#writing prompt challenge

[mrsjellymunson]

Hello, Stranger

Pairing: Eddie Munson x gn!reader, Eddie Munson x you, Eddie Munson x reader

For @lesservillain’s excellent Strange and Spooky Stories Halloween writing event for the prompt: ‘Stranger’

Summary: A stranger comes in to buy weird stuff at odd times, and as the cashier at the local hardware store you’re not quite sure what to make of it…

CW: 18+ (MDNI), fluff, maybe SFW though caution for mature and dark themes and allusions to crime and violence. Flirting, li’l bit of awkwardness, some swearing. Both Eddie and reader are in their 20s. Reader’s gender and appearance are not described, they can be whatever you want. No use of y/n. Time period is not mentioned, and any inaccuracies/inconsistencies about history, equipment, American schooling (I’m not from around these parts) or science are deliberate and artistic oh yes they are. No smut, I thought I’d better assess whether I could string a semi-coherent story together before attempting to add that 😆

WC: ~6.2k

A/N: I love gore, revenge movies, murder shows, true crime, science/biology/forensics and DIY (sort of), so this prompt seemed like a perfect fit. There are tiny Easter eggs from The Equalizer, Breaking Bad, 80s crime TV, The Blacklist and John Wick in here - let me know if you spot any! This is the first ‘proper’ fic I’ve posted so I’d love to know what you think. Comments, reblogs and feedback are hugely appreciated and very welcome!

(Also this is my first attempt at dividers too, I hope they worked, I literally have no idea what I’m doing!)

Yep, you were ‘that’ weird kid. Your friends in Middle School had called you a freak because you brought squirrel tails and chicken feet to show’n’tell.

“But look! If you pull this tendon it makes the claw close! Isn’t that cool?!”

No, apparently that was not cool. Especially when demonstrated against your teacher’s finger...

You’d visit a friend whose father was a doctor, begging to read his medical and pathology text books, and preferring to look at pictures of dissected and diseased organs and spontaneous human combustion over braiding your friend’s hair or talking about boys.

And, apparently, scoring a class-topping 9.5/10 for your rat dissection also wasn’t the social merit badge you thought it might be, even amongst your science-abreast academic peers.

So what if you had a strong constitution. And a love of anatomy and pathology. And then compounded it with a love of true crime, particularly serial killers and forensic methods. Surely there were worse things to be interested in?

By the time you’d finished High School you’d learned to mask your enthusiasm, covering your (apparently, socially unacceptable) fascination for all things ‘gross’ and ‘murderous’ (your friends’ words) by choosing science majors like human anatomy and pathology, criminal behaviour and forensics.

People just thought you were clever, nerdy, a scientist. You never let on that you were itching to actually experience some of these things for yourself, in real time, with your own hands…

You work the evening shift at the sprawling out-of-town homewares store on the road running out of Indianapolis towards a tiny town you’ve never been to (Hawksville? Hawking?). You work a few evenings a week plus alternate Sundays, currently in the gardening, kitchen and hardware department. It wouldn’t be your chosen section of the store (in the short time you’ve been there you’ve had to amass a lot of knowledge about tools. Also, how to politely deflect the regulars’ offers to share details of their new projects, lest you get drawn in to a half-hour discussion about u-bends or rawl plugs), but the hours suit you and fit around your college classes, and the employee discount comes in handy when things in your shitty apartment break down or your roommate carelessly breaks something, again.

The final few hours of your shifts were usually pretty quiet, barring the occasional domestic plumbing emergency, or a bored Hawkins housewife coming in looking for batteries.

You don’t mind spending your evenings amongst the tools and machinery, it gives you a chance to flick through the latest copy of forensic magazine or True Crime, or work on your college assignments.

One thing that does make the slow evenings more entertaining is the unusual clientele. A nerdy-looking guy with a moustache needing releasable cable ties, cooking oil and a large plastic sheet at 9.30pm must have an interesting backstory, right?

You find yourself concocting fantastical vignettes about the oddballs that pass through, giving them the most amusing or disturbing story you can think of as they glide by in the night.

The guy with the cable ties? Too easy. Clearly he’s got a ‘special friend’ and an interesting evening planned. TBH, that’s probably not even fictional. You call him Salacious Scott.

The friendly, rotund lady who regularly comes in for for buckets and sawdust? You know it’s Mrs Henderson, who is trying to go self-sufficient and has recently installed a composting toilet, but you prefer to imagine she’s actually a madam with a ‘specialist interest’ playroom, who you brand Madame Urolagnia.

The paranoid guy with a beard and thick glasses who won’t tell you his name, buys a lot of vodka from the liquor store nearby and comes in for plastic pipe, cladding and those slot-together foam mats for kids? He tells you he’s into martial arts and these make safe weapon facsimiles for training, but you reckon he’s actually some kind of government agent. Your imaginary name for him is Mysterious Murray.

One oddball in particular has caught your attention, and not just because he’s easily the handsomest customer you’ve had in a while.

Wait, no, you didn’t just admit that; you just find him interesting, that’s all.

It was his speed and demeanour that had struck you first, rushing in, hand atop the bandana on his head, gangly legs in ripped jeans looking like they were trying to run in two different directions at once, large, dark eyes wide as he’d frantically looked around the store.

“Uh, rope, I need rope, where’d you keep the rope?”

You’d blurted some instructions and he’d headed off, not looking in your direction.

His leather jacket and swinging chains certainly commanded attention amongst the flannel and blue denim that was usually in your line of sight, and you’d found your eyes following him, catching sight of him moving between the aisles from your position behind the counter.

He’d moved towards you with a sturdy knife, a shovel and 3 rolls of duct tape that he’d collected on his way to the checkout, arms full (he didn’t pick up a basket), when you’d ventured,

“I’d recommend the next brand up, if you want something stronger with better sticking power? It costs a little more, but it’s better quality, so overall you’ll use less”, (silently thanking Mr Wheeler’s recent diatribe on the merits and pitfalls of various brands of adhesive tape, remembering the detail because he’d gone so far as to demonstrate by sticking small pieces of it to your skin. It was a weird interaction for sure, but also oddly informative).

He’d lifted his head to look at you and your eyes had connected for the first time. Your eyes widened, and you think you spotted a slight twitch of a smile at one side of his mouth.

Oh, he’s actually really cute.

“Uh, okay, if you think that’s best”.

He dropped his eyes from yours and, after unceremoniously dumping everything else onto your counter, he’d exchanged the rolls and returned.

You’d both paused, you don’t know for how long, and you’d wondered how someone buying rope could be so captivating. But the spell was broken as you’d both spoke simultaneously:

“Did you find everything you need?”

“I’m kinda in a rush, so…”

You’d both chuckled nervously, and you’d set about ringing up his purchases, noticing that a small smile definitely now graced those previously harried features.

He’d paid with a handful of old, crumpled bills pulled from his jacket, politely declining your offer of a bag, and then he was gone as quick as he came, hurrying out into the night with the swish of the automatic doors and a breeze of parking lot-scented night air.

You didn’t know why anyone would need rope and a shovel at that time on a weeknight, but with this particular guy, who you dubbed The Stranger, you found yourself thinking that you wouldn’t mind finding out.

You’d unintentionally spent the rest of that evening coming up with fantasies about that particular customer, although, unusually for you, quite a few of them hadn’t actually involved what was on his receipt…

When The Stranger next comes in he’s after heavyweight garbage bags, more tape and a saw, but seems in slightly less of a rush.

He pauses at your counter for a few moments, making polite conversation, asking how long you’d been working here, whether you were working late tonight.

Is he trying to… flirt? Surely not…

“Thanks for the tape recommendation by the way, it was a real lifesaver. That stuff’s really good, I definitely have a new favourite!”, gracing you with a broad grin (oh fuck, that was a sight) before he was on his way again.

Another time he bought shears, tarp and a large quantity of painting coveralls.

The next trip involved wire cutters, buckets and a wet’n’dry vacuum.

You begin to enjoy The Stranger coming in buying random shit at odd hours. You can’t quite make him out. He buys a lot of gardening and decorating-type equipment (plus he’s almost single-handedly keeping the cleaning product aisle in business), but he dresses like neither - always in tight, ripped jeans, shredded band tees and his signature leather jacket. You’ve never seen him covered in leaves or dirt, and his clothes have zero paint on them. Those coveralls must do a really good job…

You build up a rapport of sorts with him. There’s always a polite, verging on friendly greeting between you, and you let him know when there’s special offers on tarp and garbage bags, and what days there are deliveries of latex gloves and those painting coveralls he seems to like so much. (Sometimes you’ll even stash a few of the latter for him under the counter if there’s a holiday weekend coming up, knowing Hawkins’ husbands will be out in force and not wanting him to miss out.)

But the ‘fantasy vignette’ and forensically-inclined parts of your brain begin to overlap, and start to tickle your imagination. It’s almost as if each selection of items he buys could be used to either dispatch someone, or dispose of a body. But that’s crazy, right? He seems way too nice to be a serial killer. And mob activity in this part of Indiana? Nah. That wouldn’t happen around here.

Would it?

It’s a quiet Friday night when you next see The Stranger. He’s picked up bolt cutters, pliers, some metal trays, a sledgehammer, a mop, and, most bizarrely of all because you’ve noticed he’s not usually one for personal safety equipment, ear defenders.

Again, he’s basket-less, barely able to contain the items piled up in his arms. They topple as he arrives at your counter, and some end up partially covering your open magazine.

“Shit, I’m really sorry about that.”

“Oh, no problem, honestly. I probably shouldn’t be reading on the clock anyway”, you say, slightly bashful, as you move the crumpled magazine out from underneath his items, smoothing it down. The Stranger’s eyes are locked on your hands, and as they move across the page they reveal a headline about a recently apprehended serial murderer and some photographs of a variety of grisly-looking, bloody weapons.

“That looks… interesting, watcha reading there?”, he remarks, leaning in.

“Oh, this? It’s about a new guy they’ve just caught over in Europe. He’s fascinating, he used such a variety of tools and methods that at first the police didn’t even think to link the crimes. Ingenious, really, when you think about it. So creative!”

You look up, and The Stranger is regarding you with an unreadable expression. Does he think you’re weird, babbling on about this murderer like you admire him? Or is he actually impressed with your enthusiasm?

“Sorry, I’m a true crime buff, it’s a bit of a pet topic of mine. And I’m studying forensics at college, so it’s kind of like schoolwork too.” You chuckle nervously, arms moving in front of your body and shoulders subtly curling in on yourself in embarrassment.

The Stranger seems to sense your discomfort, and shakes his head, making his curls bounce, smiling and chuckling along with you.

“No, yeah, uh, me too with the crime thing, actually. Well, not so much the reading, I’m more of a hear-it-through-the grapevine, hands on kinda guy.”

‘Hands on’? WTF does that mean?

“Oh, cool, coolcoolcool”. Smooth…

As you scan his items your fantasy vignette tickles your brain again.

No, don’t be silly…

You bag everything up this time, insisting it’ll be easier to carry, handing them to him and taking his crumpled bills.

Your curiosity is more than piqued and you can’t hold it in any longer. Feeling bold, you ask, “So, what’s all this for?”

“Huh?”

“The- the stuff. What’re you doin’ with it?”

The Stranger looks at you through his lashes, not speaking.

Shit, you’ve overstepped, he’s gonna leave, find a different store and you’ll never see him again.

“Uh, well, some people I know out near the big city are, er, planning a, uh, party, with a few of their, um, associates, and I think it’s gonna get pretty loud, hence the earphones. I, uh, don’t usually get involved in stuff until later in the evening, y’know, after all the main fun’s over.”

You look a little quizzical.

He thinks for a moment.

“I tidy up, but I sorta make it a bit more fun for everyone. Bring a bit of pizazz to a usually mundane part of the evening. Kinda thing.”

You process for a few moments. The ‘Mob Cleaner’ vignette you’d fantasised about screams loud and long into your cerebrum.

Nerves give way to curiosity, and you brashly ask, “So, what exactly is it that you do?”

“I’m kind of a cleaner, I guess? If someone has a problem that they’ve had dealt with and they wanna make the cleanup more, um, interesting, I’m the guy they call.”

Probing further, you clarify, “So you don’t make the, uh, mess, you just clean it up. Creatively?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

He explains he’s still quite new to the job, and kinda fell into it. His boss and his mentor are both encouraging, saying his USP is truly original (Unique Selling Point, he explains when you look confused), and that he definitely ‘has potential’. He’s learning a lot as he goes, but his enthusiasm seems to be appreciated and he wants to do well.

“All you really need is a strong stomach, imagination and a flair for the dramatic!”

He illustrates his last point by making jazz hands by the sides of his head, offering you a generous smile. Yeah, you can see how that particular part of the job comes easy to him.

“Oh, well, it sounds like fun. I hope you have a very successful evening!”

“Okay, well, thanks again! I’ll see you.”

You watch him leave, noticing in particular how well his jeans fit tonight.

What’s that saying again - I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave…?

You shake your head to rid yourself of the lewd - and crazy, yeah, totally crazy - thoughts you’re having about The Stranger and encourage yourself back into work mode.

As you busy yourself and tidy your counter you notice something small and white on the floor in front, about the size of a credit card. It must’ve fallen out of his jacket as he fumbled for cash.

Cash. Always cash. Never credit card, never cheque, never — anything traceable…

You round the counter and pick it up, thinking you’d save it and return it to him the next time he comes in. It’s a business card. The text is unfussy and clear, but glossy, bold and slightly gothic. It’s a company name above some text and a pager number, but it may well be the most intriguing piece of writing that you’ve ever come across:

E.M. Creative Disposal Services, Apprentice to Mr Kaplan & Associates, For dinner reservations call: (555)-666-6969

It’s another quiet night, but there’s already a couple of people at the counter when The Stranger arrives. Mr Sinclair needs a pipe wrench and a plunger (you don’t envy him his evening), and Mrs Wheeler has come in to buy double-As for the second time this month (although this time she also added gardening gloves and secateurs to pad out her basket. Not that you’d judge either way).

You spot The Stranger’s curls before anything else, bobbing in the fluorescent lights as he comes through the entrance doors. He spots the queue and immediately joins it, glancing towards the counter and visibly brightening when he sees you behind it. He’s carrying the sledgehammer he bought last time. As you start to ring up Mrs Wheeler’s batteries you see him examining the head of the hammer. Frowning slightly, he moistens his thumb with his tongue and rubs at one corner, then polishes the same spot on the front of his jeans.

