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evilminji · 6 months

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*evil grin of The Ponderings™*

You know who DEFINITELY would have Unfinished Business?

Heroes. Professional "If I could just MOVE, just fight a BIT LONGER, save ONE MORE PERSON" Heroes. It's the ultimate and unending Unfinished Business. To protect people. Not just their friends, their co-workers, but the innocent people around them.

That kid, stuck crying in the rubble.

That business man, screaming in pain, caught in the cross fire.

The People NEED them. They SWORE. Their very SOULS burn with the NEED to help. But... the flesh gave out. Injuries. Age. Quirk overuse. They knew... they KNEW, this was not a safe line of work... but... but! Please! Just one more person! Why can't they just make their breaking, dying, bodies MOVE!

Of course they refuse to move on.

They are needed HERE.

Yet? Their hands pass through. Their voices do not reach. A hell of their own, unknown, making. They can't let go, but they can't HELP either. There isn't enough Ectoplasm here. The walls of their reality overly patched up, since that unfortunate leak a few centuries back.

After all, the Zone had dumped near lethal quantities of unfiltered Ecto into the atmosphere. They're STILL dealing with the mutations and fall out, aren't they? At least, they are according to the Zone. (Wtf is a "Quirk"?) And, yeah, someone should PROBABLY do an assessment on the ecological recovery of the Reality. But like?

Do you have any idea how few people have an Obsession for stuff like that? Wait your turn! The list is long and you're not fuckin special, okay? The agents are BUSY.

Now, you might wonder? Wait. If they aren't moving on. Are DEFINITELY Ghosts. Starving as they are. Refusing to die as they may be. Wouldn't... Wouldn't that leave the whole ass area around their Reality an ecological dead zone? If it got over patched and no Ghosts LEFT, thus noticed, and started to try and work on it from the outside? Assuming the COULD?

Yeah. Yeah it would be!

It's called the "New Wastes"!

There used to be some cool Lairs around there. But there was a turf dispute. Someone DID something. Punched a HOLE. And everyone re-died. It was fixed but never quite re-healed. Portals... don't show up there? For some reason? Meh. Wanna brawl?

No. Danny's curious. He wants ANSWERS.

It's his fatal flaw.

Well... that and his inability to keep his mouth shut. But he likes to think he's funny. So... off he goes! And MAN! Does it feel funky out there! Weird textures. Mmmm, Don't Like THAT ™. It's probably a King thing? The Zone here... FEELS wrong.

Not... the way it's SUPPOSED to be shaped, if that makes sense?

And? It feels... if you sorta squint? Like... a LOT of people AREN'T where they should be. But aren't gonna leave until they're READY. Ooof. Great. Someone messed up again. Why does he KEEP FINDING bits and pockets that need straightening out? Unruffling? It's like he has to keep smooth out this giant peice of fabric with all these stains on it. Clean the messes on it.

He feels more like a maid then a King.

Maybe he is?

Pretty sure he's more of a nanny, since the Zone is more of a whiny yet excitable toddler then anything else. Alright, let him in. And fix... whatever THAT is.

So he steps into the Reality and? Huh. Japan. Neat. He always meant to go, never got around to it. Why is that man an otter?

.......oooohohooo, this place was HELLA fucked up by Ectoplasm, wasn't it? This is multi generational exposure. It's in the air. The water, ground, buildings. But stale to the point of stagnation. That can't be healthy. At least a few people he sees have developed ecto-resistance, thank the Ancients.

Danny discovers there are? "Superheroes"? Or just... heroes, apparently. They sell shampoo lines and athletic gear. Villians are petty criminals and psychopaths. All lumped together. He gets fuckin CHASED by the COPS and half the cities spandex patrol, called a "villian" (you know, like the purse snatchers and the DUDE WHO TRIED TO OPEN FIRE ON A CROWD) for flying around trying to assess the situation. Not speaking Japanese fast enough.

Soooorry! He TRIED to answer your confusing barked demands! This isn't his native language! He's translating through Ghost Speech! He knows it sounds unsettling to the living! It's the best he's GOT, man! (Asshole)

He escapes, obviously, because he's not 14 anymore. And honestly? He could top 200mph or so AT 14. He's only gotten faster. Intangible flight means no wind drag, motherfuckers~! OR need to dodge buildings! HA. Try to follow him through THE GROUND!

A few Blob sucked (to remove the ectoplasm) bits of treasure later? And he leaves a pawn shop with local currency. Thank YOU shady pawn shop! Ask him no questions, he'll tell you not lies. Enjoy Pariah's gold.

He does tourist things. Buy foods he's never tried, wanders around. Sees what's needed. Noticed a lot of people struggle with some aspect of the ecto-mutations brought on by the extreme Limnality. Need accessibility aids.

.....well, he IS a Fenton. His parents would disown him on the SPOT if he left with out at least TRYING to help. So he tracks down one the local ghosts. He'll need a guide or two.

He? VASTLY underestimates how desperate a sea of Obsession Starved Hero and Vigilante Ghosts will act, the INSTANT, they realize not only someone can see them... but it's? Their "Boss"? They aren't sure HOW they know that. But they DO. It's THE Boss. Here to help them! Asking for HELP ™ from THEM!

Yes

YES THEY CAN DO THAT

He gets swarmed. Hundreds of ghosts fighting over each other. Shouting. Turning on each other like rabid animals. All worn down and ragged by their Obssesion starvation. He's forced to shout over them.

And? Holy shit, these are only the ones from THIS CITY, too.

Thank Zone, again, he's no longer 14. That he has friends who are Rulers ™ that taught him HOW to Rule. To delegate. Pretend he TOTALLY knows what he's doing. That every action is on purpose.

It takes less then two hours, with all the experienced Unground Heros help, to make himself a Real Boy and buy a building. Put himself into the correct databases. He officially has licenses for things he's never studied. Is a tax paying citizen. Even belongs to several local clubs.

Over the next few days? He sets up his new... oi! Quickdraw! What're they called again? Right. "Lifestyle Support Company" which? Is a dumb name. But, Fenton Works is Fenton Works. Somehow he always kinda knew he'd be inherenting. It's in a cruddy part of town and the prices are cheap as he can safely get um.

He already had two customers, even though half the building isn't even fully set up. Which? I mean... he gets it. Poor guy. Knives for hands. Sharp ones too. The other guy's Obsession made him emotionally react to colors and like three different ones were ruining his life. So, hand Prosthetics controllable by knives and color filtering wrap around glasses.

Took him a lunch break or two.

Changed THEIR lives.

Suddenly his shop is packed. Schedule screaming for relief. And the ghosts? Getting more tangible by the day. See, his work shop? Ecto proofed. Let's him relax. But it ALSO let's him radiate fresh, clean, Ecto out into the air. And as King? With a direct line to The Zone? He puts out a lot.

There start to become Sightings.

People who SWEAR they saw long dead Heros out of the corner of their eyes. Dead vigilantes. That was who through that bottle. Who tripped that thug at just the right moment. Who unlocked the door. The SWEAR. They aren't crazy!

And... at first? Brushed off. Stress does a lot of crazy thing to a person, ma'am. But? How do you brush off, making eye contact with your dead best friend? Your old mentor on the other roof? That vigilante, who you WATCHED bleed out? Can you brush them off... when a vigilante from the dawn of quirks, punches some two bit villian on live television? Calls the Heros on the scene gloryhounds? Goverment dogs?

Runs from the cops and vanishes into thin air?

When this shit KEEPS HAPPENING?

Is spreading?

Are... are you supposed to arrest them for illegal vigilantism? How? They're THE proto-Heros! You don't want your name tied to that! The HPSC is furious. The goverment is uneasy. There are like... 6 dudes and a lady, openly stalking some kid in UA. Trying to mentor him. He looks moments away from a nervous breakdown.

Us too, kid. Us too.

All? While Danny? Is just sitting in his lil shop. Tinkering. Not HIS problem. Gotta let the ghosts here get it out of their system. Get their Obsession's full. Then it's all aboard the Zone Train. He's just here to make sure no one does anything "Too Crazy".

What's HIS definition of "too crazy"?

Wouldn't YOU like to know, weather boy~☆

@hdgnj @lolottes @nerdpoe @babbling-babull @mutable-manifestation @spidori @the-witchhunter @legitimatesatanspawn

#dp x bnha #minji's writing #just here for moral support au #ghostly Heroics au

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dvchvnde · 1 month

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excerpt; hitchhiker au | Simon Riley x Reader gore. graphic descriptions of decomposition. implied noncon.

“You’re not real,” she whimpers, words a rough scrape out of her raw, torn throat. “You can't be real.”

He doesn't answer tonight. Silent in his appraisal, his hatred; the bloodlust rolls off of him in waves, a suffocating deluge that tangles in her chest. Heart pulsing at the base of her throat, clogging her airways. She can't breathe. Can't move. Can only watch as the man cocks his head slowly to the side in a mutated parody of consideration. Confusion. Taking her in as he stands in her doorway, massive body filling the frame in an outline of black, making him more shadow than man. An apparition that haunts her at devil's hour. Always.

The moon's glow casts a line through the open window. A pale meridian between them.

Childishly, she thinks of hiding under her blanket. Bad things can't touch you under the covers. Curling into a ball with her eyes squeezed shut, fingers plugging her ears. Wishing for her mother. Howling for her dad. Waiting until morning when the thing haunting her finally leaves.

But he doesn't. Not tonight.

And she knows if she tries to hide, he'll just crawl into the bed next to her—

“Fix your bumper yet?” He asks, measured in his mockery. The weight of his words makes her stomach churn. Nausea a cold, familiar comfort that tethers itself to her ribcage. “Better get that fixed before someone comes askin’ questions, pet. Clean the blood off it, too. Caused quite the nasty spill.”

His directive makes her want to curl into a ball. “I–I didn't mean to, I didn't—”

“What'd you tell everyone? Hit a deer? Left ‘im in the bushes to die? And now he's got maggots crawlin’ all around ‘is ‘ead. Eatin’ his brains clean outta ‘is skull—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up—you’re not real! You're not real—”

The man—Simon Riley, her mind supplies bitterly, brokenly; tinged full of regret and sorrow and hatred—lashes out in an instant, moves like water, like shadows on the wall, the too bright flicker of a moving car, until he's in her face, looming over her. A massive, unclimbable wall. And she hates it. Hates when he's this close to her. Close enough to smell the stench of rotten blood that dries on his chest, the side of his head. A brown stain that sinks into the too-large frame of his chest.

He smells of death. Sickening. Tainted with a noisome sweetness that glues in her nostrils, leaks down her throat. She can taste him there, right on her tongue. Him. Simon Riley.

Missing, the newspapers say. But only she knows the truth. Stowed away in a facsimile of a grave by the swamps, left to rot. Here, in her bedroom. Waiting for her whenever she tries for a modicum of sleep. A veteran. A drifter. Homeless, they write, and he barked out an ugly laugh as he read over your shoulder, but said nothing else as you scrolled. Tense. Shivering in your seat, waiting for the day the police show up and arrest you. You did a terrible thing. A horrible thing. Pay for what you've done—

His hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around the delicate arch of her throat. The width spans the entirety of it until the bone china, the vulnerable slope, is clenched tight in his slick, slippery palm. Moss, she knows; it grows over his hands and feet now. The earth reclaiming the body she threw into the swamp—

“Not real?” He mocks, wrenching her closer by her throat. Pulse thudding like the wings of a hummingbird against his thumb. “Oh, pet. M’very real—”

He leans in, too, until his horrid face is lit by the sliver of pale blue moonlight. Scraps of tissue slough off of his head, skin purpling beneath the balaclava that peels off in patches. Animals, he'd told her idly, like talking about his body being eaten away by creatures was piecemeal. The jaundiced bone of his cheek pokes out from raspberry skin. It shifts when he speaks, and draws her eye to the devastation of his mouth. Jawbone visible; muscle blackened, clinging by a strip of thin tissue to his lower mandible. His teeth gleam in the light. Yellow and crooked. The rest of his face is covered under the blood soaked fabric of his mask. A small mercy, she thinks.

But the worst is his eyes.

