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carolmunson · 7 months

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you get me closer to god | kas!eddie (dark)

entry for my fall frenzy requests. this request comes in from @edsforehead: 'something with kas!eddie in a graveyard.'

a/n: y'all, i don't know. i kind of snapped with this one. sort of canon compliant. inspired by a post that i saw that said that after vampires feed they have an insatiable desire to breed afterwards. steve also makes an appearance cause i love him.

tw: 18+ MDNI, dub-con, dub-con, dub-con (reader does get into it). use of hypnosis, coercion. blood play, blood drinking, biting. very obvious power dynamics at play here. death of minor character mentioned. p in v smut, rough and sensual. oral (f-recieving), monster-type-fucking. mild chasing trope. some religious elements if you squint??? anyway i listened to closer by nine inch nails on a loop for this if you wanna know the general vibe. let me know if there is anything i missed and need to put on here!

October 31st, 1998

Your niece had a better haul than you ever did at this age, it seemed like every house on the fancy side of Hawkins was giving out full size candy bars. No one ever gave you full size candy bars. The Harrington's had outdone themselves this year, hoards of kids picking out wrapped caramel apples and passing out spiked cider to the parents. Humming and smiling while the adults hugged their parkas to their chests, kids running up and down the stairs of the cul de sac of Hawkins Mansions. Decorated to the nines -- you were happy that most of the street would tire her and all of her friends out. "Auntie!" she calls out, hurrying over to you while her pink and purple puffer coat swishes with her. Alycia glitters against the lights of the houses in the dark of the night, the red sequins on her leotard making her easy to find. Your sister-in-law made her a headband fitted with red horns with a pointed tail sewn into the back of the red tu-tu from her Spring recital to match. A Dancing Devil she called it -- for newly six, she was a pretty creative little bug.

"Auntie look," she yells, running into your legs. The spiked cider sloshes in your cup that you hold high over her head so it doesn't spill onto her. She holds up a decorated caramel apple covered in eyeballs made out of sugar.

"Gross, Leesh," you giggle, "It's got eyeballs all over it!"

"They're fake eyeballs, Auntie," she explains like you're stupid, "They're not real eyeballs."

"Oh, thank you for telling me. I didn't know," you giggle, catching Steve watching the two of you chat. Your cheeks burn, that crush from when you were fourteen and he spent the summer working at the mall never fully fading. He's married with four kids now so you should probably get over it. "How're things?" he asks from the curb, coming over to sneak Alycia a couple of Reese's cups. "They're good," you shake your head with a shrug, "They're fine. Out here with the rugrat while her mom's at work." "How's the family, your mom?" he presses, arms crossing over his broad chest that stretch the sleeves of his tan workwear jacket.

"She's doin' okay," you smile tightly, "Always a little hard for her this time of year."

"Five years now, isn't it?"

"To the day," you say with a lilt, "Gonna go visit him after I drop her with her grandparents. My dad'll be so thrilled to steal half her stash."

Your laugh is a little hollow when he squeezes your shoulder comfortingly, he slips a candy bar into your hand, too before saying his goodbyes -- set of twins running around his ankles.

Hawkin's bravest fireman somehow off duty on a night like this turns before you take your niece's hand to leave, "Be careful out there at night. You know it's not always safe."

"You don't believe in all those rumors, do you Harrington?" you laugh.

"Don't have to believe them or not," he says seriously, pushing his wire rims up his nose, "I know they're not rumors."

"Happy Halloween, Steve," you say dully, "Goodnight." You both wave, Alycia's little hand in yours while she rattles off a million words a minute about the skeloton outside of the Sinclair house. The moon glows down over the street, dark clouds slicing it like a broken plate.

You rarely visit your brother on the day of, especially since there's always idiot teenagers running around the place. Not exactly easy to mourn when some loser in a Scream mask keeps trying to scare you.

It was quiet, your Docs crunching on mid-fall frosty grass -- some of it already half dead with the season. Commotion from the town in the distance had dulled into mostly nothing now that the kids had turned in for the night. Families turning their porch lights out, settling in for scary movies and sugar highs.

You squeeze the bouquet of baby's breath and eucalyptus a little hard in your hands when you walk through the tombstones. The low lamps along the walk way casting the grass and asphalt in a looming orangey glow -- not offering much light beyond their posts. The moon does the work, still looking shattered amongst the thin gray clouds sliding through the sky.