He reaches the counter, receipt retrieved from a bundle pulled from inside his jacket.

You greet each other with a quiet ‘hey’. He continues, “I, uh, wanted to return this. Can I do that?”

“Yeah, sure, lemme ring it through the till. Can I ask why? Company policy,” you shrug, almost apologetically.

“Sure, uh, well you know that phase ‘using a sledgehammer to crack a nut‘? Turns out a sledgehammer does indeed obliterate the, uh, nuts… Let’s just say it wasn’t really suitable for the project I had in mind. I think I need something…”

Lighter? Easier to aim?

“With a little more finesse?” You venture, eyebrows raised, hoping you haven’t completely misread things.

“Yeah, finesse! I like that”. He beams widely at you tilting his head slightly, revealing the most gorgeous dimples you’ve ever seen, and it’s all you can do to hold on to the edge of the counter while your knees gently fail beneath you.

“Umm, you want some help choosing?”

He readily agrees and you direct him to the hammer section, both of you discussing the merits and disadvantages of various models as you choose ones from the display and encourage him to feel their weight and balance. He seems impressed, clearly not expecting you to be so well-versed in the finer aspects of hardware.

“Y’know, you really know your tools!”

You squeak out a bashful, “Thanks.”

You slip into self-deprecating mode and brush off his compliment, saying, “It comes with the territory I guess. I’ve picked up a lot working here. Plus I just sometimes browse the shelves, thinking of nefarious uses for random household objects.” Hurriedly adding, “For school, of course!”

You cringe a bit, thinking this must make you look like some kind of weirdo, but The Stranger takes it easily in his stride, commenting, “You know, you’d be surprised to learn just how much of a marketable skill that can be.”

You chat some more and he eventually chooses a smaller, less unwieldy hammer, and after he pays you part ways again.

You still desperately want to ask him exactly what he used that other hammer for, what ‘Creative Disposal Services’ actually means, and what the hell have dinner reservations got to do with any of this?

The next night you see The Stranger he saunters in at about 8:30. He has a different energy about him this evening, seeming both more relaxed but also somewhat on edge. He’s not in his usual ratty band tee tonight, you notice, and no leather jacket either. Instead he’s wearing a what looks to be a clean, maybe even pressed, electric blue raglan shirt with black half length sleeves. You spot a crimson guitar pick necklace that you’ve not seen before dangling from a twinkling silver ball chain, resting against his sternum and resplendent against the blue.

Observing his forearms for the first time you notice how attractive - and (oh!) tattooed - they are. Toned and veined, their shape and his mix of tattoos are shown off to perfection by that sleeve length, and a leather and chain bracelet that adorns one powerful-looking wrist. The glint of his chunky silver rings accentuates his large hands that peek out of his jeans pockets as he wanders over to you. He’s still in tight black jeans, but they seem a little… neater than usual. And he’s not in a rush. It’s almost like he’s not working, maybe even making an effort.

You feel a frisson of excitement - could it be that he’s come in just to see you?

Exhibit A, m’lud: Scrubbing up well.

He heads straight for your counter, and you greet each other with your characteristic friendliness.

He spies the hefty text books you’ve spread before you, and leans onto the counter to get a closer look.

“Watcha workin’ on tonight, Doctor Quincy?”

You swallow at the cute nickname, voice cracking slightly as you start to tell him about the assignment you’ve got. It’s about evidential tool marks, and how pathologists can identify what’s been used as a weapon or tool of dismemberment.

The Stranger tries to play down his interest, but his demeanour betrays him as he presses for more details, even asking if he could maybe read the finished piece.

That’s weird, right? People don’t read other people’s science essays for fun. Do they?

But you agree, promising to bring him a copy when it’s done.

The conversation lulls, and The Stranger twists the pad of one of his thumbs against the counter, seemingly a little nervous, though you can’t imagine what about.

To break the silence you slip into work mode, but for some reason drop your voice a couple of octaves and murmur,

“So anyway, what is it that can I help you with, sir?”

Wait, is he blushing?

“Um, oh, uh, I actually don’t have a shopping list today, I was, uh, just gonna browse, I guess.”

He backs away from your counter, giving it a few rhythmic slaps with his fingertips before turning away from you and ambling off into the store. He returns a few moments later with a small hatchet and mid-range fold-out knife, plus two rolls of his now-favourite tape.

“You can never have too many of these, amirite?”

He gives you that dimpled smile again, and you feel your stomach do a full (though anatomically impossible) 360° flip.

Observing his lack of focus and comparatively small selection of items, you wonder if he really needs those things, or whether he’s just picking them up as an excuse to come in to the store. Your chest heats up a little at the thought.

Exhibit B: Small, possibly unnecessary purchase. The evidence is mounting up.

Seeing the hatchet, your eyes light up with enthusiasm as you remember something.

“Hey, we just got some new stock in that I think you might like, y’know, if I’m not overstepping or anything.” You finish with a nervous chuckle.

You smile at him nervously through your lashes, skin heating even more in case this is suddenly all a bit too familiar.

He grins, responding, “Sure, go ahead!”

Your smile broadens and relaxes as you turn away from him and walk to the back shelves, crouching down and retrieving something in your arms.

Standing quickly and turning, you notice his eyes widen and immediately flick up to yours, a slightly alarmed expression on his face.

Exhibit C: Was he checking you out when he thought you wouldn’t notice? (Also, is it getting hot in here?)

With a loud thunk you lay two (frankly, terrifying-looking) multi-tools out on the counter in front of him. One looks like an oversized, overspec-ed Swiss Army knife, and the other could easily pass as a prop from an exorcism-themed horror movie. You over-excitedly explain the features of each, saying, “This one has a hammer and an axe, plus screwdrivers, pliers, a saw, wire cutters, a magnesium rod”, you look up at him quickly and ask, “do you ever need to start fires? Plus, it has…”, you wave your hand dramatically over your favourite part of the item, like you were showing it off on a shopping channel, and stretch out the syllables of the final two words for emphasis, “…a bottle opener…”. You raise your eyebrows and grin widely, like this must surely be the deal breaker.

The Stranger laughs, throwing his head back with deep-throated barks from the centre of his chest, and then he chuckles a little, bringing a strand of hair over his cheek and a curled finger to his lips. You’re slightly distracted by that glimpse of his extended neck (god, you want to gnaw at it), and that laugh? You wish you could’ve recorded it somehow.

You quickly compose yourself and continue, switching to the ’horror prop’ product, “And this one has fewer features, but I like it for its simplicity, robustness and practical charm. It’s an axe, hammer, nail puller and pry bar. And it even has a rubber coated handle, so you can still use it safely even if your hands are wet. For, y’know, whatever reason…” you finish, slightly abashed.

“Aw, Pumpkin, this is the kindest thing anyone’s done for me in a while, thank you.”

Pumpkin. PumpkinPumpkinPumpkin. Exhibit D: A term of endearment!

He takes some time to examine both articles, testing out their various features, hefting them in his (large, strong) hands (stop it!).

“I love them. Y’know what, I can’t decide. I’ll take both. What’s the damage?”

You visibly brighten, a squeak of delight that you hope he didn’t hear inadvertently leaving you as you puff up with both his term of endearment and your ever-growing customer service confidence.

You check whether he’d still like the other items he’d brought to the counter, and apart from the duct tape (“You really can’t have too much of this stuff!”), he allows you to reshelve the rest.

He watches, enthralled, as you wrap his new tools in the store-issue brown paper reverently and carefully, as though you were wrapping an expensive gift in a fancy department store, the pair of you sharing bashful looks and half smiles as you work.

As he hands over the now-unsurprising crumpled bills and takes his change his hand drifts closer to yours, glancing his fingers over your palm and lingering for just a moment. There’s a little hitch in your inhale, and you think you see his ears redden a little.

He gathers up his purchases in his arms carefully and gently, and he backs away from your counter slowly.

“I guess I’ll head out then. Uh, I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, I guess you will, uhh-”

“Eddie. My name’s Eddie.”

“Okay, I guess so, Eddie.” You say his name slowly, like you’re testing out the syllables in your mouth.

You continue speaking, offering your name in reciprocation.

“Yeah, yeah I know your name, it’s kinda on your little badge there.” A tiny nod indicates the plastic rectangle pinned on your apron strap near your left shoulder.

Your cheeks heat again. “Right, of course. Ha!” You inwardly cringe. Well, that could’ve gone better.

He’s still backing away, getting dangerously close to an intricately balanced display of colourful children’s watering cans. You’re about to say something, but he turns just in time, ambling towards the illuminated exit with a mumbled, “Okay, bye then. Thanks again for these…” lifting the packages in his arms, and turning to look over his shoulder a couple more times before he finally reaches the door and disappears into the parking lot.

“Hey, d’you know anything about wood chippers?”

It’s been a week since you’ve seen The Stranger Eddie, and you turn abruptly to find him walking towards your counter.

His question throws you out of your stocktaking zone (you’d been focussing on ordering enough plastic pumpkin-shaped buckets for all of Hawkins’ kids this Halloween), but you quickly slip into customer service mode and ask for more details.

Eddie explains, using mostly his arms, that he needs one that, “throws everything everywhere”. You finally work out that he means the type where you feed stuff into a hopper on one side and the shredded debris is forced out of a raised chute on the other (as opposed to the more gravity-based ones where stuff is fed into the top and simply falls out the bottom).

He’s passing it off as being involved in some avant garde student art project, a performance piece involving feeding a load of wood and, uh, paint, yeah, paint into a wood chipper and having it spray out the other side. He blusters that the students are trying to make a point about climate change, or maybe it’s deforestation, he can’t seem to decide.

He explains that the piece is to be performed indoors, that there’ll be quite a few people present, and that he also needs a large quantity of tarp and coveralls because it was likely to make a huge mess.

This is the clincher. You’re absolutely convinced there is no art project, and what’s go through that chipper is more likely to be a human body. Or, given the amount of effort being gone to, and Eddie’s flair for theatrics, probably more than one.

“What size branches?”

He looks at you, confused. “Huh?”

“The, uh, limbs. What size will you be shredding? Some of the smaller models won’t cope with thick trunks.”

He swallows. His eyes meet yours, and he licks his lips. You can’t help but stare at those full, pink… Look away! Just look away!!

He subtly smirks, slowly moves his hands across the counter, and, gently taking hold of one of your hands in his, loops his other finger and thumb around your wrist.

“Um, definitely thicker than this…” - he extends your arm towards him, and moves his other hand slowly up your skin until he gets to your upper arm - “…and maybe a little thicker than this, too.”

You hope he can’t feel the burning sensation that’s erupted up your arm. You know he can’t possibly hear your racing heartbeat or detect the adrenaline that’s coursing through your veins, but you’re acutely aware of both just the same. You briefly ponder whether you’ll need to get a fire extinguisher from aisle 7.

“Umm, how about I show you what we’ve got?”

Composing yourself, barely, you take him to the large garden implements section, explaining that for larger trunks and limbs he may need something towable.

Under the guise of working out whether various models would be suitable, you take the opportunity to dig a little and find out what kind of vehicle he drives. It’s a van, so roomy, practical for carrying a lot of equipment that needs to be kept out of sight. Well, this all tracks.

Also, your brain helpfully suggests, it could potentially be romantic, a private little hideaway where you and he could… No! Stay on topic, you’re at work for god’s sake!

As you debate the various choices you find you’re occasionally leaning into each other, shoulders and elbows lightly bumping, you stealing glances at his chiselled jawline when you think he isn’t looking.

Eddie eventually decides on a mid-size towable model, and as you arrange for it to be delivered to the collection bay he bids you goodnight and disappears out to his van.

‘Art project’, huh? I don’t think so…

You don’t see Eddie for a couple of weeks after that, and you begin to wonder whether he doesn’t like you. Maybe you went too far, did you bore him? Did you frighten him off? Did he feel pressured into buying those gadgets or the expensive wood chipper?

Maybe he’s finally realised you’re a weirdo, like everyone at school eventually did?

Trying to get out of your funk you steel yourself and ask your department manager, Keith, whether he’d seen an odd, metal-looking guy in the store at all.

“Nah, not recently, but someone like that did come in a few weeks back, asking about when you’d be working. Something about your product knowledge helping him with a job, or whatever. I told him your schedule, I hope that’s ok.”

So you haven’t missed him, and maybe he’s not avoiding you. Good, that’s good. Exhibit E: He’s been asking about you?? Oh fu-

You’re startled out of your reverie by the sound of someone slapping two plastic packets down onto the counter.

“Oh, hi Mrs Wheeler, let me ring those up for you…”

On his next visit it’s clear Eddie is restocking his cleaning supplies, and he’s even deigned to use a small trolley this time to transport the heavy and bulky items.

As well as multi-surface cleaner, mops, cloths and some heavy duty gloves, you notice his trolley also contains numerous bottles of chlorine bleach.

“Big clean-up job tonight, huh?”

“What? Oh, yeah, I guess so. I need to leave the place without any trace of the, uh, performance this time.”

“Depends what you need to clean up, I guess. Y’know, chlorine bleach doesn’t necessarily get rid of everything.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, it’s fascinating, common misconception by the way. Chlorine bleach gets rid of visible stains, so that’s great if your main concern is aesthetics. But you can still detect haemoglobin, if you have access to the right tools and solutions.”

Eddie looks bath engaged and confused.

“A-heema-whatnow?”

You snicker.

“Haemo-, y’know what, never mind. Blood, basically. So actually, oxygen bleach is your best bet if your biggest concern removing all traces of, let’s say, blood and DNA. Whilst it doesn’t necessarily remove all the marks, it does degrade everything biological to the point where it’s undetectable. At least, with the tests we currently have.”

Eddie leans his elbows on the counter, giving you his full attention, resting his cheeks on his knuckles and pushing his dimpled grin up even further. Emboldened, you talk at length about haemoglobin, DNA degradation, specialist chemical solutions and alternative light sources.

He stays there, rapt, until you come to a natural stop. Just before he straightens up he quietly mumbles, still smiling, “Fucking incredible”.

With a deep breath he returns to the aisles to procure both types of bleach, pays and heads out into the night with a cheery, “Wish me luck!”

The cleanup must’ve gone well, because Eddie’s back a few days later and is making conversation.

“Hey, um, I remember reading once about some guy in England, years ago, who, like, melted people. You ever heard of that?”

You contemplate for a moment.

“Oh, d’you mean the Acid Bath Murderer, John Haigh?”