Once black, midnight grey, is now filmed over. Milky. And the other—

Something moves in the cherryred chasm. A long, thin black line slinks out of the gaping hole. Another. Another. From the rotten socket, a large spider emerges, crawling over the craggy pieces of his broken nose, making his decomposing body her home.

She whimpers as the bile surges up, swallowing it down when the blue skin of his mouth peel back in a horrifying grin—

Something white falls from the corner of his eye, rolling down the slick, damp skin of his oily face in a mockery of a teardrop, the image glueing to the bone deep remorse that coils like a noose around her neck. Tighter, tighter.

His tongue lulls out. Cold, slimy, when it flickers over the trembling ridge of her jaw. Fingers digging into her skin, stealing the warmth from her flesh. The air from her lungs.

He'll have her like this, she knows. Always does when he gets in these moods—the kind that makes him touch her more, sink boney fingers beneath the hem of her pants, and cooing in her ear about how much he wants to eat her alive. Buzzing with some strange, electric energy. She can't run. Can't scream.

Going to the police isn't an option when she buried a body under loose rocks and sticks. Hit and run. Vehicular manslaughter. Life over in a blink—

No. No—

She just has to wait, she thinks, her eyes slipping shut as his rancid breath curdled over the tears on her cheeks. Wait until his body rots all the way.

Until he's nothing but bones—

Only then will this ghost finally leave her alone.

#this was written while i typed one handed and snacked on cheesy tteokbokki after midnight and for some reason #sheher over youyour was easier to text to speech annotate w/o my Samsung having an episode #I'll clean it up after though #simon riley x reader #hitchhiker au

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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year

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Simmer #1

CH1. Home Style | The Menu [3.7K] Eddie Munson x shy fem!reader: a line cook au.

Jim’s Midnight Grill wasn’t the magical place the name made it sound like.

In fact, it was worse at night. Hawkins' only diner sat on the outskirts of town, just before the road that took you out alongside the cornfields. In the height of a sunny day, the water tower cast a shadow over the old building and the gas station next door only had one working pump.

The leather booths were constantly sticky, the table tops grainy with spilled salt, but if you made your visit on a Thursday night after nine, milkshakes were two for one. The back alley was littered with cigarette butts, graffiti on the walls telling you who to call for a good time— and someone called King Steve used Farah Fawcett hairspray? The regulars were permanent fixtures on the bar stools, coffee stains on the counter in front of them, stolen sugar packets in their pockets, frowns on their faces.

The staff didn’t want to be there, the owner refused to replace the flickering lights and the cook had a bad attitude and liked to communicate with heavy sighs and eye rolls. But he made a mean grilled cheese. The walk in freezer was reserved for the pitiful weekly deliveries and breakdowns, a stolen kiss or two. Or three, or four. But no one liked to tackle the clogged sink and god forbid anyone change the TV channel— Mr Creel always had something to say about it.

—————

Honestly, Hawkins wasn’t your first choice when you decided to move to a smaller place. The idea of a big city was all fine and well until you lived a year in Chicago, the dream of a brownstone apartment quickly disappearing when you realised jobs were hard to come by and finding friends was even harder. Living alone wasn’t all that fun, especially when your landlord hinted at sexual favours to justify late payments and he didn’t care to fix the leaking radiator in your bedroom. The nights were never quiet and the city hardly slept, but instead of neon lights and late night bodega runs, you lay awake on the broken spring in your bed and flinched at the sound of backfiring cars and people arguing on the street below.

It was lonely, living somewhere so big and busy and always eating dinner by yourself. So you sold the old car you didn’t really use and cried enough that your landlord eventually gave in and ripped up your lease that still had four months to go. Packing your stuff was an easy enough job, hardly enough belongings to fill the duffel bag you’d dragged with you. You dug into the back of your freezer for the wad of cash your grandma gave you, threw it into the bag and grabbed your greyhound ticket and decided you’d get off the bus when the skyline turned a little more green. When the buildings shrunk, when the smog lifted and when wildflowers sprouted from between the cracks in the sidewalk.

So you rolled into Hawkins before the day broke, way before the sun crept up over the quarry, before the small town came alive. The apartment you’d found was the same tiny size as the one you’d had in Chicago but it was cleaner and the carpet was new. Nothing leaked. Nothing smelled weird. The parking lot was filled with cars and none of them had bullet holes in the side, your trash can wasn’t on fire and god, god, the first neighbour you saw - an elderly woman who was walking with a yorkie on a leash - smiled at you.

She smiled at you.

So despite the lack of twenty four hour stores and pizza parlours, Hawkins was already looking up. There wasn’t much on the Main Street, a library, a tiny bakery run by a couple who offered you a free croissant as a welcome to town gift. There was an outdoor pool with sun bleached bunting across its chain link fence, an arcade next to a video store, a high school that was derelict due to the summer months. The larger houses across from the park were lined with cherry trees, neat lawns with white mailboxes and flowers under the windows and suddenly Hawkins was a million miles away from Chicago and the buzz of traffic and car horns.

The librarian let you print out some resumes the day after you’d settled in, and you found your way around town by asking kind strangers, buying a coffee and a breakfast sandwich in exchange for directions out of your neighbourhood. It was easy to stroll along the sidewalk with an iced latte and your headphones around your neck, blue skies above you and the sound of sprinklers in their yards, breathing in air that didn’t smell like diesel. You found a man by a rundown garage, white haired and tired looking, mechanic scrubs tied around his waist as he smoked a cigarette.

You took a deep breath, and then another one, smiling politely - warily - as you approached. The man lifted a brow at you, a little suspicious, but he held the burning stub away from you, smoke billowing in the opposite direction.

“You lost, kid?”

You were. Just a little.

“I’m looking for Jim’s, uh,” you glanced down at the pink flyer that had been pinned on the library's notice board. “Jim’s Midnight Grill? I got told it was out this way, but—”

You looked around, noting that there wasn’t much out this way. The busiest part of Hawkins was behind you, tidy sidewalks giving way to long roads out of town, a lone bus stop by the garage, a farm in the distance across the street. You squinted against the sun and shrugged.

“You wanna keep going for ‘nother mile or so, it’s just before the town sign,” the man pointed further out where the cornfields were overgrown and the sun faded billboard told everyone ‘thanks for visiting Hawkins!’ You weren’t sure the bus ran that far out. “Jim should be there, but if he’s not, jus’ ask for Eddie, he’ll sort you out.”

“Eddie,” you nodded, peering into the distance. You couldn’t see another building, but this man didn’t seem like he was lying. “Right, okay. Just keep to the road?”

The man nodded and he cracked a smile, small but soft. He stubbed out the end of his cigarette and gestured to an old pick up that looked like it had seen better days. “You needin’ a ride?”

The urge to say yes was strong, especially after walking all the way from your apartment as the heat soared. It snuck up on you like a slow roll, going from pleasant to warm to too hot, far too quickly. Beads of sweat clung to your skin underneath your sundress but you shook your head, shyness crawling up the back of your neck. Accepting a ride from a stranger didn’t seem the wisest idea, no matter how kind he seemed.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “Thank you, though. I appreciate the help.”

The man smiled again, a little bigger this time, crows feet crinkling, the sunlight catching the white of his five o’clock shadow. “That’s alright, kid. Jus’ tell ‘em Wayne sent you, yeah? Follow the road, you’ll see Forest Hills - the trailer park - keep going a lil’ ways and it’s right across the road.”

It turned out Wayne was right.

You kept walking, the heat soaring, the fields on either side of you growing taller but you bit back a smile at the sight of the wildflowers that snuck through the cracks in the concrete. Eventually they gave way to a trailer park, just as Wayne side, a quaint place that hummed with generators and had lines of laundry between each mobile home. Across the road sat a sandy lot, a diner in the middle, a neon sign letting passer-bys know they’d arrived at Jim’s Midnight Grill. Except the ‘r’ was loose, hanging from its wire and buzzing blue and purple.

Cats patrolled along the roadside, going from trailer doorsteps to the back alley of the diner, hoping and waiting for a free meal that they all knew would eventually come. You stopped to pet an orange kitten, a little scruffy looking thing but cute all the same, your CV clutched in one hand as you peered suspiciously at the front of the restaurant. It looked too quiet, like it wasn’t open yet. But there was a black van parked along the side of the building and some steam leaked from a vent on the roof, so you opened the front door.

The bell jingled but the patrons at the dining bar who sat on their stools didn’t move, didn’t turn to look. The place was nearly empty, some people nursing a coffee, some staring blankly at the buzzing television screen that was mounted in the corner. No one stood at the host desk, the menus stacked messily, the phone off the hook. In fact, there wasn’t a server to be seen as you made your way to the counter. You grimaced as you leaned on the surface, elbows sticky, avoiding spilled coffee the best you could. You waited, resume still in your hand, patience on your features.

No one came.

So you rang the bell that was on the bar top for the very purpose of gaining attention, but the man beside you glared at the noise. Still, no one came. The fans overhead squeaked and whirred, the TV fizzed with bad signal and from somewhere behind the open serving hatch, you heard the clatter of pots and pans. You tried to crane your neck to see through the window, steam and smoke billowing from it, the slight shadow of maybe a person moving through it.

The person swore, dropped a skillet and swore again.

You leaned in further, elbows on spilled salt grains and drops of ketchup, trying to gain a better view into the kitchen from the bar top. “Hey, ‘scuse me? Can I— can someone—”

You huffed as the figure moved out of sight, falling back onto the stool that squeaked and the man next to you snorted into his coffee cup. You frowned and took further action, sundress falling back around your thighs as you hopped off the chair and made your way to the side of the counter that lifted up. No one paid you any mind, no one at all, but you still hesitated before ducking under the bar and hovering by the hatch. You could smell garlic and sage and something a little sweet now you were closer, the scents of the kitchen winning over the stale coffee, cigarette smoke and engine oil that clung to the patrons clothes behind you.

You peered into the kitchen, your paperwork still clutched to your chest. It wasn’t much cooler in here than it was outside, the AC unit broken and the fans working overtime to combat the heat. The kitchen seemed empty now, a stovetop still on despite no one to supervise it, flames licking high up the sides of a steel pot, big enough for you to fit both feet in. There was something inside bubbling, foam rising to the top and chopped courgette and red onions sat on the workbench beside it, abandoned. A radio played, staticky and fuzzy, an old sixties tune floating out to mix with the smoke.

“Come a little bit closer, you’re my kind of man. So big and so strong, come a little bit closer, I’m all alone.”

“H-hello?” You cleared your throat and braced yourself to speak a little louder. Stronger. Braver. “Hello?”

No one answered. In fact, it seemed like the entire diner was run by ghosts, no waiting staff, hosts or cooks to be seen. Maybe you’d imagined the silhouette in the smoke, maybe the heat was finally getting to you.

“No customers back here, what d’you think you’re doin’?”

You startled, jumping back a little only to knock an elbow into a half filled coffee pot, the brown liquid thankfully lukewarm but it still spilled across the countertop, soaking into stray packets of sugar and scattered napkins.

“Oh, fuck, uh—” you grabbed at whatever dry napkins were left, hurriedly mopping up the spill before it dripped to the floor. Old coffee dotted the red and cream tiles, into the gaps between your sandals. You grimaced and looked up, only half paying attention. “Shit, I’m really sorry, I just— there was no one there and—”

You stopped, swallowing hard, cheeks hot, eyes wide. The person in front of you was half hidden behind the serving hatch, but he was scowling through the window with a ladle in his hand. Big brown eyes, unnervingly expressive and dark hair to match, unruly looking curls that were pulled back with an elastic band in a bun that wouldn’t have passed a health inspection.

A boy, unfairly pretty, and annoyed looking with tattoos peeking out from his chef whites, a black paisley printed bandana knotted around his neck. There was a furrow between his brow, lines etched there so deep that it made you think they were a permanent fixture on his handsome face.

“—no customers behind the cash desk, sweetheart, you look bright enough to understand that.”

Your mouth fell open, a burn creeping across your cheeks. Annoyance settled in your chest but you realised you weren’t quite brave enough to do anything about it. So you lifted your resume and slapped it on the hot steel ledge that separated the kitchen from the coffee bar. “No one’s working,” you tried to explain, gesturing with one hand to the empty diner behind you. “I rang the bell—”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” The boy scoffed, raising a tattooed forearm to wipe away the sheer layer of sweat from his brow. “Havin’ a spa day? Shit, no one rings the damn bell, don’t you know that?”

