you see him at your new job.

Square Filled: "It's a success." for @mfbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are greatly appreciated <3

Never did you think you would pack up your entire life just to move across the country for a job. Yet here you are. On a plane going to a state you’ve never been to before to start a job you never thought you’d get. You applied to be the technical analyst for the FBI after being the tech girlie for the LAPD. The job was so far out of reach so when you got the job, you almost shit your pants.

They wanted you to start right away so you had to pack up whatever you could and move out there immediately. For the next few weeks, you’ll be flying back to California to get the rest of your things. There is a cute little apartment you were lucky enough to find, so you were able to get some of your things shipped over there.

During the flight, you try to calm yourself with some relaxing music but your thoughts are too loud to silence. Instead, you take out your laptop and work on some code you’ve been dabbling in for the past few months. You can create a lot of code with your skills, but you decided to focus on hacking and digging in places you shouldn’t be.

Perfect for the FBI.

Two hours pass by while you’re creating a theme for a website when you notice it. Out of the corner of your eye, you see that your shoelace is untied. Your tray is down, your laptop and a snack rest upon it, and your bag is by your feet. It’s a fucking shoelace, Y/N. Ignore it. You try so hard for five minutes before you feel the urge to fix it. Maybe that’s why you’re so good at what you do. You pick at the details until what you’re left with is a pretty picture that’s easy to read.

Fixing your shoe is a need, not a want.

You keep shifting, hoping to get your foot closer to you so that you can tie your shoe, but to no avail.

“Do you need help?” You lift your eyes to look into honey-brown ones. The man on the aisle seat next to you has a kind smile on his face. “I can tie your shoe for you.”

“Why would you do that?” you ask without moving your foot.

The stranger holds up his phone which has a black screen. “My phone died, and I’m quite bored.”

“Okay,” you giggle.

You lift your foot and he rests it on his thigh. His long and nimble fingers grab both ends of your shoelace and start to tie it.

“No one quite knows the first time shoelaces were used to secure shoes. In fact, most reports indicate that shoelaces are as old as shoes themselves. Archaeologists believe that ancient peoples used shoelaces for the same reasons we currently use them, experimenting with materials to influence comfort, fit, and even style.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. They think that about five thousand years ago, during the late Neolithic and early Bronze Age periods, cavemen and women also used specific shoelace designs to distinguish between tribes. Most importantly, shoelaces kept early man’s shoes tight and fitted, accommodating their need to travel long distances for food, water, and shelter without causing severe damage to their feet.”

“You just know everything, don’t you?”

“I am a certified genius,” he grins.

“Is that so?”

“Quite. Did you know there are multiple ways to tie your shoe?”

“Please divulge that information,” you smile.

“First, you have the standard tie.” He ties your shoe using the most basic method that every adult knows how to do. “We have the famous ‘Bunny Ears’ way.” He unties your shoe just to tie it again using what children call ‘bunny ears’ since the loops look like ears. “Third, we have the better bow shoelace knot.” It’s like standard but he wraps the shoelace twice around his finger instead of once. “Finally, a classic, the double knot for extra security. See? It’s a success.”

“Who knew there were multiple ways to tie a shoe,” you smile.

“I did, and now so do you.”

“I’m Y/N.”

He smiles and sets your foot down. “Spencer Reid.”

“So, are you flying away from home or toward it?”

“Toward it. I was visiting my mom in Texas for a week. What about you?”

“Toward my new home. I’m from California, but I got a new job in Virginia. I’m kind of nervous about it. I’ve never done anything like it before.”

“What is it?”

“Tech work. I have a masters in computer science. I worked for the LAPD before, but I couldn’t pass up on this offer. I’m kind of nervous, to be honest. I’ve never even stepped foot in Virginia before. I don’t know anyone here.”

“You know me,” Spencer smiles kindly.

“That I do.”

The rest of the flight is smooth sailing once you and Spencer fall into easy conversation. You didn’t even know three hours had passed because he was that easy to talk to. Like the gentleman he is, he walks you to baggage claim and waits for you to get your bag even when he grabs his.

“When do you start your new job?” he asks.

“Monday.”

“I know this might be a bit forward, but I’d love to show you around Virginia if you’re not busy this weekend. I’m sure you have a lot of unpacking to do.”

“Not that much. Like I said before, this was sudden. All my things are still in California. I’ll be moving them in gradually for the next month or so. I can hang out tomorrow if you’d like.”

“It’s a date,” he smiles. His words suddenly register in his head and he starts stuttering and blushing. “Not like a date, date. I meant that I’ll see you tomorrow as in it’s confirmed.”

“Spencer, it’s okay. It can be a date,” you laugh.

“Okay,” he blushes more.

“You’re cute. I have to pick up my rental so I’ll see you tomorrow.”

After exchanging phone numbers, you part ways. Your apartment is thirty minutes from the airport and already has the necessary furniture you had shipped over--bed, couch, dining table, and two chairs. The other things will come when you have time to bring them over. There are a few boxes you had shipped that contain kitchen and bathroom items so you don’t have to go out and buy all new things.

Before, you were nervous about starting this new job. Now, you’re nervous about your date with Spencer. He’s very cute and charming, but you don’t want to mess it up. Even if he isn’t boyfriend material, he definitely has the potential to be a really good friend. Look at you, already thinking about him as a boyfriend. You really are in over your head.

The next day, Spencer picks you up without a car. He likes using public transportation and refuses to even let you drive. You two started out in a cafe to get something to eat before he took you sightseeing around Virginia. There is a beautiful botanical garden here that is his favorite, so that’s where you two are.

“So, genius, have any facts or tidbits about this place?” you ask.

“The idea for this garden came from Thomas P. Thompson, Norfolk City Manager from 1935 to 1938, and Frederic Heutte, a young horticulturalist. Heutte had a fondness for azaleas and thought Hampton Roads had a climate uniquely suited for growing the plants. Thompson and Heutte believed that Norfolk could support an azalea garden to rival those of Charleston, SC, which even during the depression years drew thousands of tourists annually.”

“Wow, you’re just a fountain of knowledge.”

“That’s not all. Within less than a year, a section of underbrush had been cleared and readied for planting. By March of 1939, four thousand azaleas, two thousand rhododendrons, several thousand miscellaneous shrubs and trees, and one hundred bushels of daffodils had been planted.

“In August of 1939, Representative Colgate W. Darden Jr. secured an additional one hundred and thirty-eight thousand, five hundred and fifty-three dollars for the Azalea Garden, and the founding of the Old Dominion Horticultural Society provided volunteer labor to assist the Garden. By 1941, the Garden displayed nearly five thousand azaleas and seventy-five landscaped acres that were encompassed by five miles of walking trails.”

You don’t know Spencer well at all but hearing him spew facts like he has them stored in his brain for later brings a smile to your face.

“Well, they did a good job because this place looks beautiful.”

Spencer looks at you and smiles. “Yeah, it is.”

You and Spencer spend another hour walking around the garden while he tells you facts about the different flowers and plants. Afterward, he takes you to get ice cream before bringing you home. He walks up the porch steps leading to your apartment building, and you stop before you can open the door.

“Would you like to come in? I don’t have a lot of furniture, though.”

“I appreciate the offer, but no.” Before your shoulders can deflate, he quickly adds, “It’s not because I don’t want to. I do, but I want to do this right.”

“Right?” you ask.

Spencer smiles and he leans in closer to you. You stay completely still because you don’t want to mess this up. You don’t want to kiss him if that’s not his intention. He does kiss you but on your cheek. Even when he pulls away, you can still feel the skin he touches tingling.

“Goodnight, Y/N. Good luck on your first day.”

“Thanks,” you whisper.

“I’ll call you tomorrow to see how it’s going.”

With that, Spencer leaves. Thoughts of him swirl around in your head for the rest of the night, are embedded into your dreams, and even when you wake up. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. You get dressed and drive to the BAU where you’ll be working. Their current technical analyst is leaving so she’ll be training you to take her place.

After signing in at the lobby and getting your badge, you make your way to the floor where the BAU is. Penelope Garcia is waiting for you outside of the bullpen, and she smiles when she sees you.

“Y/N, right?”

“Yes, you must be Penelope Garcia, right? It’s nice to meet you. So, you’re leaving the BAU?”

“Yes, sad story. I love this team but I got a better job opportunity to work overseas. However, I trust that you will be more than happy here. I know you’ll do a great job because I picked you, and I’m never wrong. Let me introduce you to Hotch and the team.”

She takes you to Agent Hotchner’s office who is stern but welcoming. “You’ll be shadowing Garcia for a couple of weeks.”

“Yes, sir,” you nod.

“If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to let me know. I’ll leave you in the trusty hands of Garcia.”

“Come on, let’s find the rest of the team.”

You meet JJ, Emily, Tara, Luke, and Matt, all of them friendly and welcoming. The last person on the team is someone you never thought would be here. Spencer turns with a coffee in hand, and his eyes widen when he sees you. Not out of shock, but pleasant surprise.

“Of course, you’d work here,” you chuckle.

“Do you two know each other?”

“Kind of. We met on the plane ride over here, and he showed me around Virginia over the weekend.”

“Look, I understand if you don’t want to see me again outside of being professional.”