“Acid bath? Yeah, that sounds familiar.”

“Y’know, that’s actually one of my favourite case studies! It was one of the stories that first got me interested in true crime. 1940s England, dude thought he could get away with it if there was no body. Nope, sorry! When I first heard about it I thought it was really inventive, though he actually took the idea from a French guy who’d already done similar. Makes you wonder how many undiscovered dissolved bodies there might’ve been before and since, huh?”

You wax lyrical for a little while on the relative merits and disadvantages of the dissolving of human bodies in acid, even relating an anecdote about how your lab partner once chose the wrong combination of acid and beaker type, finishing with, “Hoo-boy, that was a mess!”

You become a little awkward, aware of how long you’ve been talking and the possibly-disturbingly-creepy level of detail you’ve gone into, though Eddie doesn’t seem to mind and presents somewhat like he’s paying attention in a chem class. Regardless, you decide to change the subject.

“I meant to ask last time, how did that wood chipping project go?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, really good, thanks. Y’know that advice you gave me about the chipper came in real handy. It was quite the show!” He looks gleefully at you, flashing that brilliant smile. A few small fireworks quietly explode in your innards.

“I’m so glad! Did the client like it?”

“Oh yeah, baby, they were thrilled!”

Baby. That’s new. You like it, and you add it to your growing mental filing system labelled ‘Evidence that Eddie might like me’. You can’t even remember what letter you’re up to now, you’re just enjoying stuffing it fuller every time he graces you with another morsel.

“They even gave me a nice bonus, for my ‘theatricality’.” He begins to lift his arms, but stops himself, resisting doing the jazz hands things again, reasoning there’s only so many times he can do an impersonation of a court jester before it puts someone off. “Said they’re gonna recommend me to their buddies too.”

More softly, and a little bashful, looking through his lashes he adds, “Kinda wish you could’ve been there, actually.”

Oh my, is he blushing again?

“Yeah, me too. I’d love to see you work sometime…”

“You would?”

Okay, he’s definitely blushing.

He leans in over your counter, close, so he can say in a low voice,

“Uh, just so we’re on the same page, you know what I do has nothing to do with art projects, right?”

Holding his gaze, and with your voice surprisingly steady, you swallow before confirming, “Yes, Eddie. I know.”

He huffs out a stuttering breath, and the air between you seems to heat.

He lifts one hand and rubs the back of his neck nervously.

“Hey listen, uh, I dunno if this is a little too forward, or weird, or y’know, whatever,” He’s rambling now. It’s adorable.

“I was kinda gonna ask you if you wanted to get milkshakes sometime, but, uh, maybe you’d actually wanna come out on a job with me? I’ve got one coming up on Sunday that I could really use an extra pair of hands on. I could pay you of course, y’know, for your time.”

You want to blurt out that, for him, you’d willingly burn the world and everyone in it for free. Instead, you smile wide, and settle for,

“Well, my tutors are always encouraging us to get real world experience…”

“Great, so I’ll pick you up at the end of your shift?”

“Sure, Eddie. I’ll look forward to it.”

You’re both grinning, stuttering messes.

“Great! Great. Uh, okay then, I guess I’ll see you Sunday?”

As he turns to leave, you stop him with one final question.

“Just one more thing Eddie. Should I bring my own coveralls..?”

If you got this far, thanks so much for reading!!

Comments and reblogs make my world spin, do let me know what you think.

#eddie munson #stranger things #Halloween #Halloween fic #Halloween Eddie Munson fic #Eddie munson x reader #Eddie munson x you #dark fic #Halloween fic prompts #hardware store fic #Catt writes #my writing #my first long fic pls be kind #Eddie munson fluff #Eddie munson x gn!reader #Halloween fluff #forensics fic #writing prompt challenge #stranger #hello stranger #mob cleaner fic #mob cleaner!Eddie Munson #gn!reader #niche fic #weird and owning it #some of these things are true #Halloween writing prompt #dark!Eddie Munson

[theladyofshalott1989]

Writing Prompt #2: Poppy Sweeting x Imelda Reyes

Thanks to @celestial--sapphic for providing the second prompt:

Poppy attending one of Imelda's Quidditch matches

Poppy Sweeting x Imelda Reyes

Word Count: 1328

Rating: Teen

[ AO3 link ] ✨✨✨

Poppy’s first Quidditch match as Imelda’s paramour was going exactly as expected. Splendidly. Imelda was in top-form, directing her teammates confidently, as the Slytherin Quidditch Captain should, and chasing her opponents with a singular focus, like a Hungarian Horntail pursuing its prey. 

Now, if only Poppy knew more about Quidditch…

Seated in the stands with her fellow Hufflepuffs, sporting a very conspicuous Slytherin scarf that drew some pointed glances - though she couldn’t have cared less, especially since Hufflepuff wasn’t even playing today - she tilted her head back, squinting against the sun’s harsh rays. There, amidst the whirl of the other players, she watched Imelda soar by on her broom, a vision of grace and finesse, her ebony ponytail trailing behind her. 

Poppy sighed wistfully. And to think, just yesterday afternoon she had been straddling Imelda on her broom as Imelda deftly maneuvered one of her old broom trial courses from their fifth year, the year Professor Black banned Quidditch. It had been quite a remarkable experience, the wind in her hair, her body pressed tightly against Imelda’s lithe but muscular frame. Poppy didn’t doubt that one day Imelda would realize her dream of joining the ranks of the Holyhead Harpies. She was that good, and oh so passionate. 

Her attention was diverted by raucous cheering coming from the Slytherins in the stands across the way. While it seemed like Slytherin was winning, Poppy couldn’t exactly say for sure. She was too distracted by Imelda’s outrageously talented self, and, well, to be totally honest, Gerald the Puffskein, who was currently squirming around on her lap. In fact, he was humming very loudly, so loudly that Poppy was worried that someone might overhear. She technically wasn’t supposed to have taken him out of Professor Howin’s class, but she couldn’t help it! He had seemed down and she thought a rousing Quidditch match might cheer him up. 

Fortunately, Professor Howin was seated among the other professors in a stand further down the way. There was no chance they’d be spotted together. Unless…

A Bludger streaked across her field of vision, and then, in an unexpected turn of events, zipped back directly from whence it came. The crowd erupted into startled cries and gasps of alarm as they ducked down. Poppy followed suit, shielding Gerald beneath her, her reaction slightly delayed but thankfully swift enough to avoid a potentially deadly blow.

Well, Quidditch was quite exhilarating, that was for certain. Poppy hadn’t been entirely sure, this having been only her second game ever, the first having been back in her first year. She hadn’t found her first particularly thrilling, so she hadn’t bothered attending any more matches since. But now, she had a reason to be here, and a captivating one at that. The mere thought of Imelda caused her cheeks to flush. 

As Poppy regained her composure, adjusting herself back into a comfortable seated position, she whispered, “Are you okay, Gerald?” Gerald remained in her lap, covered in a blanket she’d brought specifically for him to ensure he didn’t catch a chill in the crisp fall air. He wiggled in her lap, snuffling at her hand. “Alright, you.” Poppy pulled a treat out of her pocket and offered it to him. As expected, he gobbled it up immediately.

Poppy soon lost track of time entirely. Tending to an adorably mischievous Puffskein would do that. Every so often she’d steal a glance at Imelda, only to be preoccupied once more with Gerald. She vaguely registered the sound of more cheering, although she couldn’t pinpoint its origin, and then, before she knew it, her classmates began bustling around her, scooting past her as they exited the Quidditch pitch. 

Was the game over already? Who won? Imelda would certainly expect her to know who won, wouldn’t she? Merlin! She should have paid better attention. 

“See this crowd? All my doing,” Poppy heard before Imelda stumbled into view before her, a bit unsteady on her feet. Imelda’s grace on a broom didn’t always seem to extend to solid ground. Poppy suppressed a smile. She would never say so aloud, but she found this quirk oddly endearing.

“You’ve got good flying technique, I’ll give you that,” Poppy teased, lifting Gerald, blanket and all, and cradling him gently in her left arm as she rose to her feet.

“Hello, Gerald,” Imelda said, tugging on the strap of her broom across her shoulder. “Dare I ask?”

“He wanted to go on an adventure!”

“And did he enjoy himself?”

Poppy flashed Imelda a coy smile. “Hmm, perhaps,” she replied. How long could she delay Imelda from finding out she wasn’t quite certain who won the match? A minute? Five?

“Hmph,” Imelda huffed, placing a hand on her cocked hip. “And you? What did you think?”

Poppy weighed her options. Realizing she had a fifty-fifty chance, she decided it was worth the risk. “A well-won victory, I must say,” she ventured, resisting the urge to cross her fingers behind her back. 

At first, Imelda remained stoic, giving away nothing. She was a stubborn mask of solemnity. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. It was a glorious turn of expression that warmed Poppy to her core. 

“Not bad, for a Hufflepuff,” Imelda finally said.

“Hmm?” Poppy questioned, trying her best to play it cool.

“You were too distracted by Gerald, weren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her cheeks warmed, presumably flushing, which would inevitably betray her lie.

Imelda surprised Poppy yet again with a playful smirk. “Honestly, some people should be re-Sorted. And you were correct, by the way. We won. Good guess.” 

Poppy let loose a shy smile. “You’re not cross with me?” she asked, rubbing the back of her neck with her free hand.

“Maybe a little,” Imelda admitted. “But this was only the first match of many. I fully expect you to make it up to me.”

“Oh?” 

“And now you can’t say no to my next suggestion.”

Poppy raised a brow. “Your next suggestion?”

“It’s about time you got your own broom.”

“A broom? But I have Highwing!”

“And that’s all well and good, but Highwing needs a rest every once in a while.” 

Poppy glanced down at Gerald who had fallen asleep in the crook of her arm. “Let’s say I agree with you. What’s in it for me?” she teased.

Imelda grinned. Her brown eyes twinkled mischievously in the sunlight. “You. Me. In the air. Flying side by side.” 

“Oh, I don’t know…I’m not much of a flier.”

“If you’re worried about technique, don’t be. I’ll make you better, don’t you worry.”

Poppy brought a hand to her chin in mock contemplation. She took a breath. “Alright, it’s a date. When do we start?”

Imelda swiftly pulled her broom out from behind her back and straddled it. She gestured for Poppy to join her. “We start now. I’ll take you to Spintwitches.” 

Poppy chuckled. “Why’d I even ask?” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Gerald,” she said, shaking her arm gently. “Are you up for another adventure?” He opened one eye, made a movement with his head that seemed like an assent, and then snuggled back into her chest. She’d ensure she kept a firm hold on him in the air. 

Giving Imelda a curt nod, she said, “Gerald says yes.”

“Oh good, if Gerald says so.” 

“Hold on, not so fast.” Poppy strode purposefully forward. She didn’t give Imelda time to react before smacking a kiss on her perfect lips. 

Once she stepped back, she reveled in Imelda’s wide-eyed stare. “What was that for?” Imelda asked.

“Does a girl need an excuse to kiss her ladylove?”

“Pfft, hardly,” Imelda replied, a fleeting hint of affection softening her features before her customary mask of seriousness settled back into place. “Now pop on, Hufflepuff. I’m not the patient sort.”

Poppy did as commanded, tamping down her sudden urge to snog the living daylights out of Imelda. There would be time for that later. Yes, later.

#poppy sweeting x imelda reyes #f/f #hogwarts legacy one-shot #poppy sweeting #imelda reyes #writing prompt challenge #hogwarts legacy

[enchantingepics]

Story Prompt 66

She watched him from across the crowded room, her heart skipping a beat as his familiar blue eyes met hers. There was a problem though—he was too familiar. She couldn't shake off the feeling that she knew him from somewhere, maybe another time or another place.

Their gazes lingered, a silent exchange of recognition passing between them. She could almost feel the weight of his stare, as if he was trying to unravel the same mystery that plagued her mind.

He finally approached her, his footsteps echoing in the hushed ambiance of the room. "Hey," he said, his voice soft yet filled with an unspoken tension.

She swallowed, trying to compose herself. "Hi," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

He studied her for a moment, a hint of uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked, his brows furrowing in confusion.

She shook her head, her heart pounding in her chest. "I… I don't think so," she stammered, trying to suppress the rush of emotions flooding her mind.

He nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Strange," he mused, his gaze never leaving hers. "You just seem so familiar."

She forced a smile, her mind racing with unanswered questions. "Maybe it's just a coincidence," she offered weakly, hoping to brush off the inexplicable connection she felt towards him.

But deep down, she knew it wasn't just a coincidence. There was something about him that stirred a long-forgotten memory within her, something that defied logic and reason.

#story prompts #creative writing #writing prompts #story ideas #inspiration #fiction writing #am writing #writers life #plot ideas #characters #writing community #writers block #imagination #storytelling #author life #get writing #writers of instagram #storyteller #writing challenge #writers workshop #writing tips #writing inspiration #story beginnings #writing prompt challenge #fiction prompts #plot bunnies #writing exercise #writing prompt generator #story development #writers corner

[tyfinn]

Fireworks

Well, I did it! 31 ficlets in 31 days! A December to Remember is now complete! Happy New Year!

"Great. This is just great. What the fuck are we going to do now?" David whined, as he looked out the window.

The freezing rain started around ten in the morning, and by noon it looked like a skating rink outside. David, Patrick, Alexis, and Stevie were supposed to be driving to Elm Glen to ring in the New Year. Ray told them it was supposed to be the biggest fireworks display in all of Elm County. And now, it looked like they would be celebrating New Year’s Eve at the cottage.

At two, they lost power. Patrick and Stevie were in the process of moving the coffee table and recliner to make room for the mattress from Stevie’s bed. That, and the air mattress is where they all would be sleeping tonight, since that will be the warmest room in the cottage. Patrick knew with absolute certainty the power would not be back on by this evening.

“Hold up,” Stevie said, standing up. “Why am I helping Patrick move all this stuff, while you look out the window and pout? You can’t tell me you actually wanted to go to Elm Glen, did you?”

“It’s your mattress you're moving in, not mine.”

“Yes, but you already said you were not sleeping on the air mattress, so you should be the one moving it!”

David humphed and rolled his eyes. “To answer your question, yes, I was looking forward to going out. I was sick last year and slept through the new year. And I thought it may be fun, all right? Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes.” Patrick and Stevie said in unison.

“Fuck you both. I’m going to get the candles and see what we have to eat.” David stomped off to the kitchen, leaving Patrick and Stevie laughing in his wake.