You scrambled for a response, the burn on your face growing hotter, an awful clawing feeling coming across your chest. You swallowed, your throat tight, but you pointed at your CV once more. “I’m here for the job opening. I need to speak to Jim? About the kitchen porter role?”

The stranger laughed, a breathy thing that you didn’t think was supposed to come across as mean as it did, but it stung all the same. You shrunk a little, a hardly seen thing as the boy turned his head to check on whatever was bubbling in the big pot. “Look, sweetheart, I don’t wanna be a dick about it, but uh, I don’t think you’re cut out for the kitchen - sorry.” He turned back to you, a slightly more apologetic look on his face instead of the frown. “You understand, right?”

You were speechless, just for a second. Blinking away the confusion, you made noise of protest as the boy started to move away. Your hand touched his bicep and he swivelled back, scowling once more. You snatched your hand away, glancing at your fingertips as if the ink from his tattoos would have stained them black.

“Sorry— it’s just, I, I need a job.” You swallowed, hoping none of the customers could hear your desperate plea. “I just moved into town and honestly, I’ll take anything, like anything. I’m supposed to talk to Jim— or Eddie?”

The boy seemed to mull over your words for a second or two, a passing of sympathy or something just as kind coming over his features. He sighed and shrugged, turning away to stir the pot before it boiled over and he shouted at you through the smoke and steam. Not meanly, just enough for his voice to be heard over the music, the hissing of the stove, the hum of the freezer. “I dunno where Jim is, sorry.”

You deflated, sliding your stack of papers off of the ledge and back to your chest. You tried not to appear too frustrated as you asked, “what about Eddie? Someone - a guy, at the garage - he told me to ask for Eddie.”

The ladle clanged against the pot, some soup - or maybe stew - spilling out the sides. The boy frowned at the mess, dragging a rag over the spots before he glanced up at you. You tried to smile, tried to tamp down the watery doe eyes you knew you couldn’t help but have on show, but you felt desperate. Leaving Chicago with nothing more than the bag on your back and no plans was suddenly seeming like an awful idea.

“Sorry,” the stranger said again. “I dunno an Eddie.”

—————

Sitting in a sticky leather booth in the corner of Jim’s Midnight Grill for another hour turned out to be worth it.

Just before two o’clock, a man walked in, greeting the same customers who were still nursing their coffees with a muttered ‘hello,’ a familiar thing that everyone grunted back at. He was a tall man, broad shouldered with a moustache and a shaved head that was covered with a battered wide brimmed hat. He looked more cowboy than business owner, checked shirt dirt covered boots and all, but you heard someone call him Jim and you were up and running after him.

Your sneakers stuck to the linoleum tiles, the ‘shtick shtick shtick’ of your soles pattering between the aisles of empty tables until you caught up with the man just before he disappeared into the kitchen. He raised his brows at your sudden appearance at his elbow, wide eyed and hopeful as you clutched the same resume you’d tried to hand the cook, the pieces of paper stained with coffee now.

The man lifted his chin to a small table before you could speak, gesturing to two chairs by the window. You startled, wondering what was happening as he pulled out a seat and pointed at you to sit in the other one.

“You’re new, right?” The man - Jim - fumbled with a packet of cigarettes, most of them crushed and bent, but he found a good one to lift to his lips. He lit it and blew smoke upwards, staining the already yellowing ceiling. “Here, in town?”

You nodded, unsure how he knew that. You guessed that news travelled fast in a place as small as Hawkins, so you decided to elaborate for the sake of talking. “Uh, yeah. From Chicago. I’m inquiring about the, um, the porter job?”

“What’s your name?” Jim leaned forward in his chair and poked gently at your forearms. “You don’t got a lot of scars, you done soft jobs? No kitchen stuff before?”

The AC unit kicked in and rattled a vent above you as you stared at the man, trying to work out what he meant. Stammering, you told him your name and passed over a resume, pointing out your last few jobs, doing your best to try and make them sound more professional than they actually were.

Librarian's assistant.

Barista. For two weeks.

Cashier at a knock off Chuck E. Cheese.

“I guess they’re what you could call, uh,” you squinted Jim, floundering for the word he’d used, “soft jobs. But I’ve got a scar on my knee from pulling a kid out of the ball pit. He’d come straight from little league, he still had his spikes on and there was a considerable amount of blood even th—”

Jim stopped your spiel by jamming a thumb back towards the kitchen hatch. You could still see the boy there, pretty and scowling all the same, a dark curl falling from his hair band to fall over his cheek. You watched him blow it away and flip something in a skillet, the sizzle of it just heard over the music, the bad TV in the corner of the bar.

“You ever worked a kitchen?”

You shook your head, stomach sinking. ‘Fake it til’ you make it,’ failed you once before, and the owner of the coffee shop in Lincoln Park quickly realised you were wasting both your times when she discovered you didn’t know the difference between a mocha and a latte. “No, sir.”

“Our line cook is real particular ‘bout who we put in his kitchen with him,” Jim pointed to the boy, who’d now been joined by someone else. Another male, one with even longer hair, sleek and dark and they seemed to be arguing over blocks of cheese. “Now I don’t think it’s a good idea to throw you in there—”

Dread bubbled in your stomach. If you didn’t manage to land this job, you weren’t sure where else to look. A small town brought on few opportunities, and you’d already exhausted most of the businesses on Main Street. “Sir, please, I—”

“—but there is a waitressing gig available.” Jim frowned as he tried to remember the details. “Full time, forty odd hours if you don’t mind doing lates.”

“Yes!” You blurted out the answer too loud, loud enough for the customers to turn away from the TV screen for a second or two. The boys in the kitchen peered out the hatch, one curious, one annoyed. “Yes, sorry, yes. I’ll take it, thank you.”

Jim nodded and stubbed out the amber end of his cigarette in an ashtray beside the sauce bottles. “Easy enough job, minimum wage, you keep any tips you make.�� He listed off each point on his fingers. “You start tomorrow.”

You could only nod back, eager and grateful. “Of course, yeah, sure. Uh— do I need—?”

Jim waved you off, already standing as he lit up another cigarette. “Just come by for eight, Eddie’ll sort you out with a uniform, locker, that kinda stuff.”

You frowned, confused. Looking around the quiet diner, you wondered if there was someone you hadn’t noticed before, but the number of visible staff members remained the same. The two boys in the kitchen, the pretty cool who you’d spoken to back at the stove, tasting its contents with a teaspoon.

“Uh,” you coughed awkwardly, feeling stupid. “I thought— I thought there wasn’t an Eddie who worked here?” You pointed warily to the boy with the messy curls, the black tattoos across his exposed forearms, he was staring at you, like he knew you were talking about him. He was scowling. “He said there wasn’t.”

The noise and heat of the diner and the summer outside didn’t do anything to diminish the embarrassment you felt at Jim’s next words. His gaze followed to where you were pointing and snorted. “Kid, that is Eddie.”

#Eddie munson #eddie munson x you #Eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #Eddie munson fanfic #Eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #Eddie munson oneshot #Eddie munson imagine #linecook!eddie

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wandaslullaby · 18 days

Text

Hooked, Line and Sinker || Wanda Maximoff

summary: wanda shows you what it's like to disobey and a certain faculty member makes an appearance.

18+ DNI!

WARNINGS: fingering, eating out, manipulation kink

part 3 of the bunny and wanda series

------------

With eyes at rest with the sudden shock of humanity, you hear the quenching rain. The percussion of the water varies according to the downpour that Wanda warned you about. It’s been three whole days since Wanda’s sinful confession but you couldn’t stay mad at her. She gave you a roof over your head, three meals a day and a nice cosy bed to lay.

Resting on your thighs, you tilted your head and traced a droplet of rain down the window giggling as more rain droplets came to play. A slight hum echoed in the background, light taps began to grow louder which meant Wanda was near.

“Bunny? Are you here?” Wanda yelled from what you think was the kitchen.

“On the window sill.” You answered, still fixated on the rain.

Wanda’s eyes grew with such love as she watched you innocently play with the water. She also noticed how short the skirt she dressed you just covered your bare ass.

“You look so gorgeous, bunny.” Wanda cooed as she walked up to you. You hummed and slightly smiled when Wanda’s reflection appeared in the window.

As much as you knew all this was wrong, the stickiness between your legs thought otherwise. Wanda hasn’t touched you since that incident in Mr Rogers Office and you were desperate to have Wanda’s fingers or her strap on inside you.

“What are you thinking bout? Sad that you can’t play outside?” Wanda said, pinching your bare bum earning a little stare from you.

“Feel sticky. Not sure why but it hurts.”

Wanda’s eyes pierced down to your thighs, “Oh bunny. Why didn’t you tell me? You should always tell Mommy when you had an accident.”

“Was embarrassed, not usually like this.” You whispered, feeling slightly ashamed that you couldn’t control when you came.

“That’s what Mommy is here for. She is going to look after you as you can’t do it yourself.” Wanda laughed. “What to show Mommy where the stickiness is with her fingers?”

You nodded, and wrapped your hand around Wanda’s finger and directed her up to your leaking cunt. Wanda gasped as she felt how wet you were, she wasn’t expecting you to be this coated.

“Oh my sweet dumb baby.” Wanda cooed as she slowly rubbed your clit earning soft whimpers from your lips. “You are soaking.”

“Can you fix it?” You moaned out, gripping the side of the window sill as Wanda began to pick up the pace.

“As long as you try to sleep on your own tonight? As much as I love having you in my bed, you need to learn to sleep on your own.”

That’s another thing you couldn’t figure out. You were so used to sleeping alone but somehow something inside you made you want to sleep with Wanda. It was such a weird feeling but you felt empty without Wanda nearby.

“I can try…” You whimpered as Wanda slipped a finger inside your cunt, pumping slowly as she stroked your cheek.

The motion of Wanda finger inside you alarmed your brain, the euphoria you felt as Wanda explored the walls inside you hinting another finger as she dipped in and out caused a slight high pitch moan from your mouth.

“Beautiful sounds, bunny. Can you use your words?” Wanda chuckled as she planted a kiss on your nose. “What do you need?”

“Your fingers.” You choked out. “I need your fingers.”

Wanda watched as your face burned with heat as she entered a second finger inside you. Wanda was impressed in how well you would take her without prep. She saw the shyness on your face as you looked away which only meant you wanted it a little fast.

“Do you want me to go faster?” Wanda asked, using her free hand to make you face her. “You have to look at Mommy when she is taking care of you, you don’t want Mommy to be sad, do you?”

A sudden twist of panic erupted into you as Wanda pulled her fingers out of you. She watched as you tried to pull her fingers closer but she slapped your cunt instead. The stinging pain of her slap caused a tear to form in your eyes as she denied you, but Wanda only smiled wider as she watched you try again but Wanda this time, shoved her fingers in your mouth.

Pumping her fingers in her mouth, you knew that this was a form of punishment something Wanda mentioned but you didn’t think she would actually use them. She watched as you latched onto her fingers, sucking away your sweet cum eagerly as Wanda stroked your nose.

“You hungry little thing. Look at you, sucking on Mommy’s fingers.” Wanda laughed as she shoved them further down your throat indicating to her that you did have a gag reflex. “Make sure they are all sloppy for me so I give your cunt something to feast on.”

Wanda noticed the slight slowness in your movement and decided that it was time to take care of your throbbing cunt. She could smell the desperation and as much as Wanda loved watching you choke on your fingers she removed them from your mouth and went straight into your cunt, thrusting harder than before aimlessly reaching your spot. It didn’t take Wanda long at all to get your pussy clenching on her fingers. She knew exactly where you would become undone but the thought of you cumming on her fingers didn’t sit right with her, she wanted to taste you.

“Bunny. As much as I want you to drown my fingers with your cum, how about I taste it instead?”

You didn’t even formulate a word, you just screamed with desperation as Wanda was so close to having you released that you just blabbered.

“Too dumb to say anything? You really are a stupid girl.” Wanda cooed as she kept pumping inside you and lowered you down so you were ready for her.