You hear some giggling, the rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs. Always an outlier of kids doing spells or a Ouija board out here this time of year -- old Chief Hopper coming down to make them scatter and take their weed. You walk off the path when you get a decent way in, crossing away from where the cemetary mostly turns to forest. Four 'Happy Birthday To Yous' into the brush and then a left, two head stones, then a right -- it's the third headstone on the fourth row. No light to shine down on you this time, just whatever's left in the sky. You take your big yellow scarf off from around your neck to lay over the grave, giving yourself a place to sit so your spandex covered thighs didn't have to touch the grass. Your mom would kill you if you got grass stains on the red trench she let you borrow -- a makeshift Carmen Sandiego costume if anyone asked.

You sit, laying the bouquet right at the granite edge, tracing his name before letting your hand drop. You don't say anything for a while, letting the cool wet air run over you in waves. You wonder if the wind blowing is him saying hey.

A few cemetery patrons come by, pay their respects to their loved ones and leave. Some superstitious, some religious. They fade out after a while. The loneliness is comforting, just you and your brother hanging out together like before. Despite being six years apart, it felt like you both always had some weird wonder twin telepathy. He was never really one for a lot of words.

"Didn't that guy tell you not to come around here so late?"

You jump at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, turning around to see an even more unfamiliar person. Wild curly waves messy around his face, cut in 80s shag perfection. His face chiseled, jawline pronounced with soft stubble, soaked in fake blood. It trails down his neck and stains the white of the baseball tee underneath a leather jacket; fitted over top with a battle vest that rivaled the metal heads of the 70s.

"Who're you, huh? You following me?" you ask. You swallow nervously, finding solace in seeing a few other cemetary visitors mosying around. The faint giggle of more mischeif causing teenagers in the distance.

"Sorry," he laughs, a warm laugh that meets his eyes, "Didn't mean to scare you. I um, I saw you over by the cul de sac, overheard him say somethin' to you. I was with my little cousin -- dressed like a mermaid, I don't know if you remember."

You think back to Leesh's pal of trick-or-treaters, scanning them in your head to recall a little girl with big brown eyes and a makeshit Ariel costume on under her jean jacket -- covered in patches much like his.

"Yeah," you smile, "I remember. But that didn't answer my question -- are you following me?"

"Nah," he grins, shaking his head, "I'm visiting someone -- this was just a happy accident."

"Oh," you respond quietly, "Who're you visiting if you don't mind me asking."

"My mom," he shrugs, scrunching his nose, "Halloween was her favorite holiday so I always try to come say hi."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you offer in condolences, "Did you um -- did you grow up here? I feel like I'd remember you."

"Nope," he sighs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans while his wallet chain jingles next to his thigh, "Grew up with my uncle."

"Oh, nice," you nod, "Well um --"

"Who're you visiting?" he interrupts, sitting on the gravestone next to your brother's; hardware tinkling prettily as he does.

"Pete," you say, hand out to gesture towards the shiny granite in front of you, "My brother."

"Nice to meet you, Pete," he turns his head, curly hair flouncing over his shoulder, "Pleasure."

You laugh, he laughs with you -- you have to laugh about it or else you'd have to deal with the alternative. You're pretty sure you're all cried out about your brother now.

"What happened, if you don't mind me asking?"

"He worked construction," you shrug, "Took an overnight shift five years ago by the quarry, an' it was Halloween so he was workin' by himself -- no one to spot his safety gear. Must've fallen off the rigs or something and since it rained a lot that year the quarry was basically a lake at that point, hit his head and drowned. His body was completely banged up and waterlogged, they could only ID him from his pass in his pocket."

"Shit," he nods, "That's -- that's fuckin' awful. I'm sorry."

You shrug, "Bitch of living, I guess."

"Hm," he nods, "I wouldn't know."

"What do you mean?" you ask with a cocked head, eyes lingering on him while his linger on you. "Don't worry about it," he smirks, the kind that makes your heart flutter; cheeks getting hot at the sound of his voice. "You know something," you start, "With this whole get up -- and you're not from here so you might not know -- you look just like --"

"Eddie Munson?" he asks, with raised brows, "Yeah, my aunt's been telling me that forever. That's why I sorta dressed up like him for Halloween."

"That's dangerous around Hawkins, especially this time of year," you warn him, standing up from your spot and picking up your scarf. You shake it out to get some of the grass of the underside. You hardly notice the way his eyes trail from your shoes over your calves to your thighs.

"Some people say that he went right to hell after that earthquake since he killed that girl," you explain, shrugging the trench off some to fit the scarf on under it, "And now he's a demon that haunts Hawkins and terrorizes the town."

You both laugh, though his drops to a low and guttural hum. Nearly a growl. You lift your head to see him just a foot in front of you now, and you can really look. You can really see him. The paleness in his skin, tendrilled navy veins raising through it as he leans close to you.