You can read the rest here.

#challenge complete #schitts creek fanfic #happy new year #thanks for reading #ao3 #writing #writing prompt challenge

[vianwrites]

Let's Do Writing Prompts (A Game)!

So, I have these set of cards that I use whenever I need to find inspiration to write (it's not really meant to be used in the way I am using it, but that's beside the point). So, I decided to share the game and the writing prompt with you all. If you are interested, read on...

So, this here is the deck of cards called "Talecraft".

It has 3 different types of cards:

The red sun one is called a "Genre" stack, the blue gender symbols are called "Archetypes", and the yellow key are Key cards.

I've pulled from the stack (after shuffling it, of course) one genre card, two archetype cards, and a key card which will be the prompt.

For the Genre, we have:

For the Archetype:

And for the Key:

So, let me explain what the actual prompt is:

Write a Forbidden Love Horror story with a Chosen One and a Coquettish Woman. You can pick which of the Archetype characters is the main protagonist and which one is the main antagonist. It can be an original story, it can be a fanfic. But, if you want to do this you HAVE to comment here a link to your work so that I can read it (and comment, of course).

So, for information's sake (because Tumblr is still acting weird for me with commenting on my own posts or on other's and also replying to them, I'm going to put the card explanation for the Chosen One card here (since it was hidden behind The Coquette card):

"The Chosen One. Must typically fulfill a prophecy to save mankind. Almost always portrayed as from humble origins, then sometimes discovered as from a noble family. Often portrayed as guided by a Wise Old Man. Examples: Anakin Skywalker from Star Wars, Harry Potter"

So, yeah, I'm really hoping others will pick up on this and there'll be an abundance of new stories we can read and comment to. (Again, just post the link or tag me or whatever so that I can curate them all).

#fanfiction #fanficwriting #fanfic writing #fanfic #ao3 #ao3 author #ao3 writer #ao3 community #writing #creative writing #fic writer #writers on tumblr #writing prompt #fic prompt #story prompt #fanfic prompt #let's play a writing game #don't forget to post the links in the comment if you write one #I'd love to read your stories #and leave a comment too #for all writers of all kinds #prompt challenge #story ideas #writing inspiration #writing ideas #prompts #writing prompt challenge

[pridewrite]

You submitted your suggestions, and as a result we have chosen these seven prompts to be a part of Pridewrite's 2022 prompt list!

Thank you to everyone who got involved. Watch out for our full list of prompts being posted TOMORROW! 🌈✨

Cast.

#pridewrite #pridewrite2022 #pride month #pride #writing prompt challenge #prompt list #lgbtq #queer #queer writers #writers on tumblr #artists on tumblr #poets on tumblr #gay #bi #trans #lesbian #pansexual #art challenge #prompt challenge #pride event

[zimithrus1]

Omg for the “Ways to Say I Love You” ask game!! Can I combine some of them?? 🤩

I’m craving really angsty Promptis, with #4 & #20 (lmfao 420 nice😎), if that’s okay if I can combine those two into one??

Like… super angsty, sad, self-doubting worthless-feeling identity crisis Prompto, maybe the events in Ep Prompto still haunt him even? Ppl don’t just get over things that easily. And Noctis with his gentle unwavering steadfastness for Prom with those simple yet powerful declarations of love. Idk that’s just an idea.

However you decide to go about delivering that sweet sweet angst, I just wanna hurt. I wanna get wrecked - just absolutely destroyed please. 🥺

You most certainly can combine two!! 💚 Heheh those are the funny numbers 😆 One serving of self-doubting yet reassuring Promptis angst coming right up!

Send me a romantic or platonic ship and a number and I'll write a short fic

#4 "I don't mind" #20 "I'm not going anywhere"

(There's nothing short about this one lmao I got too carried away XD)

He stands in front of a mirror, cracked glass like that of a spider's web warping his reflection. It's him, and it's not him. In some of the pieces, it is him-- blond hair, bright blue eyes with that bit of light lilac bursting around his pupils, freckle-dotted cheeks... but in the other pieces, it is not him-- or rather, it is not him as he is now. In the other pieces, he is Magitek-- cold, soulless eyes, colorless skin and unfeeling expression.

He raises up his hand with a warbled gasp, to touch the pieces of him that he knows, that his friends know, but the moment his fingers splay across the spiderweb cracks, the Magitek pieces replace his own. Frantic, he tries to reach for the other pieces of himself, but they too are transformed. Eventually, all that stares back at him is a Magitek trooper with cold eyes the same color as his.

When he screams, the broken glass bursts forth and cuts across his skin. His blood is not red. He bleeds black.

"What... are you?"

Prompto slowly turns, face draining of color as his eyes shrink to pinpoints. There, standing behind him at a scared distance, is Noctis, his best friend.

"Noct, it- it's me! It's your best buddy, Prompto!" He stammers, reaching out with black bleeding fingers.

Noctis flinches back and summons his blade. "Back off, Imperial drone!"

Noctis never even cut him with that sword. But those words became one. Those words slice across his chest and even though no physical cut is there, he bleeds black all the same. While he reels from the spiritual cut, quick steps rush in. By the time Prompto lifts his head back up to see what had changed...

The sword of his best friend is at his neck and there's a fire of disgust and hatred in his eyes.

"Burn in Hell, Magitek!!"

Prompto's eyes shoot open as he comes to with a gasp.

It's dark. There's chirping--crickets. He's staring up at the flimsy ceiling of a tent. He swallows thick and forces himself to take a deep breath. Nightmare sweat clings to his face and his neck. Feels sticky. It's hot.

He sits up slowly and takes in another breath. He dares himself to glance to his side where--if he remembers correctly--Noctis is sleeping. He's out hard, as per usual. But yet... that dream, that awful dream. Noctis's eyes are closed and he slumbers deep, but Prompto swears those hateful, disgust-filled eyes are staring right at him, glaring at him, seeing right through him, for what he really is.

"Burn in Hell, Magitek!!"

He can hear the words clear as day even though Noctis only snores. A pain blooms in Prompto's chest and he winces. Feels like the word-blade from his dream cut him all over again.

He tears his eyes away from Noctis as he throws the thin sheets off his body, then opens the flap door of the tent and dashes out. He can't be around him right now. He can't, he can't. It's only been a week since he was rescued. There's no way. There's no way Noctis doesn't see who he really is--a Magitek clone. No way he can see past it. Prompto himself can't even see past it!

It's irrational, deep down he knows it is, but he just can't help it. These... feelings. These dreams, these nightmares, these reminders branded into his skin; scan him at checkout, he's not Lucis made he's Niflheim imported. He'll never be a Lucian. How could he be?

Prompto walks past the long since burned out campfire, past the tent where Ignis and Gladio sleep, the fold out tables and chairs, beyond the boundary of their camp and down the plateau they perched themselves on, down to the calm, uninhabited lake nearby.

He sits at the edge of the lake, where only the crickets greet him with their chirps. He pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs them, staring out at the still water with the moon reflecting brightly against the surface. He dare not look at his reflection again, fearing that if he does his dream will repeat and become reality.

He hides his face in the sanctuary of his knees and sighs shakily. How can he still sit among them? Eat among them? Laugh and joke and play King's Knight and sleep among them too? He's the enemy, part of the very same force afflicting pain and suffering to the world. How could they just take him back like he wasn't?? How could Ignis still serve him meals? How could Gladio ruffle up his hair and give him a hard time? How.. How could Noctis even call him his best friend?

"Prompto?"

Prompto's head shoots up from his knees and his eyes widen. That voice... He glances over his shoulder and who does he find? Noctis standing a few feet away, looking tired, but concerned as well.

"What are you doing so far away from the camp?" He asks as he rubs his eyes and closes the distance between them.

He sees it, the Noctis in his dream with his sword up to his throat, with those angry, hateful eyes.

"G-Get back!!" Prompto throws out his right arm with a shaky cry, much louder than he thought he'd cry.

Noctis stops in his tracks instantly and the sluggishness leaves him entirely. "Prom?"

He doesn't realize he's panting, his throat tight and his mouth dry. He swallows out of reflex, the arm he holds out is shaking. It's irrational. This isn't nightmare Noct. This is the real deal. So why is he so afraid of him getting close now?

Mm, right, that's right. He's the enemy. A Magitek trooper just like the rest. Like the ones they've dismantled already. The ones that share his face underneath it all.

"What's going on with you, Prompto?" Noctis reengages, walking towards him anyway.

"Why are we still friends??" Prompto finds himself screaming.

That gets him to stop.

Prompto quickly scurries to his feet, trembling with watery eyes. "I'm from Niflheim! Not just that- I'm the enemy! I'm a Magitek clone just like all the others! A barcode as my brand! A brand that helped end the lives of so many Lucians! I'm-! I'm not--! I'm not who you think I am!!"

Noctis... smiles.

"You're Prompto Argentum. A camera enthusiast that loves cracking jokes and brightening up a room." He says as he resumes his pace, walking towards him.

Prompto wants to shout at him to stay back, but the words linger on his tongue and he can't force them out past his teeth.

"You're witty and optimistic, even though you hide a lot of inner turmoil about your past and who you were, you wouldn't dare share that with anyone you didn't really trust out of fear of being a burden to them."

Noctis stands right in front of him now, still smiling warmer than the summer night they stand in.

"You're my best friend who's been by my side through thick and thin. A man who I have the great honor of saying I care for immensely and would trust with my very life. Who when went missing, I nearly drove myself mad trying to find you again."

"But I... I'm..." Tears fall from Prompto's eyes and he can't stop them. He wishes it was raining so he could blame it on that.

"Who cares about what happened before? It's in the past. So what if you're from Niflheim? It doesn't matter where people are from, not to me. At the end of the day we're all humans, and you're you, Prompto." Noctis's hands are on his shoulders now.

Prompto can't stop the tears.

"I'm... sorry..." He sobs. "I'm probably making you l-lose some valuable sleep, huh?" He attempts to crack a joke, hopes it might dry the tears faster.

"Nah, I don't mind." Noctis waves off. "Though, next time when you're feeling like this, I'd like it if you'd just talk to me about it instead of wander off."

Noctis then pulls him into a hug and it startles the sobs right out of Prompto.

"Even if it was Ardyn's manipulation that made me push you off the train... I can't have you disappearing on me again. I uh... I was a wreck after that. I thought I- I might've lost you for good."

That paints a blush on Prompto's face. But it dries the rest of his tears up and he laughs something soft and warm. "Well then, I'm not going anywhere." He says as he returns the hug. "...Unless I haf'ta pee."

That makes Noctis snort out a laugh, which in turn makes Prompto laugh as well. But when the laughs are done and when Noctis looks into his eyes...

He's home.

~

Holy moly that was wayyyy longer than I thought it was gonna be ahaha I got a little carried away! 😆 But I do hope this was worth the wait! I'm sorry you had to wait so long for it! Some nagging and constant pain and tension has made it very hard to focus lately 😖 But I hope you enjoyed it!! It was a lot of fun to finally write out!! 💚

#ffxv #final fantasy xv #ff15 #prompto argentum #noctis lucis caelum #promptis #writing ask game #writing prompt challenge #ask game #zimianswerz #zimiwritez #fic writing #ffxv fic #thanks so much for the ask!!! 🖤💚💙

[bebx]

reblog if you’ve read fanfictions that are more professional, better written than some actual novels. I’m trying to see something

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[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

feeling called out today

credit: _ADWills

#writing #writeblr #writer #ao3 #archive of our own #writing memes #writers #writing community #writing challenge #fanfic #fanfiction #blorbo #whump #angst #fluff #bookblr #writing tropes #writing trope #writing prompt #writing prompts #writing inspo #writing inspiration #tropes #trope #prompts #prompt #whump tropes #whump trope #whump prompts #whump prompt

[serina-ceres]

I Never Learned!

FFXIV Write 2023 Prompt 1. "Envoy"

Summary: Being made the envoy for Ul'dah isn't exactly what Serina Koette expected, especially since Ishgard lacked education in such an area of diplomacy.

Ishgard had no use for foreign envoys. Being a locked up nation only focused on their war with the Dragons and looking down their nose at the other nations and nonbelievers of Halone, none of the nobles or soldiers had been trained in such an art. Though the knowledge still existed, it was locked away in forgotten tombs that were viewed as unimportant as the highly religious curriculum that the Scholasticate boasted. Serina had other things on her mind aside from chasing lost and, at the time viewed as, useless knowledge, and had never learned the intricacies that came with foreign delegation.

Thus the natural reaction Serina had to being made an envoy to the other nations by the Sultanate of Ul’dah was a silent screaming panic, despite the gracious smile she gave in accepting the role. 

For once, being a former noble of Ishgardian society paid off and she was able to hide what she was feeling, giving naught away. She felt that she had accepted the post with the expected grace and poise that would be typically expected of an adventurer, and perhaps if she had originally been born and raised among the smallfolk she would be more excited about the honor instead. Sadly, instead, she was left overthinking about how she was going to mess it up and cause a civil war coupled with the collapse of the Eorzea alliance.

Exaggeration, but the feeling still stands!

Serina was in her room, trying to figure out what she was going to do in the time she had before she was required to depart for the other nations when her linkpearl rang. It was a personalized one that she shared with one other, colored purple and having a green shimmer to its surface. Worried that she would spill all her problems onto the person on the other end, Serina chose to ignore it. 

The ringing eventually stopped, and Serina had a breath of time to think. Perhaps she could ask Momodi, but this was a big honor. What if word got out? What of her reputation?

Her linkpearl rang again.

Frustrated at not finding a solution between the two rounds of calls, Serina grabbed it, shoving it unceremoniously into her ear before saying shortly, “Alena, now is not a good time!”

Immediately Serina wished she could take the sharp words back. The happy gentle energy that always followed Alena seemed to fizzle down, but instead of simply apologizing and hanging up, the Lalafell on the other end asked, “What’s wrong, flower?”

Flower. That was Alena’s pet name for her. At first Serina thought it was because of her penchant for wearing lavender oil on her clothes like her father did, but Alena had told her that she looked like a dark rose in some hidden garden.

Leave it to her girlfriend to be flirty.

“Sorry, sorry,” Serina said with a sigh, leaning back in the chair she sat in at her desk inside her quarters in the Thaumaturge Guild. “I just… something’s come up, and it’s causing me quite a bit of stress and worry.”

“Would it help if you talked about it?” Alena asked.