Before her fingers were free from your clenching pussy, Wanda ripped your skirt apart and grinned at how glazed you were. She noticed that her phone was nearby and quickly took a picture. “Beautiful. This is going to go to all the colleagues at work to show them how lucky I am.”

You were not quite sure what Wanda was saying as you were too high on pleasure to notice that Wanda had taken a picture of you. As much as you were trying to be good, the kick of your legs caught Wanda’s attention.

“Don’t you fucking kick your legs at me.” Wanda snapped. “Are you that desperate for my tongue, bunny?”

You whimpered out, not even apologising.

“Never.” Smack. “Ever”. Smack. “Kick your legs at me.” Wanda growled and pulled her fingers out of you watching as her fingers glazed with your cum. She heard a cry escape your lips as Wanda left you open, you were so desperate for anything that you were again denied from cumming.

“You want to cum, bunny? Then I’ll fucking show you.” Wanda hissed as she bit down on your sensitive cunt, and gripped your thighs as she sucked on your clit.

The reactor from Wanda tongue embedded inside you caused you to wrap your legs around her neck. Wanda wasn’t given up quite yet, she sucked harder on each fold and invaded her tongue inside you reaching the spot in less than two seconds. As Wanda nipped at your folds, you started to clench and as Wanda fiddled with your spot, you became undone. You felt days of denied cum flow down giving Wanda such a meal to eat as she still ate your out, savouring each drop.

You were starting to feel another set of cum released as Wanda used her hands to rub your clit, muffling words as she sucked harder letting another load pour down on her. The high you felt started to feel less painful as your eyes began to flutter. You weren’t used to cumming this much and the sudden numbness of your legs fell down indicating to Wanda that you were out down.

Wanda wasn’t done yet. As she began to clean you with her mouth and tongue, she gave your sensitive pussy a bite causing you to scream loud in pain. Wanda finally released herself from you, grinning at the sigh of the harsh redness on your clit, grinning a little at the sight of blood where she bit you.

“Don’t you cry, you stupid whore. I just let you cum and this is how you say thank you? Crying because you couldn’t handle a little pain?” Wanda laughed, as she admired the hot tears form on your cheeks.

“H-hurts.” You whimper, trying to see the after match of Wanda’s punishment. Wanda only chuckled as your arms extended out, she knew that denying you for three days would only make you crave her more.

“You need a hug, bunny?” She cooed, changing her tune as she noticed you were slowly slipping. She watched you nod eagerly before she picked you up and straddled you in her arms. “Look at those puffy eyes, you were such a good bunny taking Mommy’s punishment.”

“I’m sorry…” You whispered, hiding your face in her chest.

“I know you are. Mommy forgives you.”

“You do?” You muffled her chest.

“Of course. You are going to be such a good bunny for me.” Wanda hums as she watches you slip into a trance. Wanda watched as your eyes closed and planted a small kiss to your forehead before groaning at the vibration from her back pocket.

As Wanda retrieved the phone, she noticed several messages from her colleagues liking the image of your glazed cunt.

Steve: That was quick. I didn’t get Bucky to obey for a month.

Wanda grinned at the message.

Wanda: What can I say? She’s a desperate one.

Steve: I still want her grades to go up, Wads.

Wanda: They will. We will be there bright and early on Tuesday.

Before Wanda turned her phone off, she wanted to take a good look at her bunny all warm and comfy before the real torture started.

“Oh bunny. You shouldn’t have made that comment about my tits.” Wanda whispered. “The fun has only begun.”

#wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagines #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff fic #dark!wanda smut #wanda maximoff x you

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crookedteethed · 7 months

Text

MORESAL of praise | e.m.

Pairing: Up-and-coming Musician!Eddie Munson x Girlfriend Musician reader

Warning: 18+ Cursing, Smut (p in v), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), Reader is intimidated by Eddie's size, Praise kink, Pet names, cockwarming, Eddie being a tool, barely proofread, reader and Eddie are both in their mid-twenties, From y/n perspective

Word count: 2.7k

Divider cred → @saradika-graphics

There's a squeak to my door that needs fixing, and a water leak somewhere that needs tending.

I asked my tenant to fix it, but he tells me: "This is what you get when you pay $300 a month."

The Luminary, home of musicians trying to live for cheap.

I sit my guitar case on the creaking floors, and kick off my ten-hut boots.

My apartment had been cold. A dull gray atmosphere manifested itself not only due to the cold weather outside but also the poor insulation through my apartment walls.

The door to my room was slightly cracked and I noticed between the lines of static silence were the faint sounds of acoustic strings.

I opened the door. In my room, there was one dim lamp light lit. It shined a yellow hue on my boyfriend, who sat on the edge of my bed. Eddie had been playing his black acoustic guitar--the one he wrote "This machine slays dragons" in white paint on, his notebook he often wrote in laid open next to him, a black ink pen between the margins of the notebook.

He doesn't look up at me when I tell him "Hi."

His concentration was on the nylon strings of his acoustic guitar as he mutters an "Oh, hey." back.

My boyfriend looked beautiful at the moment, inattentive, yet beautiful. The warm yellow tone reflected his pallor skin, strands of his thick curly hair tucked behind his ear, and a brown celluloid guitar pick between his teeth. Somewhat of a Vermeer painting.

I walk over to my dresser.

"Sorry, I'd broken in." Eddie says. "I needed to be somewhere quiet, my roommates wouldn't give me that." The roommates that had also doubled as Eddies bandmates.

"It's okay." I say, while shimming out of my black satin skirt. "I was going to ask if you wanted to come over tonight anyway."

My skirt falls to the floor, it pools around my ankles. Next to come off is my stockings, then my shirt, and lastly my bra.

I catch Eddies eyes lingering on my bareback as I fish for something I can sleep in. My hands pick a shirt that said "Margaritaville" and was four sizes too big.

When I turn back around to Eddie, he's back to strumming a random chord then he writes it down in his notebook.

In the small bathroom that connected to my bedroom, I don't look myself in the mirror when I take off my panties and throw them into the hamper.

Now getting into bed, I crawled over to where Eddie sat, sitting behind him on the weight of my knees.

Eddie had seemed to form some sort of a strumming pattern with his song, but he didn't seem to like the sound of it by the harsh glare he gave his guitar.

"It sounds pretty." I assure him.

He lets out a low mumble that sounds like a "Thank you."

"Thinking about playing it to the guys, play it at our audition at Beacon records, maybe?"

I hum as I slowly walked on my knees, my calloused hands gripping his bare shoulders. "Mmm-hmm," I say as he kept speaking, but I was too busy stroking his hair to fathom anything he was saying.

I lean in closer to his body, enveloping myself in his warmth.

My boyfriend: the thermal.

I bring my lips to his neck, and in one long hard suck, I kiss the flesh. His reaction is what catches me off guard.

"Babe." he turns to me, he stares at me with the same glare he gave his guitar. "I'm almost done." He continued. "Then we can do whatever you want."

The music continues.

My bottom lip start to poke out, and I probably would've started to cry if he was a bit more harsher.

I start to scoot to the head of the bed. "Take as long as you want. I'm going to bed." I tell him.

I get underneath my cold blankets, lay to my side and force myself to sleep (despite not being sleepy).

Suddenly, his strumming stops.

With one eye opened, I peak at him (out of curiosity). I squeeze both my eyes shut when I feel Eddie get up from the bed, his bones cracking in the mitts.

He leans his guitar on the wall, and places his closed notebook on the bedside table.

We accidentally make eye contact when he turns off the lamp light, I squeeze my eyes in a haste, but l feel the smirk on his lips illuminating in the darkness of my room.

Eddie then slips underneath the covers beside me, his clipped nails and rough hands graze the plush of my slender hips. I feel his smirked lips kiss the dip of my shoulder blade.

"I'm trying to sleep." I mumble.

"No you're not." He says, breathing on the nape of my neck.

I feel Eddie's muscular hands turn me over by the shoulders. When we're face to face I get a glimpse of his shadow covered face, alabaster skin darker then normal.

Eddie traces a finger over the line of my jaw and pulled my body tight to his chest. His body heat makes me feel less cold. Eddie brings a warmness to me that spreads from my temples, to my limps and it makes me melt like ice cream on a midsummer day's night.

"You're freezing." he states.

My lips part as his thump soothes the petal skin of my jawline.

"Lemme make you warm. Lemme make up for before, yeah?" He said in that voice I couldn't resist. It's a low, gravelly tone. A tone filled with assurance and leverage.

And though I wanted to roll over and play sleep, I simply couldn't. With sluggish eyes and a parted mouth (due to his thumb playing with my bottom lip) I found myself nodding to Eddie's words.

As Eddie crawls on top of me, I combed my fingers through his thick dark curls. Eddie's the one to close the gap between our mouths.

The kiss begins with the utmost tenderness. It was long enough that I could inhale his breath, feel the warmness of his skin, and tasted the last thing that lingered on his lips (the celluloid guitar pick).

But, with the hunger of a starving man, Eddie deepens the kiss. I responded to him with a low mewl between the gnawing and the suckling.

When I feel Eddie's hand snake to where our cores met, I stopped him.

He hovers over me with concerning eyes, and red-bitten lips.

"Did I do something wron--"

"I want to ride you." I breathlessly say, earning another smirk from him and glint in his eyes.

In a swift motion, Eddie and I switched places, with him now being on the bottom while I was on top. Eddie rests his back on the metallic bars of my headboard. In this position, the moonlight peaking from my curtains had shined on his face, leaving me in the shadows.

I start to adjust myself by bunching the hem of my shirt around my waist; Eddie adjusts himself by lifting his weight to pull down his boxers, and that's when I feel it.

I feel the warmth that radiates from his cock to my wet slit. His tip nearly meshing with my clit.

Eddie's cock had had a slight curved mushroom shape to it with a hefty girth to it as well, with three large straining veins running along the side of it.

His reddening tip spewed drops of clear pre-cum that leaked down from his dick and to my thighs.

I gawked at his cock, with slightly parted lips.

Oh, how I yearned for Eddie to be inside of me all day. During my yearning, Eddie was on top. It occurred to me then that I'd never ridden Eddie before. Eddie is always the one to do the penetrating.

My eyes met with his, a devious look in his deep, earthy brown eyes.

"Sorry." I mutter.

Eddie looks at me with a condescending grin as I lift myself up by my knees. I give a few tugs to his cock, before aligning his length to my entrance.

I feel the supple wetness of my cunt drip down my thighs and onto the puddle of Eddie's pre-cum that resides there, as I inch him closer to me.

It was either the intimidation or excitement in my lower belly that lead me to stop.

"Can you help me?" I mumble.

"What?" Eddie says, cuffing his hand behind his ear. Whatta prick.

"You heard me." I said.

"I believe I didn't sweetheart, you were mumbling."

He knew for a fact he heard me; we were so close to one another that I could listen to the fluids swishing around in his belly. But for the sake of it,

"Can you help me?" I repeat, this time loud and clear.

"Ohh, that's what I thought you said." He decides to play dumb, desperation pulls on my face. "Thought you wanted to ride me, huh?"

"I do, but I'm scared it won't fit." I say.

"It fit all those other times." He rebuttals.

"But all those other times weren't like this." I stare deep into his eyes and poke out my bottom lip. "Please, just help me."

"Oh, don't cry sweets, you know I was gonna help ya, y'know." He tells me. "But first, take off your top fr'me."

I comply, watching him watch me take off my "Margaritaville" shirt and discarding it onto the floor.

Now completely bare, I feel my nipples start to pebble at the cool breeze of my apartment.

Eddie's mouth latches onto my left breast like a moth to a flame. I feel his hand give my right breast a firm squeeze. As his lips and tongue revolved around my sensitive buds, the tips of his curls tickled my chest.

"Eds." I gasp, bringing his head closer to my chest as if I were trying to feed him.

In the next moment, he spilled a few drops of saliva on my other nipple and flicked the newly wet nub, and started to suck on the puffy skin.

"Eds, baby, you're doing so good." I moan. Eddie hums in acknowledgment, concentrating on my left nipple like it was his guitar and notebook.

"But please, Eddie, I need you inside of me; I'm dripping here." I whine.