Ever the gentleman, Spencer is. “Dr. Reid, are you sad about that?”

“Yes, I am. I like you, and I’d like to see you again.”

A blush creeps up your neck but you try to keep it at bay. “Well, you’re about to see a whole lot of me because I am not going anywhere.” You smirk. “I’ll see you around, Dr. Reid.”

You and Penelope walk off but you turn back and give him a flirty smile. He chuckles to himself and smiles as he takes a sip of his coffee.

“I can already see it. You two will become the next Me and Derek.”

“I have no idea what that means, but I hope it’s a good thing.”

“Oh, it’s a very good thing,” she giggles.

You can’t wait.

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fluff

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em1989ts · 1 day ago

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𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞

robert "bob" reynolds x reader

word count: 1.3k - masterlist

summary: when bob comes to your door late at night, you find a way to comfort him and let him know he's appreciated

contents: artist! reader, fluff, cuddling, bob's depression

author's note: a fic about someone other than five hargreeves? from me? shocking!! but i am so in love with bob rn i've seen thunderbolts twice in theatres already and i cannot get enough of him - not proofread! pleaseeee send bob requests in my inbox 🙃

Late nights were always the best in the new Avengers tower.

The hallways were incredibly quiet, with everyone residing in their own personal spaces until morning when the team would return to their mission planning and let their snarky comments loose on each other.

It had been a long time since you lived in New York City. After spending years on the run, then flying around the globe completing missions for Valentina, you were glad to finally have a stable home again.

Your room was dim, lit solely by a few candles on your nightstand as you lay against your headboard, with your sketchbook and pencil unmoving in your hands as you were undecided on what to draw, yet you held the urge to create. You often did at this hour, when all else is silent, your mind tends to get creative.

As you tapped the end of your pencil against your page, brainstorming while staring at the bright nighttime lights of Manhattan through your large window, you heard noises that didn’t match up to the taps of your eraser.

When you paused, holding still to listen, you heard the sound of footsteps, pacing back and forth outside your door. Setting your pencil between the pages of your sketchbook, you gently laid it on the bed next to you as you quietly climbed off the mattress.

As you peeked slightly under the door, you could see the footsteps. The owner of the socked feet was ambiguous, but you had a strong feeling you knew who it was.

You tip-toed over and gently opened the door, watching the culprit freeze in his place.

Bob stood there, with a look of surprise on his face. His brown eyes wide as his brown hair framed his face. He hadn’t expected you to be up at this hour, let alone catch him standing outside your door.

He was wearing a black crewneck and plaid sweatpants, the same outfit you’d seen him in for the last three days. His face was flush and his brain was still thoughtless as he stared into your soul.

“Hi Bob,” you calmly greeted, noticing his tense shoulders, “You okay?”

“Yeah- yeah I’m fine, just um-” his body regained motion as he fidgeted with his fingers, the sleeves of his crew neck pulled over the palms of his hands, “I uh - didn’t expect you to be up this late.”

“I’m always up this late,” you smiled at him, “Come in, come in.”

You motioned for him to come inside as you returned to your spot on top of your comforter, picking up your sketchbook, your pencil moving with a mind of its own.

He shyly walked in, shutting the door behind him. He had never been in your bedroom before, and he couldn’t help but take a moment to observe it. It was like a museum of your entire personality in one room, with evidence of your many hobbies and interests- books, movies, cds, art supplies - covering every inch of your living space.

Looking up for your initial sketch, you watched as he slowly moved his gaze across your room, tugging his sleeves and absentmindedly smilingly.

Since you’ve met him, you’ve wanted to connect more with Bob. The two of you had become friends now that you’ve been living together for a little while, but he was still a little shy around you.

“So what’s up, Bob?” you asked, returning your attention to your drawing, “Couldn’t sleep?”

He kept looking around as he answered, “I did for a little bit, but I uh- had a nightmare and just, you know.”

You all had nightmares. Every few nights you heard at least one of your teammates screaming through the walls of the tower. Bob’s nightmares were rather frequent, unfortunately.

He sat down on the edge of your bed, rubbing his socks along your carpeted floors, creating a static charge, as he stared down at his hands.

“Same thing?” you asked. He nodded.

Ever since the day the void took over New York, he had felt so guilty, so sorry for everything he had caused. It haunted his dreams as he closed his eyes, willingly entrapping himself in darkness. Trapping himself with the void.

The team was always there to reassure him that they were there for him, and that he wasn’t alone. But sometimes he felt they were only saying that so he wouldn’t destroy the world with his new god-like powers. Not that he wanted to, he just wanted to help people, and maybe help himself along the way, but it would take a lot of patience and practice before he was ready for missions.

On one of your first nights in the tower, you had been walking by his room on your way to the kitchen for a midnight snack when you’d heard him, frantically gasping and trying to catch his breath. That was the night you’d reassured him that he could always come to you to talk about whatever he needed. That offer stuck as the two of you talked more and more, and he slowly grew more comfortable with you.

“It’s just,” he paused, not knowing how to start, “I just think I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

You looked up, about to protest before he continued.

“I stay around the tower, barely leaving my room, barely contributing anything while your guys go save lives and fight bad guys and whatever else Avengers do.”

“That’s not true, Bob,” you disagreed, “You might not think we notice, but we really appreciate everything you do. I don’t think any of us know how to wash a dish without chucking it at someone,” you laughed slightly, lightening the mood.

“And we don’t just keep you around because we think you’ll be good enough for the team one day,” you explained, “You mean a lot to us.”

His brown eyes shone with a ray of golden as he looked over at you, emotion behind his eyes as your words hit his heart, “Really?”

“Of course,” you smiled, adding a few finishing touches in your sketchbook before setting your pencil down on your nightstand. You sat up next to Bob, his shoulder brushing yours, as you handed him your sketchbook to show him the page you’d been working on ever since he’d stepped foot through your door.

The sketch of him exhibiting a shy smile in such perfect detail made him tear up a bit. He couldn’t believe someone could pay such close attention to him, take such great care in the accuracy of his image, and picture him in such delight.

He bashfully chuckled as he admired the sketch before turning back to you, “You’re really talented, this looks great,” he complimented.

“Maybe it’s you that looks great,” you quipped in return, causing his face to flush as he looked back at the drawing.

A yawn escaped your lips as you looked out the window once more, seeing the dark night sky becoming an increasingly lighter blue.

“It’s probably time to sleep,” you said, moving under your comforter as you extended an invitation, “You’re welcome to stay if you want.”

He smiled, closing your sketchbook and placing it on your night stand, making sure to blow out your candles before climbing in next to you.