Serina let out a cuff of a laugh before being able to catch it, but didn’t mind the stress mirth making itself known. “Maybe? I just received news that I know I should be happy about, but instead it’s causing me to panic.”

“Oh?” There was clear interest in the melodic voice she could hear through the linkpearl. “What kind of news?”

“I am to be an envoy to the other nations as a representative of Ul’dah,” she said a little sullenly.

Instead of the comforting reaction that Serina expected, Alena let out a joyful exclamation of, “Oh, what a happy coincidence!”

“What do you mean?”

“I have been assigned to be the envoy for Limsa Lominsa! Can you believe the luck?”

“I… yeah,” Serina said slowly, unsure of how to feel about the clear joy in the voice of her girlfriend at similar news as her own versus the stress and panicked worry she had been wrestling with just a moment ago.

“Would you prefer I begin my rounds and meet you in Ul’dah, or shall I await your arrival?” There was a small gasp as the Dunesfolk lass realized she had gotten ahead of herself in her excitement. “I’m so sorry! I should have asked if you wanted me to accompany you, or if you would prefer to do this on your own.”

“That is actually something I would like to talk to you about,” Serina ventured, deciding to take the plunge and seek the help of her dearest friend. “I am worried I will mess it all up! In Ishgard, there were no lessons about being foreign envoys. There were visits to different war camps, settlements, and required service lectures, but nothing about how to interact with people of different city states!”

“And you’re worried you will mess it up?”

Serina was relieved that Alena saw right to the heart of the matter. “YES!”

“Why?”

“Because it…,” but Serina trailed off when vocalizing what she thought made her realize that her worry was meaningless. Hurt her reputation? That was before she fled Ishgard ahead of the Temple Knights looking to kill her with the help of Alena Ena. Ruin her family name? In all likelihood, her family had most probably disowned her, as was the usual practice for those who had heretics in their family tree. “By the Fury, I’m overthinking again, aren’t I?” she asked with a moan, heeling her hand against her forehead.

“That is why I will always be there to help ground you, love,” Alena said kindly.

“Can you… meet me in Ul’dah, then?” she requested. “I would really love for you to show me the ropes to being an envoy.”

“Of course!”

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #ff14 #final fantasy 14 #fanfiction #ffxiv write 2023 #writing prompt challenge

[theladyofshalott1989]

Writing Prompt #1: Imelda Reyes x f!MC/Female Reader

Thanks to @endless-starlight-legacy for providing the first prompt:

f!MC telling Imelda about her ancient magic Imelda Reyes x Female MC This is my first f/f one-shot, as well as my first story written in second-person perspective! Enjoy :) Word Count: 846 Rating: Teen ✨✨✨

“Hey you, Gryffindor!” a voice rang out from directly behind you, catching you off guard just as you vanquished the last Ashwinder, while using your ancient magic no less. Strands of hair clung to your damp forehead. You quickly brushed them aside.

Shit.

You hadn’t realized that someone had been watching. And, of course, you recognized the distinct Scottish brogue. Imelda, of all people! You were in trouble now. 

Swiftly stashing your wand, you smoothed down your dusty robes and turned as gracefully as possible, arranging your face into the most innocuous expression you could possibly muster.

“Hullo, Imelda. What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

Imelda greeted you in her usual stance—arms crossed, hip cocked, a defiant glint in her eye.

“What was all that about, then?” she asked, unfolding her arms and gesturing dramatically, as if reenacting the spell-casting she had just observed.

You gulped. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play coy with me, fifth-year.” 

A solitary bead of sweat trickled down your temple. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Enough of this,” she spat out, her words sharp as a blade. “You’re about as unobtrusive as a troll, galumphing around the Highlands, challenging everything that crosses your path.” Pausing to shoot you a scowl, she finished with: “You can trust me. I know how to keep a secret.”

Did Imelda just compare you to a troll? And did she really just suggest you could trust her? You tried and failed to hold back a snort. That was a mistake.

“Are you mocking me, Gryffindor?” 

You couldn’t help it. The laughter burst forth, spiraling out of control. This situation was rapidly deteriorating. Terribly so. Yet, you found yourself powerless to stop it.

“Laugh all you want. I know you’re hiding something.” Imelda’s cheeks were flushed a brilliant red. It was truly a sight to behold. Your own cheeks grew hot, but not from embarrassment. What was this unsettling sensation? Was it Imelda's doing?

After regaining your composure, you drew in a deep breath, then said, “No, Imelda, I apologize. It’s just…”

“Just what?” she cut in. “Am I that much of a villain to you?”

"No, no, not at all," you stammered. You decided to ignore the troll comment, for the time being. You continued, "It's just... we've hardly exchanged more than a few words beyond your broom trials, and to imply that I could confide in you... it's just..."

To your complete and utter shock, Imelda’s face fell. “Well, excuse me for talking about my passion! You’re just like Nerida…” she muttered under her breath. She clenched her fists at her side and cast her gaze downward. 

Witnessing Imelda’s struggle to conceal whatever inner turmoil was currently coursing through her stung more than you could have imagined. Why did she suddenly have this hold on you? Weren’t you terrified of her? 

“Fine,” you began, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. This was probably a mistake, but you were sick of hiding. Your ancient magic ability wasn’t something you should have to bear alone!

Imelda's head snapped up, a flicker of shock passing over her face before she quickly composed herself. 

Taking a deep breath, you hesitated for a moment before beginning. "I possess... a special type of magic. Ancient magic. It only manifested when I turned fifteen. It’s very rare and I’m not quite sure of the full extent of my abilities yet.” You absently toyed with your long braid cascading across your chest. “It’s all a bit much, to be honest with you…” 

“Figures,” she interjected, followed by a rather unladylike guffaw.

Your eyes widened. “Now who’s mocking whom?” you managed to utter, only for Imelda to laugh. Again.

Despite everything, despite the confusing tangle of emotions that were currently holding you hostage, you found yourself joining in.

The next thing you knew, you were doubled over, hands on your thighs, gasping for air. The touch of a hand on your shoulder jolted you back to reality.

“You and everyone else need to get a thicker skin,” Imelda drawled. “But I appreciate you telling me. Can’t say I’m surprised.” 

You parted your lips to respond, but the words eluded you. You were stunned into silence by Imelda’s scent—fresh grass kissed by light rain, the subtlest trace of sweat, the undeniable aura of competition, if scent could capture such a concept. 

You hoped Imelda couldn’t tell how enraptured you were by the moment, by her. That certainly wouldn’t do. 

“Having fun, are we?” she teased, arching an eyebrow. 

Shit. 

You stammered out something unintelligible, running your hand through your hair and accidentally pulling your braid out in the process.

“Kneazle got your tongue?”

“Erm, no, I—"

“No matter,” she interrupted. “We'll talk more later." She raised a hand in salute. "See you around, fifth-year. Your secret is safe with me.” She then, presumably, began the long trek back to the castle. 

Once Imelda was out of sight, you heaved a sigh of relief. That could have gone better, but… maybe, just maybe, opening up to Imelda hadn’t been such a terrible idea after all.

#hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy one-shot #imelda reyes x f!mc #imelda reyes x female mc #f/f #imelda reyes x you #writing prompt challenge #imelda reyes #imelda reyes x female reader

[modifieduchiha]

Show, don't tell : Part 1

Directory Writing Masterlist Blog Etiquette Buy me a Ko-Fi?

[ Angry + Frustrated ]

Red face

Tensing up jaw/body

Clenching fists

Gritting teeth

Stomped feet

Rolling eyes

Crossing arms

Kick/Hit something

Eyebrows furl

Face crunches up

Tight lips

Narrow eyes

[ Happy + Excited ]

Laugh/Giggle

Smile from ear to ear

High tone in voice

Smiling/Grinning while talking

Heart Pounding

Clapping

Breathing deeply

Squeal/Scream

Talking fast

Contentedly Sigh

Tilted head

Hand clasped over mouth

[Bored + Tired ]

Pace back and forth

Sigh loudly

Blank face

Play with fingers

Staring off into space

Yawning

Fidgeting around

Leaning head on hands

Rubbing eyes

Droopy eyes

Dark circles under eyes

Complaining

[Sad + Scared]

Trembling lips/body

Tears in eyes

Bite Nails

Curl up/tuck knees to chest

Bite nails

Eyes burn/turn red

Stop breathing OR breathe fast

Lose appetite

Frowning

Darting eyes

Blinking quick or not at all

Pounding heart

© ModifiedUchiha 2023 ★ Feel free to use them for inspiration , but give credit if adding to a list ★

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[hexensprompts]

Daily Challenge

Make a story or piece using at least 3 of the following words.

Fantasy | Crime | Obscure | Jade | Economic

Can be writing could be art. Have fun with it and explore.

#new challenge #writing prompt challenge #prompts #writing prompt #writing motivation #writing inspiration #writers #hexensprompts

[reidmotif]

Popsicle Love

Summary: Reader and Spencer are at a ridiculously hot precinct station, getting on each other's nerves arguing. Reader realizes she can get back at him, using a certain sweet treat.

Prompt: Spencer can't deal with how much Reader loves popsicles/ice cream cones

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: Reader POV, rough sex, hair-pulling, dom!Spencer, coworker relationship, oral sex (m receiving), fingering (f receiving) , dirty talk, heavy making-out, unprotected penetrative sex, bathroom sex, hate-fucking, pure smut

Word Count: 3.2k

“It is too fucking hot for this” was my first thought as he began talking to me. Fuck Spencer Reid, because he was the who decided that today, in the sweltering Georgia heat, was the day he would annoy the ever-loving shit out of me. 

“You’re going about this all wrong!” Spencer said, rolling his eyes. His sleeves were pulled up, and there was anger in his eyes. I crossed my legs, feeling my skirt ride up but I honestly couldn’t care less. It was scorching, and I was determined to not lose this argument to Reid. I let out a breath of air, meeting him with my own annoyed, exasperated expression. 

“Reid, you’re being absolutely childish right now.” I retorted. “Sort through the paperwork first, then analyze it! Not everyone wants to do things the way you insist on doing them!” I say, furrowing my brows. 

“Not everyone can.” He says, cockily, a smirk gracing his lips. That motherfucker. 

I was about to get up and honestly hit him square in the jaw, half from my delusion in the heat, and half from how fucking smug he sounded. I wanted to knock that smirk off his face, and maybe ruin that pretty smile of his in the process, just as an added bonus. 

Thankfully, before I could do anything rash that would definitely result in me losing my job, one of the officers of the station quickly came to interrupt us. 

“Hey, one of the officers brought in popsicles. If any of y’all would like any, they’re in the breakroom.” She said, turning away. Thank God for Southern hospitality, I suppose. 

I sighed, getting up from my spot. Spencer and I clearly weren’t getting anywhere when it came to our disagreements, and that’s how it was, and how it would remain to be. The man was a pain-in-the-fucking ass, and it was an honest shame, considering the fact he was actually pretty hot, especially when his mouth wasn’t moving. 

Spencer walked ahead of me, the idea of something to cool him down enticing him just as much as it did me. We reached the breakroom and he opened the freezer, taking out the box of popsicles, and looking into it. He pulled out two, presumably one for me, and one for him. 

“Blue or red?” He says, holding out the brightly colored packages, offering me a choice of one. 

“Red.” I say, reaching over with no hesitation and grabbing the red-colored packaging in his hand. “Duh.” I added, starting to unwrap the treat. “It’s the best flavor.” 

He scoffed a little, opening up his own, blue package, and I rolled my eyes at the sound. 

“What, are you going to argue with me about my choices in popsicle flavor too now?” I say, with a disbelieving tone. 

“No, it’s nothing,” He says, shrugging, with that same, shit-eating, self-satisfied grin.

 God, I hated him. 

I gave a deep exhale through my nose, forcing myself to calm down. I decided it’d be for the best if I walked out, left him here alone to avoid another fight. He called out before I could even walk two steps. 

“You have to eat here.” He said, taking licks at his popsicle. “The officers- they’re old fashioned. I don’t know.” He adds, “If you wanna be yelled at though, be my guest.”

I grumbled internally at that, but I knew he was right. I didn’t want to be yelled at. 

I took my place, leaning against a table that had been placed in the breakroom and taking my own popsicle out of the packaging, beginning to eat it. I sighed happily as I felt the taste settle on my tongue, the coolness blooming throughout my mouth. I began by licking the sides before taking it in my mouth. I suckled for a minute, and I could feel it already melting down my fingers a bit, due to the heat in the station. I released the popsicle in my mouth with a pop, before going to lick the sticky residue off my fingers. It was a little childish, sure, but it was hot and it wasn’t like anyone was watching me. I continued this cycle, softly sucking at the popsicle and wrapping my tongue around it until I heard what sounded like ... a whimper from across the room? I let my eyes drift up, noticing a seemingly flustered Spencer in the corner of my eye. He leaned away from me, crossing his legs. I knitted my brows, before putting the pieces together, realizing what had happened. 

He was a guy, after all. And I suppose the way I was eating my popsicle could come off as suggestive, but come on! How else was I meant to eat it? And armed with the knowledge that my innocent action was enough to provoke him, I decided a little more intent in my movement couldn’t hurt. 

I began to take the popsicle a little more vigorously, bobbing my head a bit. My lips wrapped around the treat, and I could feel Spencer’s eyes shamelessly on me and internally grinned. Good. He had annoyed me all day, and the idea of him dealing with a hard-on with no way to relieve himself was definitely karmic justice in my eyes. I closed my eyes, savoring the taste, but also in the way I could feel Spencer shifting around, trying to hide what seemed like a fast-growing erection. When I hollowed out my cheeks, and swirled my tongue around the sweetness in my mouth, I could hear a sound from the back of his throat escaping his lips. I let the popsicle out of my mouth, and in that moment, a melted chunk seemed to fall off, landing itself on my chest. I hissed, feeling the coldness of the tacky liquid running down my bare skin. 

“Shit.” I said, trying to flick off the liquid off my hands and realizing I’d need to clean myself up. I dropped the remainder of the popsicle in the trash, not bothering to look back, before I walked over to the bathroom. I let out a breath of air as I opened the door to the precinct bathroom, looking at my chest and sighing, grabbing a handful of paper towels to run under the sink to wash myself with. 

Before I could do that though, I heard the door swing open, and saw through the mirror it was none other than Spencer Reid.  I crossed my arms, putting my back to the counter of the sink as I turned around to look him up and down. 

“What are you doing here?” I remarked, with a displeased tone. 