Eddie slowly detaches himself from my right nipple, a string of saliva connecting his lips from my nub. He looks down at the slickness that coats his and my thighs.

"Shit." he curses. He looks at me with those chocolate brown eyes of his, and a look of flattery on his face. "And I didn't even have to touch that little clit of yours to have you dripping like this."

"Eddie, please!"

"Alright, alright." He says. "By the way, y'know you're beautiful when you're all whiney and struggling on me."

Before I can rebuttal, I see Eddie gripping the thick base of his cock; as he brings his tip to my entrance, I bite on my bottom lip out of pure anticipation.

A faint sigh of relief died on our lips as Eddie melded inside me. I let out a shaky gasp at the sudden stretch. For a brief second, I sit on his cock, taking in his size, taking in his heat.

Involuntary, I clench around his girthy length as a response his cock throbs inside of me. I think if we knew morse code, our private parts could have a flirty conversation without each of us knowing; I giggle at this thought.

Eddie wraps his arms tightly around my waist "You got this mama." He pecks the skin of my collarbone.

With doe eyes I slowly nod my head, before slowly starting to grinding my hips onto his.

"That's it, baby, keep going." Eddie praises, looking up at me with such admiration. I start to quicken my pace, feeling my slick and clit coat his torso.

As Eddie's lips ravishes the dip of my neck, he breaths against my skin: "You have no idea how much I want to fuck you right now."

"Then do it." I say. "Fuck me."

And with the quick placement of his large hands groping the plush fat of my waist, Eddie starts to slam my body up and down on his cock in a bouncing motion.

I mewl at his relentless thrust. Groaning every time I feel his ridged cock dragging inside of my gummy walls, I whimper when I feel him graze my sweet-spot, only for him to draw himself back and slam right back into me.

The only sounds to fill the air was skin on skin, hard smacks coming from each time our bodies thrashed.

"Fuckin' shit." Eddie groans. "Look at my girl, taking me so well." Butterflies swarm inside of my belly.

I look down to where Eddie and I connected once again, I see the lips of my cunt touch the base of his cock and then back up to his tip. Eddie fingertips graze the meat of my ass, he gives my cheeks a tight squeeze.

My cup runneth over.

My eyes begin to flutter close. "M'close." I murmured against Eddie's lips. I was tottering on the edge of my climax.

Eddie switches from mercilessly slamming me unto his cock to grinding, rubbing me against him. With the palms of his hands splayed across my ass cheeks, he rubs me closer to him in fast, greedy motions.

"Eds, M'close!" I whine.

"Finish f'me, sweets." He says, voice hoarse like he was on the edge of his climax too.

It was the hoarseness in Eddie's voice, the bead of sweat sloping down the side of his face, and then the delicious feeling of his cock finally bumping into my sweet spot.

A plethora of moans escapes my lips. My back arches at the shockwaves of pleasure that ebbs and flows throughout my body. There's a ripple of orgasmic delight all over. My cunt starts clenching and unclenching around Eddie's cock.

Accompanied with the sounds of our skin slapping is the wet slick coming from my spent cunt.

Lazily, I collapsed into Eddie's chest and bury my face in the croak of his neck, giving him quick little pecks on the hot flesh--my body twitching every now and then.

Eddie still fucks into me.

"Almost there, sweets." he elongates. "You're so good to me." He kisses my cheek. "Always taking me so well in that little cunt of yours, always letting me use you, even when you're on top."

You would think Eddie was talking me through my orgasm, but he was talking him through his, I think his own praised turned him on twice as much.

I start to feel Eddie's cock spasm inside of me. I'm too spent to do anything but pull him tighter to me.

He pushes himself all the way in and stills himself. I feel his cock swell up, and in those two seconds of stillness I can feel just how large Eddie really is.

With each spurt of cum, Eddie's cock pulsates. I feel the warmth and pressure of his cum coating my cervix. With each spurt, Eddie lets out low (gravelly) groans.

Eddie kisses my forehead.

I lay on his chest, listening to the fast paced pumping of his heartbeat. My eyelids start to fall and I start to feel that post-coital weariness.

I try to move myself off of Eddie, but my sore and stiff hips and limps makes it hard.

"What are you doing?" Eddie asks me as I try to move beside him.

"Eddie, I have to get off of you, we can't stay in this position all night." I say.

"Says who?"

And as I snuggled back into Eddie's lap, his semi-hard cock starting to soften inside my warm cunt, I told Eddie he was right.

Who said we couldn't stay enveloped in each other's warmth for the rest of the night? Two lovers wrapped around one another in a cold bed in the cold Luminary. With no money, dead-end jobs, a guitar in hand, and dreams not only of each other but dreams of making a difference someday.

Eddie didn't need to be famous to make a difference in people's lives when he'd already made a difference in mine, my beautiful boyfriend.

#stranger things #eddie munson smut #rockstar eddie munson #musician eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #Fem reader #stranger things fic #crookedteethed #Eddie munson smut #trends #trending #joseph quinn

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no1frogfan · 9 months

Text

In the wee small hours of the morning

Tsukishima Kei x gn reader

Word count: ~1k

Tags & warnings: fluff, a little angst but it's just soft pining Tsukki

Note: Idk it’s cold in the mornings now and that makes me think about him too much. Trying out a new header situation too, I guess?

“Tsukki?”

A confused rasp stills him as he’s pacing through the living room, down the hall, and back up again. Outlined by the flickering tv screen, he sees a nest of hair poke up over the back of the couch.

“Y’ok?”

The gravelly timbre of your exhaustion weighs down each syllable, the edges of each word melding into one another over the tinny sound of some cooking show rerun.

After weeks together, the two of you have finally grown accustomed to sharing space. The living room is evidence of that — his half-built lego set, your cups (yes, multiple cups) of water, his clean jerseys, both your books, they all lay strewn across its surfaces. Kei’s finally stopped cloistering himself in his room, and you, you’ve moved past the pretense, no longer tip-toeing around him or bothering to look “presentable” around the house (not that he ever cared).

Actually, he likes you better like this — mussed hair, ratty house clothes, unguarded, at ease. It’s a secret little sliver of you that nobody else gets to see and he wants to hold it tight against his chest.

Instead of answering you, Tsukishima rubs his bleary eyes.

He’s been drifting through the apartment a lot these days, mostly in the early hours. Restless. Cold.

His toes are freezing and the tips of his fingers are icy as he curls them into his palms. You keep the apartment too chilly for him, but he never touches the thermostat. Not when you always look so inviting, all cozy and bundled in an oversized blanket. Yes, inviting. Even now, when you’re clearly pissed that you’re still awake, and so worn out that your face is crumpled into a tight grimace.

Three days ago, he admitted to himself that he’s hurtled past the line of friendship with you.

If he’s honest, he passed it a long time ago, and living with you has only forced him to come to terms with that fact. He’s sprinted far beyond a passing crush, barreling straight into whatever this is. Whatever it is that has you swimming across the inside of his eyelids whenever he closes his eyes. Whatever it is that compels him to pace the length of your apartment at night, slowing his steps when he nears your door, lifting his hand to the doorknob before hastening away, only to spin around the next minute and do it all over again.

It’s not cowardice. It’s not. It’s just…

Tsukishima stares at your huddled form. There’s a hint of impatience in the tilt of your chin, but mostly, you look concerned. Beneath your joking barbs and prickly exterior, you’ve always been concerned about him. That’s why he’s even here, trying not to inconvenience you further while his landlord fixes the leak in his apartment. It was supposed to take a few days, then a week, but now it’s been almost a month with no news, and he thinks he should just find a new place to live. But even when he’s snippy and seething about the whole thing, you’ve been gentle with him, letting him stay in your office-slash-guest room without paying a cent of rent (though he’s tried to insist on it many times), and bringing home treats to share after work (“They were having a sale!”).

It wouldn’t be right to force his feelings on you when you’ve been nothing but generous.

(What he can’t admit is that he doesn’t want this to end, for you to shut the door on whatever this is, once and for all.)

Plus, he’s seen you with Tadashi and Yachi and even Kyoutani, and you’re like that with all your friends. It’s not like you’re sweet on him. You’re just sweet. But he’s not sure how much longer he can stand to be stuck in limbo, unable to tell you and unable to not tell you.

The heat finally kicks on and Kei’s reminded that he’s cold. Freezing, actually, and haggard from lack of sleep. But he also puts on a bit of a show, rubbing his arms and shivering theatrically (why, he’s not sure).

“You’re cold,” you state dumbly, after staring at him for too long. “Do you want…?”

There’s less hesitation in your voice than he expects as you sit up a little to lift the corner of the blanket.

Maybe exhaustion was the final push he needed. He rushes over — before you change your mind (before he changes his) — and slips under the blanket.

Stiffening, you utter a bewildered noise.

Ah, shit.

Shit. Maybe not. Did he- You were offering the blanket to him, not telling him to get in with you. Obviously. Obviously. Fuck. Should he double down? Should he back off? Should he-

You stir again, and the weight of your head drops heavy onto his shoulder. (Is this…?) Tsukishima hardly dares to breathe as you pull him close and cradle your hands against his chest. He’s lightheaded, giddy as he tucks in the edges of the blanket, making sure to completely cover you both. He’s careful with his ice-cold hands, too, avoiding your bare skin as he wraps his arms around you.

Your exhales fan hot against the crook of his neck, and slowly, slowly, they deepen.

Eventually, drowsiness overcomes him too. After the frantic pattering of his heart has subsided, and after the bright red flush on his cheeks has faded. After the feathery wisps of dawn unfurl from behind the curtains, he cracks his heavy eyelids open one last time to look down at you, nestled tightly against him. Your face is slack, your lips gently parted, chest rising and falling in time with his.

Kei knows that tomorrow, when you’ve both had a good night’s sleep, you’ll have to talk about this.

He tightens his hold.

Tomorrow, whatever this is, you’ll cross that bridge together.

#tsukishima kei #tsukishima x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #froggy scribbles

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calaisreno · 4 months

Text

Under the Weather

There are days when everything goes wrong. I don't mind, as long as you're with me.

1731 words / Prompt: Weather

When John pushes the door open, he’s hit with a Baltic blast of air from within. This is surprising; it’s a cold day, but generally 221B is a bit warmer than outdoors.

“What’s going on?” he asks the bundle of blankets on the sofa.

“Not much,” Sherlock replies. “Lestrade called with a case. I solved it over the phone.”

John lets out a sigh; it becomes a small, vaporous cloud. “I mean, why is it so cold in here?”

“The temperature outdoors is minus seven degrees. In here, it is four degrees above zero. Eleven degrees warmer. You ought to be asking me, why is it so warm in here?”

“I mean,” John says, keeping his jacket buttoned and sinking into his chair, “Why is it bloody four degrees inside our flat?”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say that? The boiler’s broken.”

“Have you rung someone?”

The blanket bundle sighs. “Mrs Hudson is away, visiting her sister.” He’s using his patient voice, which means that John is going to have to shout if he wants an explanation. “I don’t know how to fix a boiler, and there’s no service tag on it, so I don’t know who to call.”

“You might have looked in the phone book. They do list people who fix boilers, you know.”

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. The hand is wearing a purple mitten, which probably came from Mrs Hudson’s knitting basket. “This is 2010. Who uses phone books these days?”

“Maybe the internet knows who fixes boilers?”

Sherlock wags mittened hands at him. “Fingers frozen. Can’t type.”

“And all day you’ve been waiting here for me to come home and save you from freezing to death?”

The pile of blankets mumbles.

“What?”

“I said, you’re better at dealing with boilers.”

“It doesn’t take a genius to call someone to fix a boiler, Sherlock.”

“Exactly.” A pair of grey eyes and a pink nose peep out of the blankets. “The electricity still works. Can you make tea? That might thaw my fingers.”

Cursing softly to himself, John fills the kettle. At least the pipes haven’t frozen, though that might be next. He sets it on the base, and flicks it on. The light remains unlit. “What did you do to the kettle?”

“Oh, erm. Why do you ask?”

“It’s not working.”

“It is a very old kettle. They don’t last forever, you know.”

“Oi!” He holds up the base. “Why is the cord no longer connected to the base?”