At this distance it's clear that the hollowness in his eyes isn't makeup, but the sparkling brown is sunken into his skull. His brows darkened and determined while he looks at you.

At this distance, it's clear that the blood on his jaw is real.

"They're close," he says with a sly smile, "Really should've listened to Harrington, sweetheart."

You swallow hard, icy sweat in a film on your body while he takes a step forward.

"Those rumors are true."

The icy air shreds your throat as you run, heaving it in and out in gasps. Your calves scream, thighs aching while you sprint through the brush of the forest; trench and scarf long forgotton somehwere amongst the trees. You try to ignore the way twigs and branches swipe at your face, slicing you and scratching you with unforgiving whips. You let out a cry while you speed, leaping over roots and piles of leaves all while trying to listen with peak percision. Is he close? Is he getting closer? Can he see you?

You stop behind a log near a dip in the earth, rocks above it. Climbing in you heave, trying to catch your breath -- you aren't really made for this. You don't know how girls in the movies can run that long without needing a break.

With a deep inhale in, you hold, using the quiet to try and hear him but there is nothing to be heard. No rustling, no creaks in the wood or in the wind.

You catch your breath, slowly creeping out of your hiding space while the darkness hones -- trees blocking out some of the moonlight. You take a step and then another, trying to make as little noise as possible.

Your efforts are of no use though -- you stomach turns at the sound. The flap of wings, leathery wings -- big. A shaky breath in gives you the courage to turn your eyes up. On one of the taller branches above you he sits, pale and domineering, "Hi, sweetheart."

You bolt again, depserate and sobbing while the cold air is no longer a hello from your brother but mother nature's cruel bite on your wet cheeks. You can barely take in breaths without pain in your throat and chest, turning left and right and left again to lose him but from above he can predict your every move.

When you hear silence again you take another turn, a mausoleum broken down a short distance away. You crawl your way in, wet earth and cement hitting your nose while you gasp and heave for the second time. You listen for the wings for moment, a few moments -- a calm washing over your back when you're sure he's gone.

You take a step back further into the darkness to be sure you're unseen. Deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. One, twice, three times.

Another step back and you bump into a pillar making you jump, a screech wrenching from you.

Not a pillar no, not by the way a set of claw bites into your shoulder.

"Would've been a good hiding spot if it wasn't for me finding it first, right?" he quips, "Bummer." "Y-you can't d-do this," you cry, "The r-rumors are true they'll -- they'll look for me! Steve knows about you!"

"Oh, babe, that's so cute," he muses with a giggle, "Why do you think I'm still here, huh? Steve's just like me, he's bitten too."

"B-but--"

"Why do you think he believes in all those rumors, huh baby?" he asks with a lilt, "Cause he's one of 'em. Well -- not all the way, I guess. Not like me."

"He blows my cover he blows his whole operation," he grins, sharp teeth bearing themselves at you, "Why d'you think he only works night shifts?"

"I -- don't -- I don't," you sputter, "Pl-please d-don't bite me, d-don't eat me I -- I'll do whatever."

"You're too funny," he says in your ear, deep and grizzly while you're rooted to the spot under his clutch, "I already ate, sweet girl. But you'll make a fine dessert."

You don't know how you get there but it's not like home -- it is but it isn't -- dark and deadly; covered in slithering vines. You're too petrified to ask; but whatever this place was, despite the spores in the air and the rubble from the walls -- it was much nicer than the trailer he grew up in.

"Shh, shh, shh," he coos, claws deep in your shoulder while he wrenches you to a bed covered in plush linens -- satin and full. In the blur around you it could almost be a movie set; the booms of red lightening, dripping pillar candles in heaps around the room.

You whimper at first when his claws release, hot blood oozing against your sweater. The pain pulses like a dull thud, spit flooding your mouth while you move to your side to wretch but he catches you by the root of your hair. You wail in fear, smelling the decay in his breath, the sweet subtle rot of your surroundings.

"It's not polite to cause a scene in a stranger's home, right princess?" he asks with a soft lilt. He holds your gaze, warmth spreading over you when he smirks again -- and despite your fear, you can't look away. You aren't even sure if you want to look away.

Your body goes slack on the comforter, melting into itself like a dropped marionnette. "Very good," he purrs. Hazy, you feel his hands on you -- losing their warmth while they sneak under the hem of your sweater. The pads of his fingers are soft in comparison to the tips of his nails, grazing your stomach and sternum before reaching up to cup your breasts. He lets out a shallow breath, squeezing the delicate flesh softly in his palms -- so gentle despite his rough demeanor.