He looked absolutely furious, and there was a slight part of me that was excited, knowing I could rile him up like this. He was breathing heavily, and moving closer to me, trapping me in between the counter and his body, and what felt like a very noticeable hardness pressing against my thigh. 

“The better question is, what the fuck are you doing?” He asked, his tone low and menacing. 

I rolled my eyes, before feigning a look of innocence, making my eyes wide. “What do you mean, Spencer?” 

“You know exactly what I mean.” He responds, gripping a piece of hair at the back of my skull and pulling slightly, forcing me to bare my neck to him. “Where do you get off doing something like that to me, huh?” He murmurs, leaning closer and letting his lips brush over the shell of my ear. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I retorted hastily,  but I could hear the shakiness in my voice. The way he was speaking, the pull he had on my hair- it thrilled me, and contributed to a growing heat between my legs. 

He pushed himself further and further against me, and I could feel his erection against my thigh even more so than before, and felt my stomach flutter at the feeling. My jaw dropped a bit, letting out a soft sigh, sensitive to the sensation. 

“Oh is that right?” Spencer replies, nodding as he spoke a little cruelly. “You like acting like this? Like a goddamn slut?” He grunts out. He twists and pulls my hair a little more, eliciting a soft moan from my lips. 

“You like it when I pull on your pretty hair like that?” He said, snarking the words at me. “Like how wet I make you?” He whispered, venom in his voice. 

Without warning, he placed his fingers at the growing wet patch at my underwear, roughly pushing it aside before starting to rub harsh, tight circles around my clit. I nearly lost my mind at the sensation, nearly doubling over with pleasure. 

I whimpered softly, and I could feel his smirk as he started to kiss up and down my neck. “So wet for me, mm?” He says, starting to move his fingers faster over my swollen clit. “I’ve barely touched you. You’re fucking needy for me, yeah?” 

I groaned, not processing enough of what he was saying to warrant a response. My brain was foggy from how good he was making me feel. I tried to not think about the fact that this was Spencer, the Spencer who’d annoyed me from the moment I’d joined the BAU. The Spencer I despised, the one I was supposed to hate- but here was, making me orgasm in a precinct bathroom with his fingers alone. 

He rubbed a bit faster, before thrusting two fingers into my needy cunt. I moaned again, louder, and he responded by burying his fingers even deeper into my core, pumping harshly. I could feel the room spinning, gripping onto the counter behind me to stabilize me as my orgasm began to approach me rapidly. He watched me intently, his gaze hot and intense before smirking. “Come for me. Come all over my fingers, (Y/N).” He whispered. 

I did, nearly on command, convulsing against him as I felt myself clench around his long, slender digits, my moans reverberating around the small space.

He withdrew his fingers suddenly, leaving me painfully empty before he began to grab my face roughly, forcing me to look at him.

“Say that you want this, bitch.” He whispers harshly, pulling my hair and eliciting yet another moan from me as he pushed me up against the counter. 

“Spencer..” I murmured, feeling my knees go a bit weak at how roughly he was manhandling me. He spun our positions around, and I felt him using the grip on my hair to push me down to my knees.

“Say it!” He said, a little more firmly now. “I need to hear you say it.” 

I felt the desperation in his tone, weakly looking up at him from this angle before I nodded quickly. 

“I want you. I want this.” I wailed, arousal coursing through my veins. I no longer cared about the humiliation of letting him use me like this. I wanted to chase this feeling forever, wanted to be at his mercy for as long as he wanted, as long as he could continue to make me feel this good. 

I felt him groan above me, before he pulled me closer to his bulge, raising an eyebrow. He looked absolutely wild from here, sweat dripping down from his brow, and sleeves pushed up. He breathed heavily, his chest heaving up and down.

“Go on then. This is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” He mocked, but I could tell his voice was strained with the exact same need I was feeling in the moment. 

I gave no protest, using my deft fingers to quickly undo his slacks, pulling them down along with his boxers, watching his heavy cock bob in the air for a moment, before looking up at him, my jaw slightly agape. 

Was this really happening?

He nodded, as if to give me an okay, and I didn’t need any more encouragement than that. I swirled my tongue around his tip,  watching in fascination as I heard a groan from him, his head falling back as he moaned. “Fuck, (Y/N). Just like that.”

I grew bolder with his praise. I began to take more of him in my mouth, using my hands where my tongue wouldn’t reach. I gripped and worked his base, while suckling on what my mouth could reach. As I got used to the intrusion in my mouth, I moved down slowly, eventually taking the whole of him. He moaned loudly at this, and gripped my hair tighter, starting to move me up and down his cock. I relaxed the muscles in my mouth, letting him use me as he pleased. I watched from the lower angle the best I could, the sight of him coming undone at my mouth absolutely gorgeous. I could feel the tears pooling in the corner of my eyes, the saliva dripping down from my mouth and covering my chest. I wanted to watch him fall apart, to be at my mercy just as much as I was at his. 

He moaned at the feeling, and I could feel myself get wetter at the sound. “Oh fuck. You feel so fucking good.” He groaned out, before grabbing my hair yet again, and holding my head in place. He started to fuck my throat roughly, and the tears began to flow a little more rapidly, feeling the pooling of saliva down my chin as I felt him hit the back of my throat.

“You like this, huh?” He teased from above, between pants and sighs. “Wanted me all riled up, so we could do this, right?” 

I nodded desperately, incoherent begs and whines coming from my mouth before he pulled me off with a tug. I felt delightfully dirty, as he forced me up again and kissed me roughly. I barely registered him turning us around in my lustful stupor, bending me mercilessly against the sink and lifting up my skirt, pulling my underwear down in a clean swoop. I could feel him squeezing the fat of my hips and moaned at the way he controlled me so easily, to which he let out a smug chuckle. 

He gripped my hair again, pulling my head up and forcing me to look at myself. We looked sinful, his cock pressing against my wet folds, teasing me. 

“See that? You look like a fucking whore.” He snarled, breathing heavily. 

I wasn’t going to let him win so easily. Even though I wanted the same things as him, I knew the more I teased him, the better I’d get from him. I  raised an eyebrow and breathlessly murmured, “Are you going to stand there and look at me, or are you going to  fuck me, Reid?” 

He bared his teeth at me, thrusting into me roughly with no warning. “Oh, you wanna be fucked? Then take it.” He groaned, starting to buck his hips against me like a man possessed. 

I moaned at the sudden feeling, letting my jaw drop fully to let out all my noises. I could feel the slaps of his skin against mine, and the smell of sex filling up the small space. His fingers gripped so tightly into my stomach I swear I could feel the bruises already blooming over my stomach. I let him fill me up, his thick cock passing through me roughly, over and over again. 

“So fucking warm and wet. You feel..” He paused, moaning and jutting against me faster. “So fucking good.” 

I could see the sweat dripping down his brow, and the way it collected down his neck. In this moment though, the only heat I could focus on was no longer the one around us, but the one that came from every brutal pass of his cock, creating a delicious burn I reveled in with every moment he stayed inside me. I moaned loudly, feeling myself get hotter and hotter with every second. 

I watched through the mirror as he fucked me into the counter with no restraint, his head thrown back, eyes shut as he continued to use me, plowing into me from behind. I could feel my knees getting weaker, feeling his cock twitch inside of me as I arched my back to take more of him. He groaned at the sensation of him bottoming out, the rhythm of his hips becoming irregular as he continued to rut into me. I rolled my hips against him, hoping to spur on our impending releases. He thrust into me once or twice , until I felt him come with a loud moan,  a familiar warmth pooling into my deepest point, but even then his hips didn't still. He fucked his own arousal into me, and I could feel my orgasm rapidly approaching, his lazy thrusts doing me in, and soon enough I was spasming over his cock, moaning loudly. 

He pulled out of me, and my eyes fluttered shut at the sudden emptiness. I could feel his cum dripping down my leg, and his eyes watching in fascination as the mixture of both of our releases leaked out of me. He pulled up my underwear, immediately soaking up the liquids, and I groaned at the feeling. He pulled me up, leaning me against the sink. 

I watched as he panted against the sink, and I swear, I would’ve fallen over without his steady grip on my hips. He and I were both flushed, my hair absolutely ruined from how hard he’d been pulling it, my tear-stained face still contorted in an expression of pleasure as we both recovered from the highs of our orgasms. 

“Did I hurt you?” He asks, in between his breaths, looking genuinely concerned. “I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

I laughed a little bit at that, shaking my head. “You were the perfect amount of rough. Don’t worry.” I say, waving him off a little, assuring him that I got just as much out of this as he did. 

As he tucked himself back into his pants, he grinned at me for seemingly no reason. I met his eyes with a confused expression, raising an eyebrow, pressing my lips together. “What are you grinning about?” I ask, trying to fix my hair as I look at him.

He walked over to me, turning me to face the mirror. I felt his chest against my back, and one of his large hands came to wrap themselves around me, before he ghosted a finger over my chest and whispered against my ear. “You still have some of that goddamn popsicle on you.” He says, trying not to laugh. 

I rolled my eyes, chuckling a bit as I remembered the entire reason he’d been provoked to do this, and went to go finally wipe off the sticky residue once and for all. “Oh yeah. Popsicle.” I said, teasingly. 

“Never do that again.” He says, starting to move away from me as he worked on making himself presentable enough to leave the bathroom with me. 

I paused, turning around to look at him, still appearing completely fucked out and dazed as I smirked a bit. “If it gets you to fuck me like that? No promises.” 

wow! a short fic from me?! crazy!! i wanted to try my hand at writing something smutty, but short. this was specifically written for @imagining-in-the-margins summer sunshine challenge, so go check that out :3 thank you for any likes, reblogs or comments. <3 i'm eternally thankful

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #smut #writing prompt #writing challenge #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #mentioningmargins

[jen-with-a-pen]

𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬, 𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗨𝗢𝗨𝗦 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗦

summary: After what you assumed would be a successful mission, things veer off-course and you're stuck with Bucky Barnes in Istanbul with no way out until morning. The tension between you comes to head and nothing will be the same again.

parings: Protective!Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Sniper!Agent!Curvy!F!Reader

word count: 6.5K

warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, canon-level violence with just a bit more blood, guns, reader is a sniper/sharp-shooter, hate-making out, degradation, fighting, insults and cursing, teasing/banter, reader and bucky don't know how to talk about their feelings (or to eachother), spanking, doggy, angry-horny, rough-ish sex, pent up anger, pent up sexual tension, power dynamics, protective!Bucky, vague hinting to Bucky's PTSD, no use of y/n, reader is tagged as curvy and is described as such but body description is kept to a minimum

a/n: this work is for @targaryenvampireslayer's Blind Date Writing Challenge! My prompts were "enemies to lovers" and "Again! Please, again!" I am incredibly thankful to Suz for letting me participate. I haven't been able to participate in a challenge since forever ago 😅 ALSO! This is my first time writing enemies to lovers, as well as curvy!reader! even though i'm curvy myself, i hope i did okay ♥ This work is not beta-read. all mistakes are my own. If any mistake is glaringly obvious, please feel free to message me and let me know! p.s. I listened to a lot of PVRIS + Nothing But Thieves writing this, can ya tell? p.p.s. the amount of willpower and struggle with my muse it took to finish this is... a lot. i think she scratched my cornea at some point.

If I’ve missed any tags, PLEASE let me know!

gif by @unearthlydust | dividers by @cafekitsune | warning banner by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist title from: You Know Me Too Well by Nothing But Thieves Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚

Bucky Barnes has always hated you, and you have always hated Bucky Barnes. At least since you first met, that is. 

Being the newest recruit– and only sharp-shooter–  to grace the S.H.I.E.L.D. Direct Action Team’s roster since signing on the Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, the hostility was almost immediate from the second you walked in your first day. 

You couldn’t help cringing– which would be quickly followed by raging annoyance and a slight migraine– without remembering your first time training with Bucky. He made it crystal clear he didn’t trust your previous experience or trainers, let alone your sniper training. Within the first week he ground your spirit into dust with his leather combat boots, quashing any attempts to defend yourself. And it’s not like you weren’t familiar with his history, either; he’d broken every single last sharp-shooter that came to the team before you, a hardass ex-assassin with an introverted mean streak who happened one of the top snipers in the United States Army during World War II. Old dogs certainly can learn new tricks, though, and it was extremely apparent when it came to Bucky Barnes.

When you finally had enough midway through the third week, you snapped at him after he corrected you for the umpteenth time on your foot positioning, pointedly informing him you weren’t built like you could take on a goddamned semi-truck with one hand.

Once you finished, he silently handed you a pistol and challenged you to a shoot off. One-handed. You considered it a tie. Tony considered the training range off-limits until he got government permission via S.H.I.E.L.D. to replace every single shooting target and torso dummy in the compound– including the extras.

After that, the two of you weren’t allowed in the gym, on the same mode of transportation, in the infirmary, or the training range without someone else to supervise with a tranquilizer gun at the ready and within arm’s reach of said supervisor. More often than not, though, the ‘someone else’ was either Steve or Natasha– depending who won the coin toss before training that day– and the tranquilizer gun wasn’t really more of a tranquilizer gun than it was a slight sedative to calm each of you down enough for either Steve, or Nat, to drag you out without kicking and screaming at each other. Granted, it only happened one time– a workout competition-turned-sparring match that lasted the better part of four hours– but everyone else agreed to keep it around. Just in case.

You learned, however, exactly how much ketamine it took to down a raging super soldier with a vibranium arm. You couldn’t help but make horse whinnies under your breath every time you passed Bucky in the compound for at least a week. 

With a year of domestic missions underneath your belt, S.H.I.E.L.D. constituted you ready to travel with the DA Team on international missions and operations. You were elated, excited to prove your worth and wit to everyone; especially Bucky, because maybe then he’d be at least keen enough to start showing you a drop of respect.  

Then there was the fallout of when you both learned you’d be sent on the next mission. Together. Albeit with Natasha and Clint– but together. 

Fury said he didn’t have a choice. Tony claimed it was out of his hands. Natasha, while protecting a cowering Steve from the flames and daggers shooting out of yours and Bucky’s glares, flat out told you, “either you both learn to work together, or neither of you are working DA missions again,” adding, with gritted teeth and a pinched bridge, “The whole team thinks you’re a fucking pair of walking time bombs. I don’t wanna use the damn ketamine gun again.”

The next thing you knew, you were on a plane to Turkey with your rifle, wits, and the waiting promise of separate hotel rooms upon arrival. 