He hadn’t felt too tired since waking up from his nightmare, but curling up next to you, feeling your arms wrap around his back as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, allowed him to feel just at peace enough where he could close his eyes, and feel safe in the darkness that surrounded him.

~~~

thank you for reading!

#thunderbolts #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob thunderbolts #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x you #bob reynolds fluff #marvel mcu #avengers #lewis pullman #the sentry #the void #fluff

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cressidagrey · 1 hour ago

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Her Papa's Daughter

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar never sees how similar his daughter is to him. But Felicity does.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

There were moments—small, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moments—when Felicity would pause, tilt her head, and think: There he is. Right there, in her.

Oscar never saw it.

He adored Bee. Worshipped her, really.

In that soft, steady, unobtrusive way of his. He looked at their daughter like she was something he’d never stop marveling at—like her brilliance was something that had skipped him entirely, a beautiful mystery he was lucky enough to witness up close.

But what he didn’t realize—what Felicity did—was that Bee hadn’t come out of nowhere.

She was Oscar.

In so many little ways.

Most people only saw the surface. They saw the same jet black hair that she had inherited from Felicity. They didn’t see that it had a wave to it, something that came from Oscar.

They didn’t see that yes, Bee’s eyes were brown. But they weren’t Felicity’s eyes. Weren’t that near black, ebony colour. They were Oscar’s. Brown but lighter, honeyed around the edges.

They saw Bee’s intelligence: bright, sparkling. A mind that was as quick as Felicity’s. But they didn’t dig deeper.

They didn’t see all the ways Bee was just like her father.

Bee was more Piastri than Leong.

Felicity thanked the universe for that every single day.

Because the Leong side—her side—came with expectations. With pressure. With rigid ambition and cold detachment masked as achievement. The Leongs were achievement-obsessed. Hypercritical. Polished to the point of sterility.

The Leongs taught efficiency. Precision. Perfection.

Bee had that in her too. She did.

But the goodness, the calm, the innate kindness that ran deep in the Piastri blood was stronger.

Felicity had always worried—before Bee was born—what pieces of herself she’d pass on.

What her daughter might inherit from the Leong side that had tried to sculpt Felicity into a perfect silhouette of someone she never wanted to be.

But then Bee arrived.

Tiny and fierce. All wide eyes and sharp observation. Born curious. Born soft in a way that felt like rebellion.

Bee was a Piastri. And Felicity loved that.

Because it meant the best parts of Oscar—his calm, his heart, his quiet goodness—would live on in a little girl who walked through the world with grease on her cheeks and stars in her eyes.

Bee was just like her father. And Felicity saw it, even when nobody else did.

Bee was Oscar’s in all the ways Felicity loved most.

Not his fame.

Not his skill behind the wheel.

But his gentleness.

His capacity to feel deeply, and quietly.

Felicity saw it when Bee got quiet when she was upset—not loud, not tantrum-prone like other kids her age. No, she folded in, went silent. Let the weight of the world settle on her tiny shoulders without protest. Just like Oscar did when something hurt. When he’d had a bad race. When the pressure clawed too close to his ribs.

Bee would sit at the kitchen table with her arms folded and her jaw clenched, and Felicity would see Oscar at seventeen, post-race, staring down telemetry with his whole chest aching and no words to explain it.

It was in the way Bee needed time before she spoke.

How she'd pause when someone asked her a question, like she needed to sort through a hundred tabs open in her mind before landing on the right answer. Just like Oscar, who often went quiet in meetings, brows furrowed—not confused, just calculating. When Bee blinked a little too fast, the way Oscar did when he didn’t know how to say what he was feeling.

People mistook them both for passive.

They were anything but.

Oscar observed. He waited. Let others speak. Let the noise swirl around him until he could cut through it cleanly. Bee did the same thing on playgrounds, watching from the edge, fingers twitching, eyes sharp. Quiet didn’t mean confused. Quiet meant processing.

Then there was the focus.

Bee could spend hours rebuilding the same gear assembly in her toy kart, screwing and unscrewing bolts with total precision, refusing to be interrupted even for snacks. Felicity had once watched her spend 45 minutes trying to fix a hinge on the chicken coop door. She was two.

Oscar did the exact same thing with sim data.

He didn’t like being pulled out of his zone once he was in it. He got snappy—not mean, just tense, clipped, unmoored. Felicity knew the signs: the twitch in his jaw, the soft tap of his fingers on the edge of his laptop. Bee had the same twitch, the same tapping rhythm.

And of course, the perfectionism.

Oscar never called it that. He called it “standards.” “Attention to detail.” “Preparation.”

But Felicity had seen it for what it was. The way he double-checked tyre pressure notes, the way he rehearsed press answers under his breath, the way he panicked—silently—when he made a mistake, even one no one else noticed.

Bee was the same.

If a drawing didn’t go right, if the colors didn’t match what she imagined, she would stare at the page for hours. Sometimes she’d rip it in half without saying a word. Sometimes she’d just press her little lips together and walk away, quietly devastated.

Oscar would kneel beside her, rub her back, say, “It’s okay, Bumblebee. You can start again.”

Felicity never said it, but every time he did, she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

Because Bee got that from him.

So many things Bee loved—systems, precision, solitude—came from Felicity. But the rhythm of her quiet, the soft sadness she carried when people didn’t understand her, the way she tried so hard to do everything right? That was pure Oscar.

And he never saw it.

He thought he was just the snack-deliverer. The designated cheerleader. The safe arms she ran into when things were too loud.

He didn’t realize that Bee was him.

In the way she got quiet when something really mattered.

How the more she cared, the less she said.

Not because she didn’t feel it — but because she felt it too much.

Just like Oscar after a bad session. Silent. Shoulders tight. Needing a minute to fold the feeling small before he could put it down.

Felicity saw it in the way they both loved things quietly—with reverence, with care, with a steady kind of devotion that never demanded attention.

They were both meticulous.

Both patient in their own strange ways.

They made the same face when concentrating.

They both talked more when they were comfortable, when they felt safe.

And when they trusted someone—truly trusted them—they gave everything, all at once, like a flood.

Bee stayed up too late sometimes, not because she was avoiding sleep, but because her brain just wouldn’t let go. She’d be lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, listing gear ratios or trying to solve the mystery of gravitational drag in her head.

Just like Oscar the night before a race, flat on his back in hotel beds, blinking at the ceiling while he rehearsed every apex in his mind.

His quiet heart. His careful mind. His silent, stubborn resilience.

Bee had inherited Oscar’s softness. His sensitivity. That quiet brilliance that didn’t need to be loud to be undeniable.

Felicity watched the two of them curled on the couch now, Bee half-asleep on his chest, Oscar absentmindedly playing with a piece of her hair while watching race replays with the volume low. His hand rested protectively against her back, and Bee’s tiny fingers were curled in his hoodie drawstring like it anchored her.

They were so alike it hurt.

Felicity reached for her phone, took a photo quietly—just for herself. Just to remember this.

And as she looked at it later, Bee dozing with the same soft frown Oscar wore when he was thinking, her lashes dark against his chest, Felicity smiled.

One day, maybe he’d see it.

One day, she’d tell him.

But for now, she’d keep watching the two halves of her heart mirror each other in quiet ways they didn’t even notice.

And love them all the more for it.

They were more than similar.

They were the same melody, just played in different keys.

And the sweetest thing?

Oscar didn’t even realize.

Felicity watched him watch Bee sometimes — that soft, stunned look he got when Bee said something too clever for her age or organized her toolbox with color-coded tabs — and he looked amazed. Like she was something brand new, unfathomable, impossible.

And all Felicity ever wanted to say was: She learned that from you. That’s your steadiness. Your stillness. Your careful mind.

But she didn’t.

She just smiled, and let him marvel.

Let him believe Bee was a little mystery he got to unravel piece by piece.

Let him love her for all the ways she was different.

Because one day, maybe he’d see it. All of it.

And when he did, he’d realize what Felicity had known all along:

That the little girl who preferred schematics to dolls and corners to crowds—

She was her Papa’s daughter.

Through and through.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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yelenamywifey · 2 days ago

Text

COFFEE

pairing: yelena belova x reader

summary: when the never ending pressure of your boss leads to two cups of lukewarm caffeine spilt, you don't expect to meet one of the new avengers.

word count- 1.2k

It was never supposed to start like this, unfortunate and if anything cliché it was almost impalpable. It was just work, but not any gig you could just land. To the outsiders, you would have such a privileged job. Not many high-position jobs and you were able to somehow secure a place with the Valentina Allegra de la Fontaine. Miss Fontaine you would say if she wasn’t so arrogant, borderline neurotic about her name.

Working as one of the head interior designers for the renovation of the ex-Avengers tower was not only stressful enough, but there were new multiple faces around. The ones who would come to start inhabiting it. The “New Avengers”, dubbed by Valentina herself, and threw a controversial debate with the general public.

Parts and levels were destroyed with the shadow that was casted that day. Not as if you remembered much, it was your day off (surprising if anything while working under Valentina), but from sipping coffee to reliving moments you wanted to take to the grave from either embarrassment or pure trauma to the brain. Only to come back with the news with the headlines titled the “New Avengers” with some faces you partly recognised. (Not too much with only Congressman Bucky a.k.a The Winter Soldier and the failed Captain America, John Walker)

Upon returning to the workplace the day after, parts that were finished were broken or just wrecked. More overtime, was your initial thought. The next couple of weeks were straight work, phone calls that you now associate with ‘Lecture Time’ and cups upon cups of coffee. Probably the only thing able to get you through the higher ups bickering and Valentina projecting unnecessary stress onto you.