More mumbling. He catches the word experiment and something about microwave not working either…

Cursing a bit louder, John opens his laptop and searches for someone who will repair a boiler. He casts an evil look at the sofa as he dials the first one he finds.

A minute later he ends the call. “It’s after hours,” he announces. “And the weekend is just starting. I left a message.”

He tries three more numbers, then five more, leaving increasingly desperate messages.

For a moment he sits, eyes closed, and contemplates the long, cold weekend that lies ahead. Maybe the telly works, at least. He takes the remote and presses the power button.

“Cable’s out too,” Sherlock’s voice says. He still in his blanket pod, but knows John well enough to anticipate his thought process. “Ice on the lines.”

“Well,” John says. It’s all fine for Sherlock, who is in a cocoon, unaffected by the weather inside the flat. “I’ll be upstairs putting on my arctic gear.”

“I’ll call for takeaway,” Sherlock says.

John’s room is even colder than downstairs. This is mainly because water has been leaking through a hole in his ceiling. The hole is a surprise, an unhappy one. Not big enough to see sky, but enough to let water in. This morning, before it started to rain and the temperature began to drop, followed by ice and snow, the ceiling was intact. His room was nice and warm—and dry.

There’s no way he can blame Sherlock for the age of the roof, the weather’s bad timing, or the bad luck that hovers over John like a small, dark cloud.

He curses loudly as he opens drawers, hunting for his long johns and wool socks. Finding them, he sits on the bed and curses again as water soaks into his pants.

“Bloody buggering hell! What did I do to deserve this!”

The fates have no answer for this.

Finally, having discarded his wet pants, donned his long johns, wool socks, a pair of corduroy trousers that fit over the long johns, a polo neck pullover, and the warmest jumper in his drawer, he heads down the stairs, cursing at a volume loud enough for the other resident of the flat to hear.

The sitting room is silent, the lump on the sofa unmoving.

“There’s a hole in the roof!” he announces. “My bed is soaked through.”

“We could make a fire in the hearth,” Sherlock suggests. He’s poking his head out now, looking like a curly-headed turtle.

“By we, I assume you mean me.” John grabs the blanket off the back of his chair and wraps it around his shoulders before sinking into the chair. “Do we have any firewood?”

“A relevant question.”

“Look, I won’t mind burning some of your books if it’ll keep me warm.”

“My books are valuable. You might try burning some of those idiotic spy novels you read. But there’s some firewood downstairs, by the back door. I’m sure Mrs Hudson won’t mind us using it. Better than coming home and finding our stiff, dead corpses—”

“Let’s not talk about corpses right now.” Not while I’m thinking about killing you. “Did you order some food, I hope?”

“Angelo’s is closed, due to weather. I ordered Chinese.”

“Thank god.” John leans back in his chair. Every muscle in his back is tight from a very long day, and he’s shivering hard, wishing for a cup of tea.

He hears movement from the sofa and opens his eyes. Sherlock stands, shedding his blankets. He’s dressed in a pair of John’s tracksuit bottoms, John’s Christmas jumper, and wool socks that look suspiciously like they came out of John’s sock drawer.

He’s glaring down at John with concern (if such a thing is possible). “Stop shivering.”

“Involuntary response,” he replies, teeth chattering. “That’s my jumper you’re wearing.”

“I didn’t have anything warm enough.”

“You made fun of that jumper at our Christmas drinks thing.”

“Well, it’s more appropriate now, isn’t it?” He arranges one of his blankets around John, tucking him into his chair. Then he strides out the door.

When he returns with a bundle of firewood, John is reflecting that there won’t even be hot water. No bath to warm him up. Just Chinese food and blankets.

The fire is looking somewhat robust by the time the doorbell rings.

The Chinese food helps, though it’s been in transit long enough that it’s not very hot. Sherlock apologises for the tea kettle. And the microwave. When they’ve eaten, he collects the empty cartons and takes the leftovers into the kitchen.

“Fridge still works,” he calls out. “Just warning you, though. It will probably stop when the indoor temperature drops below freezing.”

“Look on the bright side,” John replies. “We’ll be stiff, dead, corpses by then. Beyond caring about milk for the tea we can’t make.”

Sherlock comes back with a bottle and two glasses. “Here’s something to warm us up.”

He hands John a glass and pours. “Happy anniversary, John.”

John laughs. “Right. One year living at 221B. I didn’t expect you’d care about things like that.”

“Why not? One year is the longest I’ve managed to cohabit with anyone. It’s been… good.” He sits down, his face pink in the firelight.

“It has been good,” John admits. He remembers the first time he came through the door, saw Sherlock’s clutter, and wondered what he was getting himself into. He remembers carefully probing, trying to determine whether Sherlock might be interested…

Well, nothing ever goes to plan. That’s the story of John’s life.

He leans back, all the weariness of the day dragging his eyelids down.

“John, wake up.”

“Mm?” He sighs and opens his eyes.

Sherlock is standing over him. “You can’t sleep in your chair. In the morning your neck will hurt.”

“True, but my bed has become an ice floe.”

“Sleep in my bed.”

“What? Oh, you’ll take the sofa.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Self-preservation, John. Body heat.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We must sleep together.”

“Together?”

“It’s the only way.”

“You want to sleep with me?”

“Science, John. If your core temperature drops too low, you die. And all the firewood is gone, so we have to improvise.”

Improvise, indeed. The bedroom is colder than the sitting room, but the bed is large and, more importantly, not a frozen slab of ice. Keeping their clothes on, they crawl under the covers and move towards one another. Sherlock’s arms go around him, and John lays his head against Sherlock’s chest.

It feels like something they do all the time. Or something they should have done months ago.

John shivers a bit, not from the cold. Sherlock smells like kung pao chicken and expensive scotch.

“Skin-to-skin might be warmer,” Sherlock says. “We shouldn’t take chances.”

John giggles. “Is the boiler really broken?”

“Of course. Did you think I was only trying to get you into my bed?”

“Sherlock.” He feels Sherlock’s nose with his own. It’s like an icicle. “You could have had me in your bed a long time ago, if that’s what you wanted.”

Sherlock is silent. He buries his face in John’s shoulder. “Really?”

“I didn’t think you wanted that.”

“Neither did I.”

“Do you?”

“Everything went wrong today,” he whispers. “And then you came home.”

“This was an especially bad day.” John snuggles into him. “The surgery was full of snotty kids and over-protective parents. Nothing interesting, just mucus and vomit. I didn’t get any lunch. The bus was late. And when I came home, it was freezing. But you were here.”

“John.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t mind all the things that are wrong, as long as you’re with me.”

“Not that I want more misery, but…” John kisses his nose. “You’re the one I want to share it with.”

Sherlock kisses John’s nose, then his lips, lingering. “Let’s get these clothes off before we freeze to death.”

#mayprompts2024

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its-in-the-woods · 2 months

Text

Coyote Head - Part 7 - Bloodied Kiss

master list

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Pairing: Cooper Howard x Lucy Maclean

Includes many other characters from Fallout

Synopsis: The nightmares are finally catching up to Lucy.

MINOR GET OUT. Rating/Warning: Animal/people death, Blood, Gore, Body Horror,Violence, Nightmares, Monsters, Alternative Universe, Slow Burn, Death, Aging, Family Feuding, Older Man/Younger Woman

Note: that I will not be spoiling any of the reading. So you have been warned. I will keep my tags relevant without spoiling what is happening in the story.

*Mind the tags

*This had been clawing at my mind for dayssssss I needed to post it early or I was going to explode

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As the dust of the car faded, Lucy felt her shoulders drop, it was barely past mid-day and she was already feeling worn out. She was proud of herself, for not backing down and holding her ground. Max had been the first boy she’d really fallen for, and it sucked it had ended the way it did. It was time for her to move forward, to let that part of her life go. Move onto what was coming next for her, hopefully, something that won’t end as tragic.

Lucy turned to her two companions as they started to move, happy that they had stood at her back despite having no idea what was going on. She gave a weak smile at the two, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of dread.

“Ya’doing okay?” Cooper asks as he moves towards her, the way the afternoon sun shone on his skin making her heart speed up. Her eyes unabashedly went over his body, the man was well-toned. The day-to-day work is evident on the hard lines of his muscles covering him; a crooked grin on his face when Lucy finally catches her eyes.

Lucy glances away, as Dane grins at her, “Yeah, just, wasn’t expecting him to show up. Ever.”

“Well, shirtless. Could I get a hand movin’ some stuff around to get the mower.” Dane chuckles, Cooper smirking at the comment, the tips of his ears going pink. Lucy smiling at the two ribbing each other.

“Yeah, I can help the greasemonkey,” Cooper throws back, with raised eyebrows. “Shirt got wet. But pipes should be fine.” He said just loud enough for them to hear.

“Sure it did,” Dane rolls their eyes as turning to head to the other shed. Cooper gives them a sideways glance before following, a smile on his lips as he looks back at Lucy.

“I will go turn the water back on for the house,” Lucy chirps, her face was going to be stained beet red at this point. She was feeling happy that she had friends like these.

***

Lucy is once again sitting on the counter, the pipes are now running without leaks. Cooper had actually laid in water, which had given Lucy an excuse to toss his shirt into the dryer. She’d take any excuse to see the man move around her home and property shirtless. Dane had teased him endlessly about it much to Lucy’s amusement. Dane had taken off about an hour ago with the promise to come back on Monday to continue the work. Lucy had half a mind to figure out how to keep them on a more permanent basis. Something she’d run by Harris, see if it was worth doing, and if Dane wanted to stay of course.

Cooper walks in, putting the caulking gun down beside the sink. He’d decide after finishing the pipe to fix up several issues around the sink. Lucy was positive she could have figured it out but Cooper was insistent. Really who was she to refuse the offer from a shirtless cowboy in her kitchen. She hands him a beer, he pops the top off with a ring on his middle finger. Lucy adds that to the list of things she found way too hot.

“I can make up some dinner?” Lucy offers, she was pretty sure she could find something worth eating in the freezer. She also needed to make sure that she got Cooper some tallow too.

Cooper leans against the counter right beside her, taking a sip of the beer. Lucy can’t help but watch how he drinks it. “If ya don’t mind. Grandparents are taking the kidlets to d’pool and pizza after. Figured, we’re going to have a long day. ”

Lucy couldn’t help the smile that crosses her face, liking the idea of the two of them having an evening just for them. “Were you planning something, Cooper?”

Cooper’s sliding over so that he was leaning against Lucy, “Well, I was goin’ to ask ya out Ms. MacLean, but ya kinda jumped me.”

Lucy's head tipping back in a laugh, taking another sip of her beer. The two of them looked the other over, her eyes trying to memorize the way he looked out of his shirt. “I don’t seem to remember you complaining,”

The man puts his beer down shifting so he is standing in front of Lucy, she swallows under his gaze. He leans forward putting a bare arm on either side of her, eyes wandering up her body, their face just inches from each other. Lucy’s breath catches in her chest as his hazel eyes stare into hers.

“M’no, I certainly didn’t.” Cooper hushes, leaning forward to kiss her again. Lucy can’t help the little whine that escapes as she pushes back against him. Her hands ran up his arms, feeling his muscles twitch under the attention. He tastes so good, their tongues finding the other as they pull each other closer.

Her hands come up to cup his face, his hands resting on her thighs, fingers gripping against the flesh there. Lucy lets her legs open so that Cooper can move closer to her. He breaks the kiss, moving down along her jaw, small kisses down her neck. Lucy whimpers as he licks down her neck, his large hands rucking up her shirt. The callous on his fingers makes her body vibrate as he touches over her skin.

“Cooper,” Lucy whimpers, her hands running up into his hair, as his hands cup her breast through her bra. “M’maybe we should-” His head ducks down, mouth going along her stomach. It feels so good, but it’s so fast. “Cooper, we shouldn’t-”

His teeth sink into her flesh, “Fuck- Ow- Cooper-” Lucy tries to pull him away but he bites in deeper, Lucy can feel her skin tearing. The sound of teeth in flesh, the wet sticky pop, her face twisting in a grimace.

Lucy is scrambling, a scream finally leaving her throat at the pain, trying to get him off of her. “Stop. Stop-p it.” Lucy cries out, her hands finally pushing him off of her. The skin is not skin anymore, but rough and lizard-like under her hands. Cutting into her palm as she does her best to get it off of her.