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A reddened sun dipped over the Istanbul skyline, swathing the city in shadows. Dusk was imminent as you ascended the rusted fire escape and stepped onto the roof of the abandoned building; the dilapidated outside was perfect enough to designate it as the main stake out location. You sighed in awe at the view, catching the remnants of the sunset while pausing for a brief break before switching into ‘work mode.’ 

“Stop fuckin’ around, get into position,” Bucky said through your ear piece. Shit. You forgot he could see your video feed via the harness crossing over your chest and the cameras Natasha set up on the roof and the building next door. 

“Sorry, Sarge, thought I’d enjoy the view before I dome some fuckin’ war criminal from a thousand yards away,” you huffed. The line went silent, save from what sounded like very faint cursing amidst the static. You rolled your eyes, swinging the gun bag off your back, unpacking and assembling and loading, preparing for working on yet another thrilling Saturday night.

You silently prayed the hotel had a decent bar with decent hours.

Dropping into a prone position, you were thankful for the custom-fit tac suit that hugged your body as your hips and thighs scraped against debris littering the roof as you positioned the scope of your rifle, placing your hand delicately on the trigger. 

“In position,” you muttered, adjusting into a more comfortable, ready-to-bail position in case things went south. When you shot prone, it felt as if the mission at hand weighed just a bit heavier than others. More unbearable. The tactical suit and additional weapons attached to your aching body rivaled that of cinder blocks chained to your legs, weighing you down to the ocean floor in an attempted drowning while you tried to stay above water.

It's never gotten easier, but it's never been harder. 

The past two days had been filled with inconsistent sleep, hiding out, and keeping watch, all while under the watchful eye of Bucky. Bucky, who was watching you from inside the stakeout building, who threw a super soldier temper tantrum about having to figure out the ‘nonsensical logistics’ of how to stream a fucking live video feed, who barely bothered to say a word to you while meeting Natasha at the location that morning– aside from graciously allowing you to borrow his weapons cleaning kit. 

“You didn’t bring your own?” He cocked a judgmental brow at you, looking you up and down like a creature that crawled out of the Black Lagoon. Steely sea-blue eyes met yours, sharp and bright. Challenging. The collar of your tactical suit had instantly tightened.

“Figured we both use the same stuff, might as well bring the one to save space,” you shrugged, cocking a hip. 

Bucky’s eyes flitted to your pronounced curve before you straightened, swallowing. 

“Fine. Go nuts,” he sighed reluctantly, gesturing for you to sit in the guarded seat across from him. You sensed his piercing gaze follow you, feeling the same heat creep up your neck and cheeks just like all the other times he watched you. You chocked it up to an intimidation tactic, because it sure as hell worked.

You shook Bucky out of your brain. You needed to stay focused.  

“Copy. Target is en route to position, t-minus two minutes. Make it clean and make it quick.” Natasha's voice was cool, calming you and the usual racing thoughts in your head during these types of missions. You preferred her over anyone else to be your spotter since your first time out in the field, but this time she was assigned to be the plant, luring the target away from the rather innocent party-goers so they wouldn’t be splattered with brain matter and skull fragments courtesy of you.

Though, you had to admit, in the right scenarios, that was one of the more satisfying things that came with being a sniper.

“Don’t fuckin’ rush it,” Bucky chimed in.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring him. “Copy, Nat, just keep dangling the carrot.”

“You know I’ll do more than that. Out.” You could hear her wink. 

Two minutes might not seem like much, but missions like these can make it feel like a lifetime. Part of you hoped Bucky watched every second. The other half hoped you could smack the doubtful smirk off his stubble-ridden face– the same exact one he had whenever he watched you train. It was like he wanted you to fail. Like he was expecting it, anticipating it. 

You pinched your wrist. Now was not the fucking time. 

You brought the scope closer to your face, targeting the window Natasha would be bringing the target in front of. The crosshairs helped even out the scene while you lined up the shot right between the bedroom’s curtains. You readied yourself, focusing on breathing and controlling the rise and fall of your chest, steadying your bottom half. You blinked, then, and through the sights you spotted the golden shimmer of Natasha’s dress reflecting off the room’s low lighting. Finger on the trigger, delicately squeezing as the target’s head entered into the crosshairs, stepping unknowingly into the middle of your aim, mere seconds left to live, left until he rots in his deserved place in hell. 

Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Pull.

The target dropped in mere milliseconds as the shot reverberated throughout your body, the sound thankfully muffled by your ear pieces and the silencer. The recoil of the rifle dug into your shoulder, fighting against the rest of your body anchored by stiffened muscles. You exhaled, shaky, still, pushing the scope from your face and resting your head on the cool metal of the stock, allowing it to sear into your burning forehead.

“Confirmed kill. Target down. Meet you back at the hotel, over,” Natasha’s breathless voice crackled into your ear. 

“Copy. On my way down. Bucky do you–”

White hot pain suddenly seared through the back of your skull, slamming you face-first into your rifle. You clutched the back of your head, whipping around to be greeted by the dark void of a gun barrel. You froze, blood draining from your face, stomach free-falling as your gaze traveled up to meet crazed eyes and a twisted face. The man– your assaulter– was clad in black with hints of a tattoo running up his neck like blackened veins. No doubt the symbols hidden under his collar belonged to the syndicate run by his boss. The boss you just killed.

He snarled, yellowed teeth glistening in a maniacal grin. “You’re going to pay for that, little bitch,” he spat and nodded to your rifle as he shoved the barrel in your face. The metal practically branded you like marking a cattle for slaughter.

“Try me, prick,” you gritted through ringing pain and a locked jaw, snarling at the man as you rose, slowly, the barrel unmoving as the gun followed your position.

His grin widened. He began pushing you backwards towards the edge of the roof. Quickly, you kicked your foot out, catching his ankle and grabbing his wrist, pointing the gun at the darkened sky as you clawed at his fingers to release it from his grasp. A deafening shot rang out as you wrestled, sending an elbow straight into your jaw that shoved you away. He aimed for you again as you pulled a knife from your waistband, hurling it at any limb you could hit. It nailed him in his thigh, deep enough you knew it hit bone. He dropped the pistol in favor of his leg, allowing you enough of a break to kick the gun off the roof, sliding it off the opposite edge and down the fire escape.

You stood. You noticed the flicker, the fire, in the man’s eyes as it raged, burning brighter than the streetlights below. He yelled as he lunged, knocking you down again. Hard. Lungs deflated, pain seared through your spine, leaving you sputtering and gasping, grasping desperately for anything: his arms, his legs, your knife, your knife in his leg. Your head spun from the impact, rage and bile boiling in your stomach as arms and legs kicked and thrashed. The man grabbed you by your hair as if to scalp you, limping his way to the edge of the roof, dragging you along inch by inch. You deadened, going limp, hoping to make it that much harder for him to drag you with a knife in his fucking femur. Your stomach dropped as the wind picked up and the distance from the fire escape grew farther away. You knew what was in store: a five-story drop onto the hard street below. 

With impressive strength for a man who was actively bleeding out– and bleeding all over you– he swung you around by the fistful of hair in his hands, dangling your bottom half off the edge of the roof. You fought the panic beginning to set in, thrashing your feet around in an attempt to find some sort of foothold as your hands scrambled to grip the ledge. To add insult to injury, he slammed your head down, skull and jaw dropping with a dizzying thump. A gruff laugh erupted from his chest, and he spat at you. You glanced hesitantly over your shoulder. The world stretched and morphed the longer you looked; your eyes saw a fifty-foot drop while your brain saw a thousand foot death sentence. You willed your sore neck to turn back to the man, only to fight the scream that bubbled up your throat at the sight of a miniature pistol pointed execution-style at you. You ceased any movement, eyes widening, grip tightening on the inch-thick ledge of the roof that held you from becoming a human pancake.

“Looks like you’ll pay after all, bitch!” He grinned, cocking the pistol and preparing to fire. As he squeezed the trigger, as you squeezed your eyes shut, there’s a muffled shot, and then a warm, oozing feeling running down your face and neck. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes, greeted by the sight of the man’s jaw slackened as his eyes began to roll back in his skull. A singular bullet wound centered on his forehead leaked brain and blood and bits of bone. He’s shoved over, body falling like a rag doll and spilling onto the roof. He’s quickly replaced by a seething, panting Bucky with a pistol pointed where your would-be-killer stood. Your eyes widened as your chest constricted, fingertips grinding against the edge as your arms burned and begged to be pulled to solid ground. He lowers the gun, lips parted, eyes boring into your soul like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Sar–Bucky, I’m fuckin’ slipping here!” you yelled as your left hand began to give way to gravity. The entirely reasonable request seemed to piss him off even more as he cursed, dropping his gun and grabbing harshly onto your arms, yanking you back up. He dropped you onto the roof in a heap. While your muscles screamed and you hacked up your lungs trying to regain normal oxygen levels, the annoyance you harbored for Bucky returned just as quickly as the gratefulness you had for his rescue faded once he turned his back on you, heading to the fire escape. 

“Thanks, Bucky, but Jesus fucking–”

He whipped around, blue eyes flashing crimson– a warning sign to choose your next words extremely carefully. 

“Clean up n’ get the fuck down. I’m leaving with or without you in ten fucking minutes,” he seethed, fists clenching onto the fire escape bars. You winced at the groaning sound the metal emitted as he bent it out of place, imprinting his palm prints into the bars.

“Bucky, I– What do–” you stuttered. Thoughts were racing as you looked between him and your would-be murderer decaying in his own drying blood a few feet away. You looked back at him. His eyes, swimming with something unrecognizable, mixed with fear and anger plaguing his features– like he remembered something so vivid, so real, that he was reliving it again.

“Just,” he turns his back to you, voice shaking, “get down here.”

He disappeared, leaving you to clean up the mess.

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The back alleyway was lit with a single, softly glowing flood light that led out to the busy streets. Bucky, who was already waiting for you with a furiously tapping foot, surveilled you with a stuck-snarling lip as you jumped down from the fire escape. The gilded plates in his hand leading up under his sleeve glinted with the violet-tinted vibranium. 

There's a moment, a beat, shared between you as you stood to look at him. You stared at one another, gazes unwavering and refusing to break, to blink. The shadows surrounding you began to move as if they were dancing on Bucky's face, sharpening his jaw, his features. He stayed on you, eyes flitting ever-so-slightly over your form. 

Your face burned.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Take a fuckin’ picture why don’t ya?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Could say th’same for you.” 

He grumbled something– probably cursing you– under his breath. As he opened his mouth to hurl an insult your way, both your phones pinged.

♦ Natasha: Taking last flight out of IST. Jet coming early AM. Lay low. Don’t kill each other. Please. Talk soon.

You swallowed a groan. 

“Fuckin’ great,” Bucky muttered, loud enough for you to hear. 

“Uh, okay. Fuck you, too, then,” you shot at him defensively. Knee-jerk reaction. Pinching the bridge of your nose and kicking yourself, you dropped the subject. Not the fight you wanted to pick at that moment. “Let’s– let's just call a cab and get to the hotel.”

“No. I have a bike. And we’re going to a safehouse.”

“Bucky, it's dark enough, my bag is–”

Suddenly, he was much closer than a mere second before, backing you up against the wall of the stakeout building. He beat you in height by a decent amount, but him towering over you really put it in perspective. His broad shoulders heaved, vibranium arm whirring in overdrive as he jabbed a plated finger at you, his face inches from yours. 

“I. Don't. Fucking. Care,” he stabbed each word into your sternum. “Bike’s down at the other end of the block. We're taking it, or you can fuckin’ walk. Doesn't matter to me.” 

You wanted to take his finger and break it.  

You glared, focus shifting between his startlingly bright blue eyes and the strange closeness of his face to yours. It was like you were seeing him– like, actually seeing him– for the first time in high definition. All of his details– the small scars by his hairline, the slight crookedness of his nose, crow’s feet and worry lines beginning to etch themselves into his skin, the indent between his brows– overwhelmed you as your eyes darted all over his face. You snapped back to his glare and were suddenly very conscious of your own facial expression that failed to rival his. You set your jaw and furrowed your brow.

You doubted it was convincing.

“Fine.” 

He stepped back and started striding down the alleyway with you at his heels. Your grip on the straps of the gun bag burned your palms as you tried to keep up with Bucky’s annoyingly long strides. At the intersection between the main street and two shops sat a garage; it appeared closed for the night, but was still open to Bucky, apparently, who pulled a key out from under an unsuspecting plant. He unlocked the large metal door, lifting it to reveal a tiny space that was barely big enough to house the large motorcycle and a workbench scattered with parts and tools. He strolled in like he owned the place and grabbed one of the helmets hanging off the motorcycle’s handles, handing it to you with an outstretched arm as he saddled himself onto the bike. You looked from him to the helmet, mouth agape and brow arched in confusion. 

When you didn’t take it, he rolled his eyes and shook it at you.

“C’mon, we don’t have all night.”

“When the hell did you–”

“I’ve got my ways. Now c’mon, put the damn helmet on,” he huffed, leaning back on the seat. His thick thighs clenched and straddled the gunmetal-body of the motorcycle. You held back the shiver that ran up your back as you crossed your arms, hip cocking out in defiance. In the briefest of pauses, Bucky stilled, and you swore you caught his eyes scanning down your body, your curves and full figure, before snapping back up to meet yours. He scoffed, smirking to himself and shaking his head.

“The fuck are you laughin’ at?” Your face turned hot, prompting your arms to hug tighter over your chest. You felt off balance. 

He said nothing and tossed the helmet to you. Your arms uncrossed and reacted much faster than your brain did as you barely caught it, slipping it on. Pointedly sighing, you relented and climbed onto the bike as Bucky put his own helmet on, sliding the visor down. In the shortly-live silence, your breathing echoed his, the air weighing heavy with anticipation. You were suddenly hyper-aware of every single little touch, every tiny movement made, every breath taken– like a bucket of ice water getting splashed on you, you were present for what felt like the first time that night.

The bike roared to life and Bucky leaned forward to fit his body closer to the handles. 

“Might wanna hang on,” he yelled over the noise. You hesitated, probably for a second too long for Bucky’s liking as he looked behind you and rolled his eyes (you knew he did, even behind the stupid visor.) He reached behind his back and grabbed your wrist, pulling you against him and wrapping your arm around his waist. Your free arm followed suit, tightly embracing him, heart pounding in your chest at the sudden act. You lurched forward as he rode out of the garage and began down the street; the location was a mystery to you, other than you knew it was one of the regular S.H.I.E.L.D. approved safehouses in Istanbul.