Coffee had become your sanctuary, saviour even.

With frequent visits and nonstop coffee breaks, the present happened. Coffee, now lukewarm from running down the piercing cold streets of New York, the liquid ended up stained and splattered on both of your torsos. Looking up, you were met with a sharp deadpan stare and cold bleached platinum blonde hair. Registering what had happened and especially who it was, you were fast on clean up duty.

“Shit—oh my god, I’m so sorry—” You gasped, reaching forward without thinking. The frills of the cusps of your silk sleeves working fast in motion. “Oh no, I didn’t mean to, here, let me—”

The beige, cream coloured fabric brushing across the other’s chest, dabbing and swishing back and forth as if metaphorically putting a bandage on a wound. Your hands moved quick and mindlessly, apologising through soft mumbles.

You looked back up only to see the same brown orbs yet not so menacing, but still trained on you. Taking a small gulp, your actions slowed, your touch still on her.

“You are touching me,” she said flatly.

Yanking your arms back violently, you almost elbowed yourself in your ribs. Minorly winching at what was to come, but also the cracking of your stiff feeble joints. “I’m so sorry—I wasn’t…oh god your shirt.”

Looking down you saw the brown liquid that stained the zipped up hoodie, the grey now becoming a dark brown almost black puddle that blossomed and splattered its way across.

“My shirt? No, you should see yours.” Yelena spoke, letting out a small snicker as the corners of her lips raised briefly, pointing at your own blouse.

Too focused on who you were standing in front of, you failed to even take a look at the own damage done on your end. “Oh—oh…”

The overpriced silk now stained and all of a sudden you were aware of the driblets of liquid running down your chest. The sensation if anything but enjoyable, somehow feeling as if it was syrup instead. The overstimulating feeling mixed in with the sheer embarrassment of the situation you found yourself in.

“You shouldn’t be apologizing-well I mean you should, you spilled what? Uh-”, she paused, looking down at the growing puddle on the floor where 2 paper cups littered the ground, before looking back up at you. “2 cups of coffee on a stranger.”

You felt as if you could melt into the ground, or be absorbed by the wasted coffee around the loafers on your feet. “You definitely got it worse.” She smiled, like she didn’t care—but you weren’t sure if that was comforting or terrifying. “I could care less about this thing.” She raised her arms a little, looking at both her arms, Left to right, then down at the front with the zipper. “There’s been worse things that have been splattered on here.” She shrugged nonchalantly, bottom lip protruding out as she met your gaze once more.

About to start apologising again, she tilted her head, silencing you about to continue on your parade of apologies.

“Do you always spill coffee on strangers?” You winced, stopping yourself from a grimace.

“Only the attractive ones apparently.” You froze, words escaping your lips before they even registered in your mind. Silence filled next few seconds, dread weighing down on you ready for the onslaught verbal retort of a threat.

Yelena laughed—well not really, but a smile flickered across her features and she gave a look of disbelief. Eyebrows raised, knitting before scrunching together to then actually laugh. Her eyes became akin to crescent moons as she let out a snort.

“You are strange’”, she said. “But funny I’ll give you that.”

Yelena brought her hand up, using the side of her index finger and wiping underneath her nose, composing herself. You couldn’t tell if that was a compliment, you sure hoped it was. She turned on her heel, beginning to walk away down the newly renovated hallway. All you could do was stare until she stopped, turning to look over her shoulder as she glanced at you.

“Next time you decide to spill coffee on someone,” Her voice was lower yet loud enough to hear the little echo throughout the hall. “Don’t be so—flirty.” She twirled her hand, “Not everyone deserves it.” She then turned around and proceeded to walk.

In a half-daze, before she rounded the corner, you called out to her. “Wait!”

She stopped, not turning around, standing there still as she waited for the next words that would come out of your lips. “Here.” You uttered albeit weakly, the courage that you formerly had suddenly gone.

Yelena turned around slowly, painfully for you, approaching you almost sluggishly. Her lips were pursed, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she stopped and stood close to you more than her heart could fathom. Her eyes held an intensity to them, one you could not put a finger on.

Your hand that held your business card and number remained stretched out to her for her to take. She didn’t take it, just looked at you.

“For the next time,” you managed to squeak out, cheeks ablaze. “If you ever want to—I mean need to…I don’t know. Need your hoodie dry cleaned. I can pay…” You paused before continuing. “Or if you would ever like to get a proper cup of coffee. It can be two for you and me, not just me.”

You swallowed, subconsciously worrying if it was audible enough for her considering how close you two were. Yelena’s eyes flickered down at the card, then back up at you.

“We’ll see,” she said. Tilting her head as she shrugged.

But she took it.

#yelena x reader #yelena belova x reader #fanfic #x reader #gn reader #oneshot #mcu #marvel #mcu fanfiction #the new avengers #yelena x you #yelena belova #thunderbolts

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thisapplepielife · 3 days ago

Text

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest May Mayhem Bingo event.

What Condition My Condition Was In

The fall happens faster than you'd ever imagine. Once the slide has started, it's nearly impossible to stop it. It just snowballs, and no matter how hard Eddie dug in his heels, down, down, down he went.

Record deal, gone.

Label, gone.

Band, gone.

He eventually landed on his feet, but just barely. All that money they made, and he has nothing left to show for it. Not a goddamn dime. Forty-five years old, with jackshit to his name. Working two jobs just to make ends meet is the only thing preventing him from crawling back to Hawkins, tail between his legs.

He picks up a little session work, his talent only heard as an anonymous guitar on albums that will go on to sell millions of copies. His name, nowhere attached. It's humbling, but at least he gets to play the guitar from time to time, and is even paid for it.

That's better than flipping burgers, or washing dishes. He's done both, hopping all around town, trying to earn enough money to cover rent and some rot gut whiskey.

Tonight, he steps out of the liquor store, bottle tucked under his arm, and drops his change into the box of the guy that often sleeps in the little alcove, tucked back and hidden.

Eddie has it bad, but others still have it worse. He's never not had a place to go every night. Not yet.

"Thanks," the guy says, and Eddie nods towards him. He's seen him dozens of times, but he's never really seen him, he realizes. Never really looked. Nor has he ever spoken.

Lots of nights he's asleep, or has his head tucked between his knees, hooded sweatshirt pulled over his head, tight. Hands over his ears. Like he's trying to block out the world. Eddie gets that desire, fully.

Tonight, he sees him. Hears him.

And feels like he's in the vicinity of a ghost.

"Steve?" Eddie questions, even if he's sure he's not right. Certain that this isn't Steve Harrington. Just someone with a similar voice. His mind playing tricks on him. But the brown eyes that look up from under his hood to meet his are familiar, way too familiar. Eddie tilts his chin down, more sure this time, "Steve."

"Maybe," Steve says, and at that, Eddie crouches down in front of him. Sitting his brown paper bagged bottle down, taking Steve's face in his hands. He has a fading black eye, and quite the beard that scratches against Eddie's palms.

Steve looks away.

"It's me. It's Eddie, from home," Eddie says. "We had, uh, a spring break together."

That's a bit of an understatement.

"Yeah, I'm not an idiot," Steve says, looking back at him, and Eddie laughs, delighted that maybe there's nothing irreparably broken in him. Maybe he's just down on his luck. Eddie knows how that goes, all too well.

They're all a little damaged after what they went through. How could they not be?

"Why are you in Chicago?" Eddie asks. Winter is fast approaching, and camping near the entrance to Joe's Liquor ain't gonna cut it.

Steve just shakes his head. Eddie's immediately mad. Where's Robin? Where's Henderson? Why is he out here, all by himself?

"C'mon," Eddie says, making a decision that is no decision at all. Standing up, and offering Steve his hands, "Up we go."

If a deranged Steve Harrington decides to kill him while he sleeps tonight, so be it. Steve saved him once, so as far as Eddie sees it, his life is Steve's to do with what he wants, anyway.

Steve lets himself get pulled to his feet, and then Eddie helps him gather up what little he has. It's not much. Steve pauses, "Where are we going?"

"My place," Eddie answers, "that okay?"

And he's relieved when Steve nods.

Eddie leads him into the bathroom, gives him a spare set of towels. They aren't fancy, but they're clean. He shows him the trick to get the right temperature of hot water, an elaborate song and dance, but Eddie's had to learn to perfect it to not get frozen or scalded.

He puts a new disposable razor on the sink, in case he wants it.

When he hears the shower curtain close, Eddie starts making a mental list of everybody's ass he's gonna chew out. Steve Harrington should have people, lots of people, and that he seemingly doesn't is infuriating.

Eddie never fell through the cracks. Wayne wouldn't let him. Or Gareth. Jeff. Goodie. They didn't stay together as a band, but he could always crash on any of their couches if he needed to. He'd have a safe place to go, where he's loved.

Why isn't Steve on Robin's couch somewhere?

Steve's hands are shaking when he gets out of the shower, and Eddie slides the bottle across the coffee table. Apparently they both have dealt with the shit they've seen in similar ways. Steve just seems to have it worse right now. Eddie's functioning, but it doesn't seem like Steve is if he wound up like this. All alone.

He looks better, all cleaned up, fresh from the shower. Clean shaven. Hair still wet, and too long. In Eddie's clothes. Fading yellow bruise under his right eye.

Eddie has a thousand questions, but he's too scared he'll run to ask them. So he stays quiet. And they drink the cheap whiskey together, passing the bottle back and forth, in silence.

Eddie makes up the couch for him, but isn't at all surprised when Steve slides in bed with Eddie in the middle of the night.

There's no reason to comment on it, he remembers exactly how to do this from that first summer, after. They were close then, and Steve stayed planted in his bed for months while they both recovered. Listening to music, reading magazines. Talking about girls, cars and weed. Boy stuff. Surface level stuff. Nothing that was close to uncorking the bottles they'd shoved the goddamn horrors they experienced in the Upside Down into just to survive.

Tonight, Eddie holds out his arm, and Steve curls in close.

"I'm fucked up," Steve says, and well, Eddie thinks, who ain't?

"Well, me too. I ain't gonna judge."