It’s not Cooper. Looking up at her, with blood painting its chin like a crimson river, is something that looks like Max. Its features are the same, but eyes instead of brown glow like orange flames, skin darker than shadows. Skin Covered in layers and layers of never-ending shifting scales that move in the light. A bloody grin spreads across its face. There are too many teeth, so sharp, in neverending rows, the pink spit glistening as it grinned up at her. Stomach oozing blood over her pants and dripping on the floor.

“Just wanted a taste.” It growls at her, suddenly lunging forward to latch onto her neck.

Lucy is howling and fighting to get it off her struggling, as she falls to the floor. Her body protested as she hit the ground with a thud, the whole room going dark. She is pushing and struggling, but it’s soft now. Her hands are not grabbing at scales but material, eyes adjusting to the new surroundings. She was on the floor of her bedroom; chest heaving as she tries to make sense of where she was, and how she got there.

Pushing the blanket off of her, she takes in the room around her. Her bedroom, she had fallen off the bed and landed on the floor. Lucy flips on the light and looks down, pulling up her shirt to look at her stomach. Hands running over where there should be torn tissue, before going up to her neck. Nothing.

It had felt real, she could still feel the way it’s teeth had dug into her, the pain that had shot through her body. Looking at the bed Lucy expected to see blood, expected to see something. Throwing off the sheets there was nothing but sweat stains.

Lucy collapsed onto the floor, her body trembling at the memory. It looked so much like Max, but it was all wrong. His face had been too round, eyes too far apart, hair too spiky, so many teeth. The eyes, orange fire-filled eyes, glowing like embers burning into her soul like hot ash on ice. Her hands scramble to the side of her table gabbing for her phone.

For the first time, she doesn’t hesitate, hitting Cooper’s number. Pressing the phone to her ear, she hadn’t even looked at the time.

***

Cooper was there in a matter of minutes, Lucy opening the door for him, still in a state of shock. He had immediately gathered her up into his arms, hugging her tight against his chest, refusing to let her go until he got her over to the couch. He had her sit, covering her with several blankets, before moving into the kitchen. A hot cup of coffee with hot chocolate was put in front of her, along with some toast. He slid in beside her, bundling her up and tucking Lucy into his side. Her hands wrapping around him as she shivers, her whole body felt like it was frozen.

“You doing okay, sweetheart,” Cooper murmurs, his voice rumbling against the side of her head. Lucy could feel herself melting into his side, wanting to find some way to stay there forever.

Lucy swallows, nodding, “Just-” She wasn’t even sure how to put it all into words. It wasn’t exactly normal to have eighties horror movie dreams every night. “Nightmares have been really bad.”

Cooper rubs his hand down her arm, Lucy lets her eyes close for a moment and enjoy the comfort.“How often have you been having them?”

Lucy snuggled in closer, reaching for the coffee mug and taking a sip. The warm caffeine and chocolate drink heating her insides. “Since the house got ransacked, it’s been nightly.”

Cooper’s chest grumbles at the words, arms somehow pulling her closer to him. “What was it about?”

“I don’t, I-” Lucy takes a sip of more coffee, before telling him what she’d dreamt about. Not skipping any details, the warmth of the coffee and his body made it easier to get it off her chest.

Cooper hums, he takes his hat off, setting it beside him on the couch, hand running into his hair. He scratches at the stubble for a second. “Well, that wasn’t the dreams I’d hope you’d have of me.”

Lucy smacks his stomach at the joke, a small smile passing on her lips at the jest, “You think I like this? I’d much prefer no dreams, or well other dreams.”

Cooper grins, Lucy pouting a little, as he chuckles, “No, I don’t think that, I do worry about the nightmares. Can’t ‘member the last time I had a night-terror. Why you’re tired all the time?”

She nods, her eyelids weighing heavy despite the coffee and mind-bending visions.“I feel like I am losing my mind, Cooper.”

“You’re not goin’ crazy, I think ya need sleep. Maybe some time away.” Cooper mumbles into her ear, pushing hair out of her face. “Why don’t ya let me take ya to my home.”

Lucy’s brows furrow, she didn’t want him to leave, but she also felt like she should stay. Why did she want to stay? The nightmares never stopped her, the shadows, the taping, the knocking? Yet the thought of leaving made her stomach turn, but when Lucy left she felt lighter.

“You promise you don’t think I am going crazy?” Lucy whispers, wondering how much he would believe. How much did she even believe? None of this made sense, not really.

He shifts so he can look right at her, eyebrows making his forehead wrinkle.“I promise I don’t think’ya’re goin’ crazy. Anymore than am goin’ crazy.”

“I feel like I am supposed to be here, even with all the nightmares, the shadows, the house being tossed. I keep comin’ back.” Lucy states, her fingers fiddling with the edge of the blanket. Saying it out loud made it seem even more ridiculous than it had in the confines of her mind.

Cooper nods, placing the mug on the coffee table, hand running up and down her arm more. “It’s not surprisin’, this place is your home. It’s where ya grew up.”

“It’s not just that,” Lucy said, sitting up a bit, clutching at the mug, trying to hold onto some shred of reality. “It’s like something is pulling me here. Like I can’t leave.”

“So, leavin’ would probably be wise,” Cooper replies, his hand finding hers. “You’re sleep-deprived, runnin’ on fumes, Lucy. We have a spare room ya can stay in. Until ya can catch up on sleep, have a better view on thin’s with a clear head.”

Lucy sat back, the thought of being off the farm made her stomach twist, but she also needed sleep. Actual sleep sounded amazing, to not feel like she was burning at both ends.

She nods her head finally. “Yeah, maybe I do need to leave.”

***

Lucy was sitting at her family's dinner table, watching the kids outside to play on the deck. She had slept most of the day away, her exhaustion not feeling nearly as pressing as it usually did. The spring air was warm today, the hints of summer shifting in the air. She’d slept most of the day, Cooper had brought her to his place at about three am, the two tiptoeing upstairs. Initially, he’d offered her the spare bedroom, but after opening the door and seeing a pile of laundry, his room was the next best. Cooper had insisted on sleeping downstairs, despite Lucy’s best attempt to get him to stay. Traumatizing the children wasn’t high on her list. She was a little peeved he hadn’t woken her up, but she was also grateful for the extended rest.

Stephanie sat down across from her, glancing out at the kids. They were running back and forth across the deck, possibly paying tag. “How’s it going, Lucy.”

“I am doing okay,” Lucy lies, there was no reason anyone needed to know any more about her problems. “Did you ever talk to Betty?”

“Oh! Yes, Betty.” Stephanie smiled, digging through her phone. “I sent her the photos.” She lets out a sigh, “Unfortunately no dice. Seems like it’s still a mystery.”

“Dang was hopin’ we’d get somethin’ more,” Cooper said, sitting beside Lucy. She desperately wants to crawl onto his lap and fall asleep, but instead, she shuffles a little closer. Steph watching the two of them closely, one eyebrow up.

“Yeah. probably something diggin’ like you said.” Steph says, shutting her phone off and leaning back into her chair. “Had any more weird stuff happen?”

Lucy shook her head, not wanting to get into the details, “Nope, hoping it stays that way really.”

Bert sat down beside Steph leaning in to give her a quick kiss, “Y’all heard about the Roths.”

Cooper and Lucy looking at each other, shaking their heads. It wasn’t like they had had a free moment lately.

“Last night something came and killed two calves. Did some damage to some of the cows too.” Bert sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Like we needed more loss this year.”

Lucy's mind ran over the property map. The Roth's had a section leased from her that was back half on parkland and half onto her farm. There was also the nightmare last night.

“Which section was it?” Lucy asks, already knowing the answer.

“The section southwest of your place, actually,” Reg's brows furrowing. “Weird huh.”

“Do you know what time?” Cooper asks, his hands taping at the table.

Lucy realizing that Cooper was also putting two and two together.

“Not sure, I know it was overnight.” Reg replied, “Why? Something happened with you guys too?”

Lucy swallowed, her hands going to cover her stomach. The feeling of her flesh ripping out, the haunting image of its eyes, the sound of its voice.

“Nothing of note, we did have a mummified calf. But Barry figures it was just a bad pregnancy.” Cooper shrugs, the action supposed to be of disinterest, but his shoulders stay tight. Lucy is happy that he didn't bring up her nightmares until she got some more sleep it wasn’t worth mentioning. Right?

“Maybe it's the weird spring. Warming up too fast. Animals reacting to it,” Steph adds, her hand covering Reg's. Her eyes looking between the two of them.

Cooper is up and moving as the sliding door opens, Mathias holding a frog in his hand. The little boy had a grin from ear to ear as he holds it up to show his Dad the little critter he'd found.

“Can't bring it in here, buddy. Why don't we go take it to the pond,” Cooper tells him with a smile, petting the little creature his son held up. Lucy smiling as the two wander out of sight.

“So how long you two-” Steph raises an eyebrow, with a cheshire smile,

“Been a thing?”

Lucy’s cheeks burn at the words, not realizing how obvious she had been. “No. Well. Yes. But not that long. Didn’t realize I was that transparent..”

The couple chuckle, Steph smiling at her cousin, as she squeezes Reg’s hand. Free hand waving at Lucy as if it was nothing.

“You both need a little light in your lives,” Reg states smiling at Lucy, before looking at his wife.

“Keeping things quiet for now. Haven't really talked about it much.” Lusy confesses, Marge coming over to sit at the table.

“Keeping what quiet hon?” Marge questions, holding a cup of tea in her hands. Cooper comes back in through the sliding door, walking over and kissing Lucy on the cheek. Marge chuckles and makes an ahh sound, Lucy doing her damndest not to slide under the table.

“As long as you're both happy,” Harris says, patting Lucy on the shoulder. Lucy having a hard time keeping her cool, it wasn’t as if they’d put a label on things. They’d kissed once for crying out loud.

“Could I speak to you for a moment, Lucy?” Harris asks, kissing Marge on the top of her head before moving towards the hallway.

“Absolutely,” Lucy smiles, looking back at Coope who nods before following her Uncle into the big house.

Down past the bedrooms a door leads into a well-lit office, the far wall has three large windows that face out into the backyard and forest line. A large old desk sat in the middle, along with several large filing cabinets and bookshelves. The room was bright against the dark wood, space big enough for two large overstuffed chairs beside the bookcases. On a well-worn stool were three faded bankers' boxes. Lucy recognizes her Grandpa's handwriting on the front. Harris puts a big hand on top of one rotating so he is facing Lucy.

“Me and Margie have,” He pauses looking out the large windows towards the forest. “Debated about whether we should give you these. Tim asked me to burn them. But it didn't feel right.”

Lucy crossed her arms, hugging herself a little as she looked at her Uncle. His usual nonchalant demeanor now scrunched together in tight lines across his face. Pacing back and forth in front of the window as he spoke.

“These are Tim’s journals. Going back to a month after your Dad and Uncle went missing.” Harris replies, Lucy, feels a wave of dread wash over her as he moves over to his filing cabinet.

“They didn't go missing- '' Lucy goes to reply, Harris placing a newspaper in front of her. Headline read Two men killed in farm accident. “Yeah, this is what Tim showed me.”

“Flip to page four,” Harris said, Lucy did as he asked, unable to get a read on his emotions. Page four has a smaller blurb, Search for brothers ends. Lucy reads through the blurb, a cold pool of dread weighing in her guts.

“They went missing in the forest. In the forest around my house.” Lucy whispers, her hands shaking as she rereads the words. “They never found the bodies.”

Harris meets her eyes as she looks up at him, “What is going on?” Lucy demands dropping the paper on top of the boxes. “Why? Why? Did no one tell me?”

“Tim made us promise,” Harris said, placing his big bear paw-sized hands on her shoulder, it felt like the weight of the news pressing down on her. “He didn’t want you or Norm to know. He figured that if you thought they were dead you could move on. In ways he never let himself move on.”

Lucy moves away from Harris, a deep sense of betrayal washing over her. “You’re telling me he didn’t think they were dead? It’s been decades since they went missing.”