Weaving through the other bikes and cars, you couldn’t help but lean closer into Bucky, watching the lights and sights pass by in a blur. Fingers fanned over his abdomen as you held on, feeling the firm leather tac jacket against your skin– which became firmer upon pressing into him and feeling like you were palming a brick wall. Knees fit together at the sides of the bike, shifting ever-so-slightly whenever he braked or shifted. Worst of all, as you hugged your chest into his back, you had a front-row seat in viewing the way his broad shoulders twisted with laser-like precision as he drove.

It took every ounce of energy not to let go and fall off the bike. 

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The four-flight trudge up to the safehouse– more like safeapartment, actually– was a miserable one, especially with twenty pounds worth of gear on your back and a highly impatient super soldier on your ass telling you to “hurry the fuck up.”

“Again: ‘m not built like a fuckin’ freight train, here, Bucky,” you panted as your legs struggled in rounding the fourth and final landing. He didn’t bother to wait for you, instead turning wordlessly off the landing, heading down the hallway to the door with the keys jingling against his vibranium hand. You caught up to him, standing awkwardly off to the side as he fumbled with the sticky lock, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his hands moved. The way the vibranium prosthetic moved as fluidly as his flesh and bone, the way the plates glinted in the dimly lit hallway, the way his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. 

Bucky swung the door open, pulling you out of your trance. He flicked on a light switch to reveal a small apartment complete with a cramped living room, couch, small T.V., and an open kitchen in the back. A hallway diverted off to the left, presumably to the bathroom and–

“It’s a one bedroom,” Bucky muttered, stepping into the apartment. You looked at him incredulously. 

“You– you’re kidding, right?” you asked, closing the door behind you and dropping your bag off to the side. 

“No. Why would I?” Bucky turned to you, cocking a brow with hands set on his hips, revealing his undone tac jacket and the tightest fucking dry-fit shirt underneath. It was practically a second skin, hugging against his abs you felt earlier. You stared slack-jawed at him like he didn’t just hear himself speak.

“Because there’s only one fucking bed?” 

“Yeah. And I’m taking it. You get couch duty,” he stated matter-of-factly. His crooked smirk prodded at your nerves.

You scoffed and mirrored his stance. “What? No! I did the work today, you sat around and just… watched.”

His face hardened. “I sat and just… watched?” he repeated, tone challenging you as he took a step forward. 

You swallowed. “You heard me.”

One second, you were ready to hurl another choice word at Bucky. The next, you were slammed against the back of the door. Hard. 

Bucky had rushed you, grabbing your arms with bruising force and forcing them up, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. You yelled in protest, failing to squirm out of the cage that was his body. 

“Look at me right fuckin’ now,” he demanded, lips curling into a snarl and bared teeth. His voice turned, a complete 180. Dominating, commanding, enraging. When you didn’t obey instantly, he slammed your wrists against the door again.

“Look at me!” 

“No! Fuck– Get off me!” 

With your feet still free, you started kicking him, eliciting what sounded like a growl that rumbled from deep within his chest. Bucky passed your wrist in his metal hand off to his flesh one, pinning both hands above your head while shoving a thick thigh between both of yours– right against your core. An uncontrollable yelp escaped from you as he pushed. Heat pooled in your lower stomach, and it took every bit of control to stop yourself from clenching your thighs together automatically. The fire Bucky ignited only grew, imaginary flames roaring in your stomach and racing up your limbs. His prosthetic hand snaked up your neck and squeezed your chin, squishing your cheeks and lips, forcing your eyes to him.

You felt lightheaded. Bucky– fuck, nobody– ever grabbed you like that; like you belonged to them. To him.

“You’re gonna listen to me, and listen good,” he shook your face, “I saved your fuckin’ life tonight, ‘member? When you were defenseless and as good as fuckin’ dead on that roof? You made me shoot that piece of shit point blank. You made me almost shoot you.” 

His voice shook and he looked away, biting his lip then coming back to you. “I fuckin’ saved your life when you should’ve saved your own. If it’d been any later– if I’d been a second later–” He steadied a breath, shaking his head and scoffing a laugh. He focused back on you with wildly electric blues. “I saved your life. Therefore, I get the goddamned bed tonight. Got it?”

You stared at him for a second longer before nodding gently. The energy building between you was enough to burn the entire building down if someone lit a cigarette. A smirk slowly bloomed across your lips. He released your chin, hand sinking down to rest against your collarbone. 

“Is that all, Sergeant?” 

His Adam's apple bobbed.

“What did you just call me?” he whispered, sliding a vibranium palm around the column of your neck, plated fingers resting on your pulse point. He twitched. Inches.

“You heard me.” 

The air, thick in the apartment, felt charged. 

“Needja t’say it again. Can’t hear too well,” he slurred, licking his lips. Eyelids fluttering, hands squeezing. Centimeters.

“Whatever you say,” you lilted. Millimeters. “Sergeant.”

Lightning struck. Everything ignited, setting fire to both of you as Bucky’s lips seared into yours. Hard, sloppy, desperate as tongue and teeth swapped secrets like old friends. He was unexplored territory, yet he felt so familiar. His prosthetic slowly relented the grip on your wrists, dropping to your shoulder, sliding down your chest where he greedily groped and slid over every last peak and dip of your body: tits screaming for release from your suit; hips jerking in short bursts at his every movement. He grabbed your ass and pulled you closer, forcing your thick thighs to spread wider as his own pushed further against your arousal.

“Been–” Bucky smacked your lips, kissing hungrily across your cheek and biting down your neck, “Shit– Been wanting this so– long, fuck–” He pressed into you, his cock harder a gun in his waistband. You couldn’t hold onto the intensely lust-filled moan that spilled from your throat much longer. Bucky grinned against your neck, lapping and sucking and marking your skin like he owned you. Like he could do whatever he wanted to you. 

And you let him.

“Gotta get this shit off you,” Bucky mumbled into your neck as he shed his own jacket, face not leaving your skin. Rough hands grabbed onto you and ripped away the buckles and buttons of the jacket that kept your body from him. A deep groan rumbled inside his chest as he threw the top half of your suit to the side, drinking in the beautiful sight of your body, hugged in all the right places by the cami that was riding up your stomach while your tits gasped for air, spilling out, fighting against your sports bra.

“Holy–fuck, holy shit.” 

Bucky Barnes was speechless. And you were the reason why. 

He stopped as your wrists came down from above your head and fell down your frame. 

“God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your heart stopped.

“You’re telling me.”

Another charge surged and you threw yourself at Bucky, sending both of you stumbling through the living room. Hands grasped and groped. Fingers busied themselves with removing clothing, undoing pants to throw one way and stripping shirts to toss another. You were magnetized to him, carding through his cropped chocolate hair, hooking your arms behind his neck– which was still bare and practically begging you to mark it in every way you knew. Stumbling over an end table, knocking into the wall that led down the hallway, dragging one another to the bedroom only to pause when you whined at Bucky to shut the door. 

Both of you were near-naked, relishing in each other’s skin by the time you made it to the bed, falling on it with him on top of you in a heap. Bucky hiked you further up the bed, dropping you onto the several pillows that made it feel like Cloud 9. You looked up at him straddling your hips with legs that seemed to spread wider the further down he sat. Eyelids fluttered while your pupils adjusted to the dark bedroom. What lay before was a scene out of your wildest fantasy. 

Bucky sat back on his hips, hair spiking out in wild tufts, cock aching to break free from the confines of his briefs as he stared back at you hungrily. His tongue jutted out to wet his lips, dragging the bottom half back into his teeth while his lust-blown pupils trained directly on you. You truly hadn’t registered the god-like, sculpturesque muscles leading down his chest and over his rippling abs that finished in a very defined ‘V’ below the waistband of his briefs. The veins bulging in his arm and hand were enough to send you spiraling. Everything before you left you speechless. Wanting. Needing.

Bucky slid painstakingly slow hands over your hips, up your waist, your ribs, slipping curious fingers underneath the hem of your sports bra. He didn’t rip it off like you expected, however. 

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “You–” his Adam’s apple bobbed, “y’know this’ll change everything. Right?” 

You nodded, eager, confident. “Yeah. I– I know.”

“You wanna do this?” He tugged harder.

“Yes.” Another tug. Your tits begged for release. 

“And you… got protection, er–” he hesitated, cocking a brow.

“Pill. I–I’m on the pill,” you breathlessly assured him. You added with a shrug, “I assume you didn’t bring any…”

He scoffed a laugh. “You weren’t exactly on my list of things t’do.”

“Well I hope I’m a top priority, now.”

“Number fuckin’ one.”

The elastic tore as he ripped the fabric, finally releasing your breasts from their constraint. Bucky discarded your ruined bra and turned back to you. His hands gravitated automatically to your chest, kneading, squeezing; thumbs and index fingers on both sides felt around for your nipples and pinched the sensitive buds, eliciting a squeal from you and another rush of arousal flooded your core. 

Bucky hummed while locking his lips onto a pointed peak, mouthing and nipping and sucking. You mewled, running a hand up the back of his head and through his messy hair. His vibranium hand started downwards, sending your senses into overdrive as metal fingers teased the hem of your hipsters that met the crease in your thigh. He released your swollen nipple with a pop.

“Fuck you’re soaked, baby,” he moaned. Tugging your hipsters down your legs, he returned to leaning back on his hips. You’re breathless, panting, melting before him as he palms his thick erection. The girthy, leaking head poked over the waistband, aching to finally meet you. To feel you.

He stripped his briefs off, springing his cock free. You couldn’t tell if the uncontrollable moan that escaped from your lips was because of how mouth-watering he was or the thrilling worry that flooded your mind at the thought (and soon-to-be very real act) of fitting him– all of him– inside you. You glanced at him, catching the way his eyes darkened into something sinister, something hungry and uncontrollable. His jaw hardened as he pumped himself, leaking precum droplets onto your thighs. 

“Get on your fuckin’ stomach,” he commanded. You obeyed, willing to do anything in your power to quell the iron-hot ache that made your pussy throb with want. The second your palms hit the mattress he grabbed you, hands bruising your love handles and ass as he yanked you back to him, shoving your face down into the pillows. With your cheek pressing into the mattress, face squishing into your elbow, all of the oxygen was pulled from your lungs. A beat of silence filled the void between you before a loud SMACK followed by a stinging pain radiating from your ass. 

SMACK. “That was for the back talk.”

SMACK. “That was for scarin’ me t’night.”

SMACK. “And that was for makin’ me have to wait this long to fuck your stubborn ass.” 

Drool dripped from the corner of your mouth and onto the sheets as you chewed your lip, trying (and failing) to dull the harsh, hot pain. Hands gripping your hips, bruising and rough, he yanked you back to meet his front. His cock jammed in between your cheeks as he grinded on you, kneading your ass to mold around him. 

“You’re gonna take me,” he rasped, low and throaty. “All of me.”

You felt him line himself up with your entrance, his girthy head poking and prodding at your entrance. A beat. Hesitation from both of you before he finally snapped forward, plunging into you, filling you, stretching you wider than you could’ve imagined. Once inside, he paused, shifting inside you, cursing breathlessly at the perfect fit. You groaned and desperately shifted your hips in silent hope that Bucky would fucking move. The stretching, the fullness, everything gnawed at your insides that were begging for release. For pleasure. 

“F-fuck Bucky, please–!” He slowly, painfully, rolled his hips in small, dragged-out thrusts before pulling out of you with the most self-control you’d ever see from him and jamming right back into you. 

“Fuck! Again! Please, again!” 

He obeyed you; his hips gradually began to pick up speed, thrusting erratically into you. 

“Gimme your arm,” he gritted between hissed curses. Your brain was on a three-second delay between hearing him and when you started to twist; too slow for Bucky’s liking, he growled, bending– and, in turn, stuffing himself until his base scraped your ass– to grab your arm, pinning against your back with a stern hold. The pain, the pleasure, the all-of-it fanned the flames inside you, growing hotter and hotter and threatening to implode. 

“‘M so close, baby, so–” he gasped, “Fuck, where do I–?”

“Back,” you answered, muffled against the sheets. “My back, I– ah!” You clenched around him, locking him in place as the implosion erupted within you. White-hot flashes of intense pleasure shot through your veins like a lethal shock. You screamed. You trembled. You felt the most all-consuming release rock you to your core, all while Bucky drilled into you harder, faster, his own coil on the brink of snapping. His hips began to stutter into you while you rode your high, mewling when it was time to pull from you in a hurry, his fist furiously pumping the last few seconds. A pleasured cry came from his body as hot ropes shot onto you, painting your skin in warm bursts, cum pooling where your spine arced. He groaned. Fist slowing in pumps, he fell onto the covers next to you in a heap as you cautiously lowered your back.

For a minute it was just your labored breathing echoing one another. The smell of sex lingered in the air, the distant sounds of the streets below and within the quiet building were muffled by the walls of the bedroom. It felt like forever before the bed shifted. Bucky stood, fumbling around on the ground for his discarded briefs. Kneeling back onto the bed, you flinched at the suddenly soft touch of fabric as he cleaned you up, wiping your skin until satisfied. He tossed the boxers back onto the ground somewhere unseen, rolling over back to his place next to you. You couldn’t help the smile on your lips, biting it back as you flipped over to look at Bucky, who was already staring at you with a soft smile. 

“Thanks.”

He shrugged in response. “Looks like we both needed it.”

You nodded. “Does this mean ’m still sleeping on the fuckin’ couch?”

“Hm. No, I’ll let you off the hook,” he said, grabbing the covers and pulling them over you both.

“I think I like being off the hook better than being on it.”

“Mhmm, sure,” he hummed. The covers shrouded you as he placed a metal hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb in soft circles as he pulled you in for another electrifying kiss.

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[bellathetmntgeckolady]

Ever just make an OC and you think they’ll just be a one-off character but then all of the sudden, whoop. You dive into the character to understand how they handle a situation you put them in, you help them succeed, develop their personality more than you planned and you’re just attached to your little baby now so you’ve got to see them grow and flourish and make it to the happy ending they deserve?

#ninjakitten’s ocs #artist problems #writer problems #writing problems #original character #original character writing #original characters #oc #oc ask game #oc blog #oc challenge #oc description #oc inspiration #oc meme #oc nonsense #oc problem #oc prompt #oc shenanigans #oc tag #oc tag meme #oc vibes #oc questions #ocs #oc problems #ninjago oc #sonic oc #tmnt oc #for me? it’s mainly about my oc #oc: isabella