Steve nods against Eddie's neck, and then falls asleep, and stays asleep for twelve hours. Eddie just lays there, even if his whole body hurts. He gets stiff. His hips, mainly. Too much damage from the bats.

But he's unwilling to wake him.

Mainly because he's scared he'll disappear as soon as he does.

Steve stays, and Eddie takes him to work with him the next Monday. He's not sure Steve knows anything about tire repair, but Gus lets Eddie settle him into his own workstation and show him the ropes.

Eddie quickly notices that Steve flinches every time the air compressor fires up to power the impact wrench, his ear coming down towards his shoulder. Digging in the drawers of his assigned tool chest, Eddie finally comes up with a pair of soundproof earmuffs. They're big, and bulky, but Steve nods when Eddie holds them up, making the offer.

Eddie puts them over his ears, and Steve smiles as he adjusts them, then gives Eddie the thumbs up.

Turns out, Steve can change a tire, and fast. He's not as good with the patching jobs, so Eddie takes all those, and just gives Steve the straight swaps. It works well, and they sit a few feet apart, working during the days.

At night, still in their coveralls, they swing by Joe's and get two bottles and go back to Eddie's apartment, where they drink them on the couch. Watching mindless television. Steve enjoys ballgames, and it doesn't bother Eddie. The background noise of them. It reminds him of home, and Wayne.

Eddie still wants to ask: Where's Robin? Where's Nancy? Where's fucking Henderson?

He doesn't.

They drink, and they go to bed, and Eddie lays awake staring at the ceiling, not understanding how this happened.

It doesn't take long for Eddie to realize that Steve gets migraines. So, Eddie finds a pair of blackout curtains at the thrift store down the block that are actually pretty fucking amazing. There's one little hole, but it's nothing a little duct tape can't fix. He hangs them up, and his whole room is cast in darkness, even as the sun shines brightly outside.

Eddie gives him earplugs, a glass of water, and leaves him to rest.

Gus understands the days that Steve can't get out of bed and into work. Gus reminds Eddie of Wayne. No nonsense. But fair. And having your head splitting in two isn't nonsense, and therefore is excused without any commentary whatsoever.

It's a little lonelier without Steve in the garage, but Eddie works like he always does. Patching, changing, then rolling the next one in line inside.

After two days, Steve's back, and his workload and mood lightens.

Overall, Steve seems fine. He has more good days than bad, and that's always been Eddie's own personal benchmark for fine. He's funny, and just Steve. The same Steve that Eddie remembers from that spring break, and that summer that followed. Just older, and with a little more baggage. A little more damage.

But at the core of him, he's Steve Harrington.

And Steve Harrington shouldn't be crashing in Eddie Munson's dingy apartment.

In the end, Eddie can't let it go. He's running down to the corner pizza place, because they decided they needed to actually eat something tonight. They can't drink all their calories all the time. And a pizza sounded good, and cheap. Eddie likes cheap.

But, before he makes it to the pizza place, he makes a pit stop into the outdated phone booth. He hopes it still works. It did the last time he used it, but that's been a while.

Nancy Wheeler is the only one he could find a number for, and it has been burning a hole in his pocket. He presses the receiver to his ear, feeds it quarters, dials the number he hopes is good, and listens to it ring.

"Wheeler," he says when she picks up, and he can hear her wheels turning, trying to figure out who the fuck this is on the other end. He puts her out of his misery, "It's Eddie Munson."

"Eddie!" she says, and she sounds delighted, honestly. She laughs in his ear, and he likes the sound, but also kind of hates her. She let Steve end up on the streets. Alone. All of them are on his fucking shit list right now.

"Hey. I'm trying to get a hold of Buckley, do you have a good number?" he asks.

The line goes quiet, too quiet. Fuck. Is she dead? Is that what's happened? That would make sense, would explain this—

"Have you found him? Jesus, Eddie. Please tell me you've found him," she pleads.

Eddie didn't even know they were supposed to be looking for him.

He scrubs his hand across his eyes, brushing away the tears that are suddenly there. They're looking. They're desperate. He knows they are, he can hear it in her voice, and he nods, pressing his face into the glass of the phone booth. There aren't many of them left, and this one has definitely seen better days.

"Eddie," she says again, dragging him out of his stupor.

"What happened?" he asks.

"Eddie," she says, this time a demand.

"I've got him," he admits, and he hears the second her resolve shatters.

"You've got him," she whispers. Then she's screaming in his ear, a deafening sound, "Robin! Eddie's got him!"

"Where are you? We're coming!" Robin shouts in the distance, but clear as a bell.

Eddie takes a deep breath. They're not. Not if Steve doesn't want that.

"Uh, let me ask him first. Okay?" Eddie says, and kind of regrets that he didn't do that first. He was just too curious, too mad. Too scared he'd flee.

Nancy's quiet on the other end, and he hears the scuffle, the quiet argument over who's gonna keep the phone, ending with Nancy saying it's okay, he's okay, Eddie's got him.

Eddie's got him.

"He just stopped checking in one day," Nancy says, as if that explains it all. "We couldn't find him after that. We've looked, Eddie, we've all looked everywhere."

He knows they have. Believes that, and can't believe he ever thought they weren't. He feels guilty.

"He has a job, and a place to stay," Eddie says, "He's okay. Don't worry."

Eddie is sure all they've done is worry.

"Eddie, please," Robin says, muffled by the background noise, and Eddie hates to tell her no. He does. But he's not betraying Steve. He'll ease into it, feel him out.

"I gotta go," he says, and hangs the phone up before they can argue.

Eddie puts the pizza down on the coffee table, and Steve flips open the top of the box. He seems good, has seemed good for a while. As good as they can be, in the condition their conditions are in. He smiles to himself, he hasn't thought of that song in a long time. It makes him think of Wayne and his record collection. He needs to call home soon. Or visit, maybe. Depends on how this whole Steve thing goes.

He's scared Steve's gonna run, disappear. As a runner himself, Eddie's scared Steve will be one, too. He'll give chase, they all will. But he doesn't want to spook Steve.

"Can I ask about Robin?" Eddie asks gently, pulling the band-aid off, and Steve turns and looks at him. Smiling wide. He hasn't looked that happy about anything since he turned up. It catches Eddie by surprise.

"She's good. She's with Nance. Did you know that?" Steve asks, and takes another big bite from his slice of pizza. Like he's unbothered. Does he not know he's missing?

"Uh, no. Good for them. That's real good. And Henderson?" he questions.

"Also good. Married. Two kids. Doing science-y things," Steve says. "Still a smart little shithead."

And now Eddie's confused.

"That's good. Do they know where you are?" Eddie asks, and Steve pauses, like he's thinking about it.

"Probably not. I haven't checked in with them in a while. I should probably do that."

Eddie wants to scream, 'You think?!'

But he doesn't.

"Jesus Christ, Steve," Eddie says instead, laughing as he tosses his slice back into the box. "I thought you ran away from them."

"What? No, I just — they're all settled. Happy. And I'm, well, this," he says, motioning towards himself. "Brain damaged, and a drunk."

No. He's perfect. He's always been perfect. Flawed, and human, but perfect, and so fucking loved by all of them. Does he not know that?

Eddie startles him, he knows he does, when he cups both of Steve's cheeks in his hands. Just like he did crouched on that sidewalk outside of Joe's. Just like Steve did to him, hovering over his bleeding, bat shredded body in the Upside Down. Promising that everything would be okay.

He was right. Everything will be okay.

Eddie looks in Steve's eyes, telling him the truth, "They're worried to death about you. I didn't know what kind of situation was happening here, but I called them. I called Nancy. They're so worried."

"Oh. Shit," Steve says. "Maybe I've been out of contact longer than I've realized."

Eddie is baffled. But mainly he's relieved. Steve's okay. He found him. What if he didn't find him?

What if he wanders off again?

He can't think about that.

"C'mon," Eddie says, standing up, and shoving his feet into his shoes without untying the laces. Sweeping a handful of loose change into his palm from the table next to the front door. "Let's go call them."

He knows there's a long road ahead for him, for both of them, but this part is an easy fix. If Steve will stay with him, and fuck, Eddie hopes he'll stay, then maybe they can deal with some of their messed up shit together.

They walk down to the payphone, and Eddie really needs to figure out that whole cell phone thing. He will. For both of them. Get them back on the grid.

Eddie hands the receiver to Steve, feeds the slot quarters, and dials the number, then steps back.

It must connect, because he can hear Steve say into the receiver, "Hey. It's me. I'm sorry. I guess I got a little sidetracked."

Eddie grips the edge of the phone booth door that's still ajar. Holding his breath. Waiting.

Then, Steve laughs.

And Eddie lets out a ragged breath. Smiling.

Everything will be okay.

And if you want to write your own, or see more entries in this pop-up, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to see other entries for the May Mayhem Bingo Event!

Notes: Title from Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In) by The First Edition.

#corrodedcoffinfest: may mayhem bingo #corrodedcoffinfest #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #thisapplepielife: corrodedcoffinfest #thisapplepielife: short fic #steddie fic #steddie fanfiction #tw: homelessness #tw: alcoholism

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lacevenom · 2 days ago

Text

sleepover with jacob ☆ 𓂂 ˚ ☆. ꙳

PAIRING : jacob black x fem!reader

WARNINGS : none

SUMMARY : request —here

It was one of those rare rainy nights in la push, where the soft drizzle tapped on the windows like a lullaby, and the air smelled like wet pine and ocean salt. jacob had insisted you stay over. said the roads were too slippery, and besides, “i sleep better with you here.”

you were curled up on his bed, wearing one of his old flannel shirts that was way too big for you, practically swallowing your whole body, sleeves swallowing your hands.

jacob sat at the edge of the bed, legs stretched out, busy braiding a piece of your hair with surprising gentleness. “you’re really focused,” you teased, peeking up at him.

he smirked, not looking up from his masterpiece. “if i’m gonna be the boyfriend of the year, i gotta learn the important stuff. braids. snacks. back rubs.” you giggled, feeling the butterflies flutter in your chest. “you already are the boyfriend of the year, Jake.”

that made him pause. his brown eyes met yours, softened. “yeah?”

you nodded. “no contest.”

jake leaned down slowly, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss that tasted like warmth. he pulled away just enough to whisper, “then i’m keeping you here. forever. starting with tonight.”