Harris had sat himself down in one of the overstuffed chairs. “We searched and searched for weeks. Even after search and rescue stopped, stuf-,” He rubs one of his big mitts across a day's worth of stubble. “Stuff happened during the search. Stuff that doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

Lucy sighs, flopping into the chair beside her Uncle, “Could we not be vague, please? I can handle whatever happened then.”

“While we were searching, people heard things.” Harris’s face went pale.

“They kept hearing Hank call out, or Shaun. It sounded like they were close, but we could never find them. It would go quiet for days, then Me and Tim would go out and hear them again.”

Lucy swallows, “Like it was calling you there.”

Harris looks at her, a knowing look passing over his face. “It scared some of the volunteers. Hearing them, but never finding them. Then a week before your Mom checked out it stopped. These journals are the first time I even had any idea that it had continued after you both got there.”

“We spent our entire childhood in and out of those woods.” Lucy’s voice was raised, her heart thudding in her chest. “Why would he let us in there if he thought it was dangerous?”

Harris looking older than his year. “Lucy. If I thought you were in any danger I would have taken you and Norm out of there.” Lucy stands there staring at him, anger subsiding at the honesty in his words. “No one. Not one of us. Thought you were in any danger there.”

Lucy swallows, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. “Once you kids arrived, Tim didn’t share anything. I thought. I thought he was dealing with the loss of his sons. In his own way, never finding the bodies made him want to hold on to hope. So I let him. Then when he got the cancer diagnosis he brought me these boxes. Telling me to burn them once he was dead. That it would all be over, I didn’t know what he meant. But it was like a weight had finally been lifted off of him. ” Lucy shifts in her chair, unsure how to feel. “When your place got tossed I pulled them out, I read a few.” Harris shifts in his chair, staring at the boxes. “I don’t know what I was expecting but you should read them.”

“What is in them?” Lucy pushes, feeling like she is waiting for a bomb to go off. Her hold on the world was sliding, and she wasn’t sure if she would make it.

“Memories, stuff about your childhood. But also. Other stuff. Stuff I don’t know if I can believe.” Harris’s voice going soft. “I should have told you a long time ago and I am sorry for that. But maybe this will help, maybe put things to rest finally.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

PART EIGHT

Tag list: @toogaytofunctiondangit , @hiddlebatchedloki , @whatsorceressisthis @dichromaniac @autumncryptids

*I am gonna say we are onto act 2... it's only gonna get darker from here < 3

**As always likes, comments, shares are soooo appreciated, you can find me Ao3 as well

** Want to be on the tag list let me know

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insomni-frog · 11 months

Text

Caviar does Caviar things

I have no clue what to title this, this is my first time writing something in a while (so if you see any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors, no you don't /j)

Summary: Caviar goes back into the Duskgloom Sea because Black Pearl has been behaving oddly.

It was a fool's errand really.

No one in their right mind would willingly sail towards the Duskgloom sea if they knew what was good for them—and they would probably vow never to sail again if they knew what lived in those salty depths.

But Captain Caviar was no fool; in fact he would've considered himself an even bigger fool to ignore what was happening in those waters.

That sea witch enjoyed her quiet, and anyone dumb enough to sail in there would learn that rule very quickly; if they didn't end up soggy crumbs first.

So constant rumbling storm clouds and crashing waves—in the usual unnervingly serene waters—was a dead give away that something was wrong: even a landlubber would be able to spy something amiss, so it was even more blaringly obvious to an experienced sea hound like Caviar.

It was the whole reason he even embarked on, what was basically, a one-cookie suicide mission. Braving the briny depths in the Black Shark once more, like a foolhardy idiot, just to perform a wellness check on the sovereign of these waters.

Who, last time he saw her, seemed pretty keen on turning him into a past tense.

And for all Caviar knew he could've been navigating himself straight into a watery grave made especially for him. But he had a hunch it wasn't like that. After all the ol' sovereign of these depths, while having a nasty habit of sinking ships and (at best) marooning their sailors, didn't give chase past the waters she called hers.

So the infernal storm that seemed to keep brewing larger and angrier with each passing day, pulling in ships passing by and leaking out well past the boundaries of her territory, was enough for Caviar to dismiss what ever worries he had about sailing back to this place; however it did open up a completely different set.

Such as what ever it is he was even looking for. He wasn't a doctor, even if he knew his way around a medkit, and he was pretty sure not even Baumkuchen would know how to treat or give a diagnosis to a mermaid larger than a soda whale.

And then there was the angle that it was something not physical affecting the gigantic sea beast. While he didn't know the details, he did know that there was a decades old grudge constantly weighing on her mind; and that wasn't something one could fix with a pat on the back and some well wishes.

But at the same time he couldn't just sit around and do nothing about it. Sure there was a chance that it was nothing, and all he was doing was recklessly risking his dough here. But if it wasn't then he was putting the lives of thousands of cookies on the line by just twiddling his thumbs and hoping the Duskgloom Sea would calm down on its own.

So here he found himself, navigating himself through unsteady waters and into the nest of a crankier—and probably more jamthirsty—than usual mermaid.

It wasn't like he hadn't done it before, it would hopefully be no different than the last time: even if he didn't have the company of one Candy Diver Cookie this time. All he had to remember was the passage of sparkling coral reefs that would take him straight out of the graveyard of ships the sovereign called her playground if things went south. *** He maneuvered past the remains of ships once grand—recognising a few of the makes and models (all though his memories had them in better condition)—creeping deeper into the dreadful lair. By now he thought the sea witch would've made herself known, considering she had been doing that plenty over the course of the week, but there was neither hide nor hair of her.

Which he had to say was impressive, considering he estimated the mermaid to be just about as big as two soda whales from tip to tail.

She could toss around ships like they were toys and here he was struggling to find a singular scale of her. For a brief moment it made Caviar wonder if she had moved on to clearer waters, but that was highly unlikely to be the case.

And it also wasn't like he was going full blast trying to find her: Caviar wanted to find her, not for her to find him. So he was relying on dim lights to guide him, because he certainly could not use sonar (he wouldn't take to kindly to someone blaring a siren into his ear, and he doubted she would as well). *** At this point Caviar was pretty sure he had gone in deeper than he had before, which was easier to do considering there wasn't a raging mermaid on his tail. But that unnerved him more than it comforted him: If the sea witch wasn't here she could be of doing who knows what.

But his nerves were both settled and jumped when he finally caught a glimpse of the territorial mermaid.

She was nestled away in a little hollow made of ship wreckages, a shelter for her slumbering form that would send anything swimming the other way.

Yet here Caviar was, piloting the Black Shark closer inch by inch to get a proper look at her.

The sea beast was turned on her side, chest rising and falling slowly with each breath, and one could confuse it for a peaceful respite if it wasn't for the way her face was contorted into an irritated snarl—which was a common expression for the mermaid, but not in this way. Her eyebrows furrowed, eyes screwed shut, lips curling in the slightest manner and exposing just the pointed tips of her sharp teeth. It wasn't a look of anger that could boil the sea.

It was one of pain.

And Caviar didn't have to question what was causing it for too long; as he watched her try to roll onto her other side just for her to seize up and immediately flip back into her original position.

On the surface there wasn't anything glaringly wrong, no massive wound or missing scales, but as Caviar squinted in the low light and practically leaned against the window of the Black Shark for a closer look—he spotted it.

A bowsprit: It was wedged underneath her obsidian scales and lodged into a softer part of her, becoming Earthbread's worst splinter.

To think something that small and insignificant to the large mermaid was the cause of all this trouble—it was almost hard to believe. But if that was the cause then... Caviar couldn't just leave it like this.

So he did the most foolish thing he had done all day (besides sail into the storming Duskgloom Sea.) He exited the Black Shark to brave the slumbering sea witch head on. It wasn't like he had to worry about going soggy, any cookie with a pinch of salt in their dough could face the waters without much fuss—so for a salty sea dog like him there wasn't much to fear.

Besides the sharp teeth of the sovereign. But even if he turned back now he had a sinking gut feeling that not only would he be seeing the wrath of a restless mermaid, others would too.

He'd rather nip this in the bud before she stormed into a maelstrom so large it could sink the entire Crème Republic in one go; even if it meant the chance he would be reduced to nothing but crumbs in the process. But he'd rather turn to crumbs trying than letting others shoulder the responsibility for his cowardice.

And, as much as he wouldn't admit it outloud, he didn't like seeing the sea witch in so much discomfort.

Caviar treaded the waters quietly, creeping towards her imposing form that wasn't any less intimidating lying down. He kept a close eye on her scrunched up face, constantly checking to see if those terrifying eyes had peaked open or not—but they didn't. So here he found himself floating over her tail and mulling over his next course of action.

He couldn't just grab it while floating and pull it out, he would need to get his footing first. And the only footing in sight was that massive tail of hers. So, with a less than eager heart, he allowed himself to land atop her scales and waited with bated breath to see if she would wake.

She didn't. Her face scrunched a little more, but soon returned back to the disgruntled look of before.

Caviar would've breathed a sigh of relief if he wasn't worried about waking her. So, as quietly as he could, Caviar took a gentle grasp of the bowsprit. He positioned his footing for a better hold, after all this had to be down in one swift move—because he doubted the mermaid would let him have another go.

But as he adjusted his footing, and made sure his grip was firm, he could feel something shift behind him. With an apprehensive glance over his shoulder, he came face to face with the irritated sea witch.

She too was looking at him over her shoulder, those piercing eyes staring right into him with an unblinking stare. She didn't say anything, it was like she was still trying to process what she was looking at. And Caviar wasn't planning on letting her get the upper hand now, so with a quick grin he lurched his whole body forward.

The bowsprit slid loose, and with it so did he. They were both tossed backwards in the water from the mermaids tail thrashing in discomfort.

Caviar gave it a quick once over to make sure it had come out in one piece before dropping it to the ocean floor, the sea witch could decide what to do with it now.

Speaking of said sea witch, she did not look happy.

He tried to turn and make a break for the Black Shark, but she was much quicker. Caviar's whole body was seized in one of her hands, her thumb and index finger wrapping dangerously around his throat as she gave him a squeeze. He could hear the water rush around them, and before he knew it the both of them broke the surface.

Lightning crackled above them and illuminated the mermaids face, who looked about ready to bite him in half with how her lips were snarled. Her fingers clutched tighter around his throat, and Caviar was felt like his head was about to pop right off his shoulders as he squeezed his eyes shut. But as quickly as the pressure came, it disappeared.

He curiously peaked open his eyes to see the sea witch looking at where the literal thorn in her side had been moments prior. While she did that the storm clouds that had been brewing non-stop over the course of the week started to ebb away, allowing thin beams of moonlight to shine down upon the two of them. The waters turned calm too.

Without the feeling like his head was about to explode, he could see in her other hand was the Black Shark, held like it was simply a children's toy.

Her gaze flicked back to him, but it didn't carry the same ire as before: in fact she just looked plain exhausted. With a loud humph Caviar was unceremoniously dropped into the drink below, the Black Shark alongside him. He watched as she receded back into the depths and he was left to float in the waters unnerving calm.

He didn't stick around to question why she didn't sink him right then and there, preferring to get back into Black Shark and leave while the sea witch sunk to have her long awaited sleep.

After all perhaps it was just best to let sleeping mers lie.

*** Black Pearl sunk back into her abyss, exhaustion permeating her entire being. As she curled beneath the wreckages she called a nest, finally able to lie on her comfortable side, her eyes landed on the bowsprit tipped with her jam. She reached out and pinched it between her fingers, like it was nothing but a toothpick.

This thing was the culprit behind all her discomfort, the reason she couldn't sleep. She had tried and tried to dig it out herself, only resulting in pushing it deeper beneath her scales.

Yet that meaningless pile of dough had pulled it out in one go: like it was nothing. It made her grumble and hiss in irritation.

Didn't he know who she is—she's the sovereign of the abyss—and yet he helped her.

She flicked the bowsprit away into the depths and settled down for her long awaited rest.

Yet she struggled to get thoughts of that do-gooder cookie and his stupid smug grin out of her head.

Next time she saw him, she'd sink him for sure.

#cookie run #cookie run kingdom #captain caviar cookie #black pearl cookie #crk #writing #Do I tag this as Blacaviar??#Eh you know what #blacaviar

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