sometime later, after brushing your teeth together and arguing playfully over who got more of the blanket, but honestly with jake you didn’t need any blanket when he’s already a space heater.

you both finally settled down. jake pulled you into his chest, his body always impossibly warm, his hand rubbing lazy circles on your back.

“i like sleepovers with you,” you mumbled sleepily.

he kissed the top of your head. “me too. you’re my favorite pillow.” you snorted. “you’re a space heater with abs.”

he chuckled softly against your skin. "is that your way of saying you like my abs?"

you giggled shifting a little closer to him if that’s even possible. “maybe..” you teased him.

rain fell steadily outside as you both drifted off, tangled together under the soft blanket, safe in each other’s arms.

#𐙚 lacevenom #jacob black fluff #jacob black x reader #twilight new moon #jacob black #embry call #twilight #twilight eclipse #twilight headcanon #twilight wolfpack #paul lahote #twilight saga #twilight aesthetic #coquette

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liliesformingi · 3 days ago

Text

"much love, laufey" - a mini series by @liliesformingi. view series masterlist, and outline here.

7. 'misty' - wooyoung x reader “look at me, i'm as helpless as a kitten up a tree.”

author's note: boy oh boy i need a love like this

From the second he’d caught your eye from across the crowded room, you felt every single nerve ending in your body melt like a jar of warm honey, sensation and common sense and any train of thought, finished or otherwise, oozing from your consciousness. Sticky, sweet and so addictive.

It had only been a small smile, maybe a wink.

It didn’t matter that you’d spent the past four years of your life together as a couple. It didn’t matter that the necklace hanging down your collarbone had been a gift for your first anniversary; silver, pearls and tiny white diamonds, dripping like starlight down your skin. No, it didn’t matter that you were his.

You still felt so overwhelmed with love in his presence, just by mere observation.

You weren’t paying attention to the conversation you were in anymore. Hell, you were probably the worst hostess in the universe. But the lights were dim, the moon was glowing through the window, and Jung Wooyoung, the love of your life, was mere metres across the room from you. Your guests were happy enough to entertain themselves. You needed to entertain yourself.

As soon as you appeared by his side, his focus immediately shifted from the smalltalk he was making with Choi San about business strategies. A hand slipped around your waist, fingers gently kneading themselves into the soft flesh of your hips. Your skin was warm, scented with musk and amber. Familiar. And your heartbeat began to settle, slowing to a less frantic rhythm, one that synced with the chest beside yours.

You slipped your fingers into his, silver rings colliding against each other. He rubbed gentle circles into your palm, and the moment he found a pause in the conversation, he excused himself.

In a fit of lovesick giggles, Wooyoung led you to the balcony outside your shared bedroom. The wind was chilly, but you were wrapped in his embrace before you could complain. He held you close, lips ghosting your neck and collarbone.

“Missed you,” you mumbled, eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

“Even from just across the room?” he teased, but his actions proved he’d missed your presence just as much as you had. His hands slipped to your waist, and the two of you swayed softly, the muffled sound of jazz from the party seeping through the doorway to the balcony.

The rest of the city was dark, aside from a few lit up windows. The wind blew, the buildings sparkled, and you felt every inch of your body fizz from head to toe, as if your veins pumped champagne instead of blood.

“I’m so lucky to have you . . . you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, you know that, right? There’s nobody else I’d ditch a party for, let alone one I’m hosting. Nobody else I’ve felt this way for.”

“You talk a lot, my love,” you said, smiling up at him. “I know. I’m even luckier to have you.”

His eyes shifted into crescents, and you trailed your finger down his jawline adoringly.

You took a moment to admire Wooyoung; his warm, chocolate-brown eyes, the single freckle under his lower lashes, his habit of running his hands through his hair, his lips, the plumpest, most beautifully rose-tinted lips you’d ever seen.

He looked like an angel.

Now, in a silky black shirt and tailored slacks, his soft brown hair tousled, eyes sleepy from the lateness of the evening and the smear of your burgundy lipstick on his left cheek, he looked perfect. It was enough to send you into another fit of overwhelming adoration for the boy you called your own, enough to set all your senses on fire and let the blood run through your body like stardust.

He pressed a kiss to your lips and ran a hand through your hair, holding you steady against his chest.

It had always been easy with Wooyoung. You’d always felt electrified, a buzz that was familiar and comforting.

When you told him things, he never contradicted you, questioned you, asked you why, how, when. He would nod slowly, wipe the tears from your cheeks, rub your shoulders, kiss your cheeks, lips, forehead, nose.

Whilst your love adored to talk, to express every single thing he felt for you in word after word, he also knew when actions were all that was needed.

You didn’t necessarily believe in soulmates.

You didn’t believe in the kind of love that could just walk in and make itself at home in your heart, even if you were to never, ever see them again. The kind of love that just appeared after moments of longing.

Whatever had happened to you and Wooyoung, it was long built up. Catching each other staring, quick kisses to the cheek whenever you left the house, and nights like these.

Maybe this was the kind of love you’d been waiting for.

Maybe? No, this was what you’d been waiting for.

Helpless in his gaze, the kind of vulnerability that you found so much comfort in around him.

“Why did we host this party?” you asked quietly, arms slung loosely around his waist and face pressed into his chest.

“For you, my love,” he replied, eyes sparkling.

“But nothing’s happened,” you said in confusion, looking up at him. The glint in his eye brightened, and he gently pried your body off him.

“Not yet,” he smiled, kneeling down on one knee.

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del-stars · 2 days ago

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on joints and movies | frat au prongsfoot | 652 words

It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair.

It’s the only thing Sirius has been able to think all day. It isn’t fair, on violent repeat in his head, and it isn’t. Just last night, James had been on top of him— James, with his beautiful brown eyes and his soft honey skin and everything else that Sirius is addicted to— and now they’re back to being friends.

It isn’t fair, but it’s the only way it can be. Because for all the drunken nights and kisses and confessions, neither of them are gay. They aren’t. James runs through girls at a pace that is truly impossible to keep up with, and Sirius— Sirius has had sex with girls before, and it’s not unbearable. They seem to like it, at least, always wanting to spend the night and get coffee in the morning, and that’s more than can be said for James.

“Here,” James reaches over his shoulder, offering the joint to Sirius. He’s sat on the floor in front of the couch where Sirius is perched, watching Superbad for what must be the millionth time. One of the sororities had an event tonight that’s left the house mostly empty, and so it’s just the two of them in the living room.

Sirius takes the joint and puts it in his mouth to take a puff. He’s glad James is facing away from him. All day, he’s been putting forth a very concerted effort to not think about the pit in his stomach or the way his heart skips a beat every time James looks at him, but it’s futile, now. All he can think is it’s not fair, and all he can remember is the feeling of James’ fingers wrapped around him.

It might never happen again— maybe that’s what scares Sirius the most. Last night could’ve been the last time James ever touches him, and he’ll have to be at ease with that. This thing wasn’t ever going to last very long, anyway. James will pick one of his girls to start dating, and Sirius will find one that he doesn’t hate very much, and this entire thing will be a faded memory, a dalliance they might laugh over with their wives.

Except, as his fingers brush James’ handing the joint back, he knows it won’t. Not for him. James is facing away from him, like he always is, and Sirius is melting into the couch. Sirius is being soaked up by the beer-stained fabric, and James doesn’t notice. Sirius is thirty years in the future still clutching on to the memory of James kissing his neck, and James is married with kids who don’t know that he experimented in college.

By the time the credits roll, Sirius is doing his best to hold back tears. The weed wasn’t a good idea— it makes everything feel worse, every emotion feel amplified. It makes it all feel inescapable: that he can’t keep brushing off what he feels about James, that it means far more than what he’s been telling himself it does, and that none of this changes the fact that it means absolutely nothing to James.

They sit in silence until the screen fades to black, and even then it takes a minute for James to reach for the remote. Once the TV is turned off, James sets the remote back on the floor and turns to Sirius with those big, gorgeous eyes.

“Are you okay?”

Sirius’ heart stutters in his chest, because this is James. This is his best friend, his roommate, his soulmate. James, who isn’t a distant and apathetic love interest— he’s Sirius’ friend. And he’s right there, right in front of Sirius, and he knows that something is wrong.

“Can we talk about it later?”

They won’t, but James agrees. It’s enough, the little admission that there is something. It isn’t fair, but it’s enough.

#this is rly bad i just needed to write SOMETHING omg #writers block i will eradicate you #prongsfoot #frat au #starchaser #bambibelle #james x sirius #sirius x james #sirius black #james potter #marauders #my writing #minific #dead gay wizards from the 70s #marauders era

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bochowssinner · 12 hours ago

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🪽THANK YOU

summary: showing remmick how thankful you are.

warnings: lil freaky.

a/n: had to give y'all a cliffhanger. part 2?

your face filled his head day and night. a soft touch, and sweet little mouth. pretty hair spilling over your shoulders. he wanted to run his fingers through it, pull your hips against his. but you were an angel. you were untainted, the only thing he couldn’t stain.. he’d be a sin, a curse against your body the moment he laid his hands on you in the way he wanted, and you were worth being good for.

and damn if he wasn’t trying.

on the nights when it was hardest, when lust clawed at his throat for the feel of you? he stayed quiet. he stayed on his own side of the fence, hands on the railing and breath catching. he wouldn’t dare touch you.. but he could look, as long as he didn’t cross the line. and oh, he looked.

it started with flowers. your mama found them on the doorstep, tied with a black ribbon. a dozen white roses that looked like snow on the grass. she asked if you knew who left them, eyes knowing. you shook your head pretty as ever, heart racing. every few days, more turned up. sometimes on the porch, tucked under the door mat, even a few on your windowsill. no one saw who left them. but you knew.. remmick.

then came the notes. he’d write ‘em. small little things. short sentences, a few words.. but written in a strong, curling hand that made them seem like they’d been carved. there was a kind of power to them, those few words. power that made you shiver every time you found a new one. sometimes they were tucked in with the roses, sometimes you'd find them laying in the dirt.

then there was the gifts. bottles of perfume, fancy jewelry that you were too scared to wear because they looked expensive. a silk dress, hair ribbons, and a necklace. you hid the jewelry in her closet, beneath a floorboard, away from your family.

as he watched you, a small crooked smile pulled his mouth. you looked too innocent compared to him, and it was a sharp contrast. remmick leaned against the tree beside your house, arms crossed over his chest. it was late, the rest of the small town tucked into their beds.

but remmick and you remained outside, under the low hanging moon. the only sound was the soft creaking of the wooden swing and the crickets. and your voice, of course.. always so damn sweet.

".. i liked the gifts you got me. s'very nice of you.." you spoke up, hands gripping the rope as you gently swung on the wooden swing your father had built for you when you were a little girl.

“you did, huh?” he watched you swing back and forth, your hair spilling over your shoulders.

“thought you might.” he smirked. “you ever plan on thanking me for ‘em? all my hard work i do, and i don’t get any kind of thanks.” his eyes roved over the curve of your neck, that pretty brown skin.. the way it would look if he marked it up with his mouth.

"how should i thank you?" you asked quietly, looking up at him with a smile. you were used to seeing that look in remmick's eyes that indicated he wanted something, and this time was no exception.

his lips curled up at the corners. “that’s your question, huh?” he stepped closer, tilting his head. “sweet girl like you? lots of ways to thank someone..”

he reached out, his hand ghosting against your thigh. the way he touched you was like the brush of a butterfly’s wing, but it still made you shiver. you paused for a moment before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, allowing it to linger like alcohol on a burn."is that good?" you whispered against his lips, the tips of your noses lightly touching.

“that’s, that’s a start.” he chuckled and cupped your chin, tilting your face up. “and here i was expecting a real thank you.. you ain’t gonna get off easy with a little peck on the lips, little lady. i’m a man with needs.”

he leaned closer, his hand sliding up your neck to bury in that soft hair. he twisted it around his fingers, tugging slightly, just enough to make your head tilt back. he was so close now.. the scent of him was strong around you, sweat and something like fire. his breath fanned over your lips, teasing. “you want me to let you off the hook, just like that? that what you expect, baby?”

you smile teasingly, reaching up to grab the wrinkled collar of his shirt and pulling him close until his chest touched yours. Ymyou adored his natural musky scent, which was both addictive and masculine. "i'm in trouble or somethin'?"

“oh, you’re in trouble alright..” he grinned, his gaze roaming over your face. his hand moved, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “got me all wound up with just this.. and don’t try playing innocent and pretending you don’t know what you’re doing.”

in response, you stuck your tongue out, running it along his jawline, neck, and all the way to his ear. you never thought remmick was the sensitive type, but he was real sensitive on his neck.

“little jezebel..” his breath caught, that pink tongue driving him absolutely wild. he took your chin in a firm grip, forcing your head back further.

“you’ve been teasing me for weeks with those pretty smiles..” he chuckled darkly. “time for those little games to stop. i gave you the flowers, you give me my payment. that’s how the world works, sweet girl." you transitioned from licks to wet, slow, messy kisses on his neck, occasionally biting the skin to leave love bites on his neck and chest. he groaned, gripping your hips in a tight hold. every little kiss and touch set his skin on fire. his self control was starting to crack as you kept pressing on him, soft and sweet.

“that’s it, baby..” his voice was low and rough. “show me how you say thank you..”

#sinners #asia writes 🪽#remmick x reader

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mustyrosewater · 1 day ago

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𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐚

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3,138

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when she went missing, disappeared without a trace, it was almost like a deep seated black hole found it's way into rhetts chest, as he recalls all his time spent with her admist trying to find answers, the deep seated energy of the cursed lands they live on come apart to make way for lovers to find each other again.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: supernatural elements, reader haunting the narrative except this time its literal, mentions of implied violence, implied native american mythology if you squint, rhett is going through it and doesn't know to to do it without being self destructive.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: so part two is here a day earlier than promised because i finished it sooner than i thought, the love shown for part one motivated me greatly so thank you so much for that! i think we might have two more parts to this at absolute best, but i hope you enjoy part two. reader has implied native ancestry, but not heavily.

It had never been his place to question the mysteries of the earth, even as a child, when his mother would tell him to stay away from the treeline after the sun went down, not to look out the windows at night unless you wanted something to look back at you. Even if he put little belief into her superstitions, he could at least respect her wishes.

The night played tricks on the eyes, the shadows moving around always seemingly dancing across surfaces with a mind of their own, enough to drive any sane man to a level of insanity.

When he’d met her, it had seemed she held a bounty of superstitions just the same, yet when she’d explained it to him from her place sitting atop of his waist on the cramped single bed in his bedroom, his hands finding their place along the soft skin of her thigh’s, a bemused smile on his face as he allowed her to ramble away about the folk tales she claimed had been passed down in her family for generations.

She’d told him about how her folk had been out in these mountains for almost as long as the mountains had existed themselves, weaving her words out like a poem or a song, painting a picture of bloodied battles and old traditions long lost to history.

Her family traded in their old ways for crosses and churches, explaining that it was simply the way things were, old languages were lost in exchange for testaments and eventually everything was lost to time.

He could tell by the way she spoke about the land that the connection ran deep, that unlike the other folk in this town, there was a deeper understanding that even she didn’t truly understand half the time.

Sometimes she’d ramble to him about how sometimes she could have sworn she’d hear things walking around her house at night, couldn’t help but feel like there was something protecting her; she’d joke that maybe it was the spirits of her old ancestors, or maybe that she was just listening too hard to the silence at night and creating sounds that weren’t really there.

It was always around that time that he’d pull her into his arms, telling her she didn’t have to worry about anything in these mountains while he was around, when he’d place soft kisses on the crown of her head and take in the scent of her that could bring him into pure serenity.

As he recalled the memory now from his place at the dingy bar he was currently in, he stared down at the brown liquid in the glass before him, the pain of the memory only urging him to drink down the whiskey he’d been served before he found himself tearing up in front of all the other patrons.

With her cross now hanging from his neck, hidden under the red tartan button up, he stood from his place at the bar and turned to leave.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if she jumped int’ the wrong fella’s truck and ended up dead in a ditch somewhere.”

There was a cruel laughter shared inbetween the words, his ear practically pricking at the sound of the group of men at the bar sharing their sentiments with each other.

He didn’t want to believe they were talking about her, wanted to tell himself there was somebody else, but he couldn’t deny himself as he stood and listened, eavesdropping as they continued further.

“Ones like that, goin’ out lookin’ for a little fun, only to end up in a shallow grave.”

“Just wish she’da ended up in my backseat instead, could’a given her something better than a mouthful a’ dirt an’ worms.”

The smoker’s laugh following what the man had said was making rhett’s knuckles turn white with how tightly he was gripping his coat, his heart starting to gather up the pace of a race horse as he turned and stalked over to where the man was sitting, his back facing him as he gripped the fat fuck’s shoulders, pulling him to the ground so hard that his friend’s hardly had time to react before rhett was laying punches against the mans face.

He couldn’t see anything but red, the idea of this monster thinking he could have even come close to being within her eye sight, to talk about the daughter of a grieving mother in such a way, rhett could only thirst for as much pain being inflicted on this man as possible, so that he might feel even a fraction of what rhett was going through, that he might understand what it is to truly lose something and be helpless, be too late.

It hadn’t taken long for the man’s friends to intervene, dragging rhett away from the bleeding man, yelling profanities and raging like a wild animal; he could hardly even fight back against the strength of multiple man as they dragged him out of the bar and into the asphalt parking lot.

The hit’s they laid on him were brutal, blood coming out of his mouth as he hit the asphalt, assaulted by the plethora of kicks and punches till he couldn’t rise from the ground anymore, until his breathing brought nothing but fire against his lungs.

He can feel his coat get thrown to the ground in front of him as the men leave, only able to feel his rage and adrenaline pumping as he turned onto his back, blood pooling from his nose and mouth which he turned to spit onto the concrete.

Rising slowly, his vision was blurred as he tried to gather himself, unable to do anything while he sat through the pain all over his body, shutting his eyes tightly as he attempted to get a handle on his breathing.

Even with the pain coursing across his skin, the fire in his lungs, he could still have recognised that same smell of soap and perfume anywhere, the smell of her.

Maybe he was dying, maybe the punches and kicks had done enough damage for him to finally just lay down and die; he could only lay back and slowly accept any small mercy to the pain he was currently suffering through.

Even when he feel’s the soft hand running against his face, he doesn’t open his eyes, her phantom touch doesn’t bring any pain, even when it’s pressed against the already swollen cheek that would no doubt bruise heinously.

“Why are you doing this to yourself angel.” Her voice is so subtle it almost blends into the wind itself, a whisper above the sounds of everything around him, yet even as quiet as it is, he would always have been able to hear the songbird that she was over even the loudest of commotions.

Just as fast as he feel’s her touch, takes in her scent and hears her voice, it’s as gone as soon as it came, almost as if she was swept up in the wind.

The sudden absence causes his eyes to open, realisation hitting that he was still there in that same parking lot, his head whipping in all directions as he sat up, convinced that her touch had felt so goddamn real there was no way that she wasn’t kneeling beside him right then and there.

It had taken him well over twenty minutes to get back into his truck, an even further thirty seven minutes to drive home at a snails pace using the eye that wasn’t already starting to swell up.

Even with his headlights illuminating the first road back to his home, his limited vision was providing a much harder drive than he would have liked, the pain in his rib now leaving him with only one hand to drive his truck.

Whatever it had been before in the parking lot, whatever it was that had touched him and called out to him in the darkness, he couldn’t find it in him to embrace the possibility of it being anything other than a head injury, his mind playing tricks on him over the sounds of the wildlife.

He couldn’t admit to himself that there might have even been the slightest chance that it was you, because only then would he have to admit what he didn’t want to believe was true.

Almost as if the universe was listening to him, as if it had heard his unwillingness and was now intending on getting it’s cruel revenge back onto him, it seemed to come in the form of a coyote in the middle of the road.

As it’s shape came into view, he had at least the good sense to hit the breaks, expecting the animal to simply scatter across the road, yet to his confusion, it continued to stare across at him, the glaring yellow eyes of the animal seeming to focus in on his own.

He couldn’t help but be unsettled by it’s gaze, his stomach seemingly growing into a dark pit of dread, his mind recalling her own adverse reaction to coyote’s, the way she’d told him to be wary of them, claiming that they were trickster’s that got enjoyment out of creating turmoil.

Even now, he could remember when the day was ending, when he’d been running his hand across her back, finger tips dancing across the soft skin on her shoulder as she laid there in his bed, eye’s shut but a soft smile on her face none the less.

The setting sun allowed for enough of an overcast in his windows to bathe them in a hue of orange light, almost like the room itself was glowing, casting itself across her in a melody of colours that made her look similar to the stain glass portraits of the saints in her church.

They’d always talk about so many things when they had this time together, on the rare occasions that her parents wouldn’t have been expecting her back till later, when he’d been able to come get her in his truck, and they’d get to spend these precious moments in each others arms.

“Saw a coyote the other day.” he mused softly, his gaze not leaving her at all as he spoke, allowing his vision to wash over her peaceful figure. “Damn thing nearly made me crash.” he laughed softly, recalling the way he’d had to swerve his truck on the way to her house to avoid hitting it as it ran across the dirt road.

“Mhmm.” her soft hum told him that she was listening, even with her sleepyness already beginning to take over.

He heard her repeat a word he didn’t understand, a language foreign to him; his silence telling her well enough that he didn’t understand.

Stretching out her arms, she allowed herself a soft groan as she adjusted her tired muscles, moving herself across the sheets so that her chin was resting his chest, her arm placed inbetween them to keep her head up.

“Trickster spirit.” she clarified, her eyes now trained on him as she nodded her head matter a factly. “My father used to tell me not to look them in the eye’s, or they’ll lead you to your demise.” she spoke, sounding as though she herself even didn’t place a huge amount of merit on the story.

“That true is it?” he responded to her, his voice slightly croaked as the pair evidently grew more and more tired, sleep on the horizon for the both of them.

Rather than humor his answer, she leaned forward, capturing his lips as she shut her eyes once more, letting his hand run across her cheek, the rough callous’s on his hand against her own soft skin, the pair of them decided to soak up what ever time they had with each other for the night in each others arms.

His recollection of the memory had him even more disturbed by the creature’s gaze on him, the way it’s eyes seemed to move far too intelligently for an animal, almost feeling like he was being analysed, studied.

It wasn’t until he could hear his heart ramming in his chest that he even realised just how terrified he found himself by the creature, feeling his anxiety kick into fight or flight, his body seeming to respond in a way that signalled an unknown danger from the animal.

Whether it was a smart move or not, he didn’t care; but his only instinct was to hit the gas, his truck lurching to life as he shut his eyes, willing his own body to stop looking into the coyote’s eye’s, preparing himself to feel his truck bump as the creature was torn under it’s wheel’s, only to feel nothing but smooth road as he sent the truck forward.

Opening his eye’s back up as he settled back into a more reasonable speed, the sound of the skidding wheel’s silencing itself, he spared only a moment to look in the rear view mirror, expecting to find a carcass lying on the dirt.

What. the. Fuck.

To his utter astoundment, the animal still stood, it’s head turned to watch as he peeled away.

Allowing himself only a moment to look back, he reminded himself to look forward at the road, his anxiety and dread seemingly beginning to clear the further and further he became, as if the larger the distance between him and this coyote, the safer he became.

Finally arriving back at his home, swinging open his door after stumbling across the parking lot of his apartment building, the comfort of his own home was barely that, his sense still practically on fire, his own heart still beating with a sense of uncertainty.

The encounter with the coyote had felt as if it had left an imprint on his very soul, the way it’s eye’s had glowed against his headlights, the image was still burned into his brain, seeing it each time he closed his eyes, an inescapable curse placed on him.

His own exhaustion had only left him able to stumble over to his bed, the cotton sheets no doubt catching some of the dried blood already starting to settle over his face, yet rhett could find no room to care about it, only allowing sleep to overtake him like a wave of ocean water.

It was the dripping that woke him, a sound so miniscule against the silence, and yet loud enough to have his eyes snapping open, a dull echo against his ears as it continued it’s slow and incoehsive rhythm.

Even from where he was laying, he could it was emerging from the small hallway in his apartment, the kitchen at the other end being the only light that was creeping across the walls.

He knew the sink had always been faulty, no matter how many times the landlord had sent over handyman to fix it, as well as the times rhett had tried to fix it himself, it persevered, dripping almost every night to the point he’d become accustomed to the sound.

Whether or not he was even completely awake yet he didn’t know, yet he rose from the bed anyway, only allowing himself a quick glance at his alarm clock as he approached the hallway, the red glowing numbers showing him the time.

4:02 AM.

Just as quickly as he’d taken notice of the time, his head had turned to the entrance of the hallway, his blood running cold within the span of miliseconds, his body going still as he felt his hands beginning to shake.

The dripping was so loud now to the point it almost felt deafening, his eye’s were wide as he stared across at the figure in the hallway, the kitchen light casting a shadow which left him unable to make out any details other than the dark silhouette before him.

The figure was drenched, dripping wet as a puddle settled on the floor underneath them, there was nothing but silence, the only sound audible in that moment being the ever present dripping, falling off of the shadowed figure and onto the floor.

How long he stood there in a terrified silence he didn’t know, it could have been seconds, minutes or even hours, he wasn’t sure, all he could feel in that moment was white, hot terror.

In an instant, the shadow moved faster than his eyes could comprehend, advancing on him from the hallway in seconds as darkened hands wrapped around his throat, sending both of them to the ground.

Yet rather than the feeling of the linoleum floor of his apartment, rhett suddenly found himself thrust under water, the hands holding him under, their grip so strong on his throat that it burned his lungs, his own hands trying to grip at the figure’s wrists, his vision now blurred as his head was held under the water.

As his eye’s did open, his obscured vision painted a picture of daylight above the water, the figure no longer a being of shadow, now the blurry image of what he could recognise to be a man holding him under.

Almost as quickly as it had happened, rhett suddenly commanded the strength to wrench himself up and out of the water, commanding his lungs to breathe in deeply.

Yet now here he was, sitting in the same bed he had fallen asleep in, his lungs gasping in the breath’s of air he’d been fighting for only seconds ago, his heart was hammering to the point it felt like it would burst out his chest any second, the sharp pain in his throat feeling just as real as it had in his dream.

But if it had been a dream, he had no answer for the way his lungs burned as if they’d been deprived for air, why he could have sworn his head and face had felt only slightly too damp to only be sweat.

As his mind ran with questions, he could only find himself quickly jumping from the bed, almost sliding on the floor as he made his way to the entrance of the hallway, his eyes landing on the spot where that same figure had been.

Trying to rationalise with himself had worked so far, each and every occurrence thus far had been something he’d been able to explain to himself, convince himself that his grief had begun to play tricks on him, that his injuries had caused him to hallucinate voices and smell’s that weren’t there.

But as he knelt on the ground, and placed his finger onto the puddle that still remained where the shadow had stood previously; the way that the water itself seemingly reeked on the creek near the church.

He could find little room left in his soul for any further rationalisation.

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott fic #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott fanfiction #lewis pullman fic #lewis pullman x reader #lewis pullman #outer range #outer range fic #ethel cain #bob thunderbolts #robert reynolds x reader #thunderbolts bob x reader

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