His thumbs graze your nipples in slow circles earning him a mewl from your dry throat.

"So easy," he giggles in a whisper. You nearly pout when his hands slide down and away from you; beginning the unhurried removal of your clothing. He moves glacially, eyes remaining on yours, wraiths of whispers in a lanuage you don't understand fluttering in the air around you -- in one ear and out the other. Part of you wants to scream and thrash while he slides off your spandex, rips the seams of your panties, destroys your socks.

His clawed hands shred your sweater, snap your bra at the straps until all your clothes are left in a heap on the dusty floorboards by a forgotten desk. He crawls over you like a predator, undressed himself now: some how bigger, more hulking than before. His shoulders are broad, muscles flexing while skin so white it's nearly blue stretches over it. Whatever is down here has completely infected him, you can see it in the color of the veins beneath his skin, the slight red in his pupils, the dark blue hues under his eyes.

His wings lift high around him in an arched half circle, tips appearing behind him like a hybrid of horns and halo at once.

"Could smell you from here," he leers, "since last night. Christ, fucking drooling over you like a kid."

You whimper again, body jolting in pain when his nails pierce your thighs when he parts them. Fresh ichor spilling from the wounds in deep sanguine and he doesn't seem to care about the mess he's making while it drips onto the sheets. His cavalier manuevering comes off as though he likes to play with his food before he eats it.

"And I don't know what it is, angel, how my senses find the right ones," he rasps while he leans forward to your blood soaked shoulder; serpent tongue slipping out to lave over it, "But you really called to me this year; think you might be the one."

"The o-one wh-what?" you sniffle. His tongue slides over the lacerations on your shoulder again, sucking slightly from the new wounds. He lets out a groan, using free hand to rest on the side of your rib cage for support.

He deatches from the well he drinks from, tip of his nose running over your decollatage and up your neck. In inhales over your jugular, pressing a wet kiss under your jaw before getting to your ear.

"The one I mate with, sweetheart," he breathes, "The one I breed."

Breed? You heart sinks like a stone into your belly, body tensing in a freeze while you think of what to do. How to get out of here.

"Wait," you gasp, arms coming up to push at his chest and push him away, "No, please, wait -- you can't."

You push and push but he's a stone pillar, he barely moves, his muscles barely push inward at your assault. He tuts, the click of his tongue between his teeth almost a chitter. He noses your cheek before looming over you, tips of your noses brushing. He catches your gaze again, the whispers start while the air blows in through the broken window. Obedire domino tuo, obedire domino tuo, obedire domino tuo. His lips aren't moving but you can hear his low voice in your ears, barely there, swirling around in your subconcious while the wind whispers with it. Another flash of red lightning illuminates him in a streak, the rumble of thunder vibrating your belly and chest. His hand floats up from your rib cage while you settle, cupping your cheek to slide down to your jaw and over your neck. The touch is nearly comforting, dipping you back into a haze like before.

"You were saying?" he asks.

"Hm?" your brows pinch, his voice muffled and far away.

"That's what I thought," he says smugly, head dipping back down to your neck where his lips drag over your delicate skin. His breath leaves a patch of wet heat that lingers when he moves down over your chest, fangs peeking out behind his full lips when he drags them over the swell of your left breast.

A gentle gasp escapes you, eyes fluttering closed when the tip of his tongue teases your pert nipple, blowing cool air against it once soaked with his spit. He flicks against it again, alternating sides, presses kisses over them in clear ownership. The more he tasted of you, the more it belonged to him.

With each touch and tease of your tits the more you gasp and whine beneath him, he chuckles from his belly, moving down to your sternum.

"And I died a virgin, can you believe it?" he asks with a cocky lift to one of his brows, "Now all I gotta do is smile and girls like you 'll just fall into bed with me."

There's cotton in your ears, all you can do is nod slowly while blood still leaks from your shoulder and thighs. All you can feel is his mouth and hands travel further and further down. The wind howls and the low chant in the back of your head changes tune but in the same cadence; over and over again: vis, sentis, obedis. Vis, sentis, obedis. Vis, sentis, obedis.

He licks a stripe up the back of your thigh to catch a bead of blood before it reaches the mattress, savoring you. He feeds from the gouges he left behind for a moment before inching forward to the apex of your thighs. Eddie inhales your scent deeply, the earthly musk of you making his mouth water in a mix of metal and spit. His nose brushes against the untrimmed hair of your mound, ghosting himself over it drunk with attraction.

Your body heats up with mild embarrassment, flexing while your hips writhe slightly underhim. Almost as if he can hear your thoughts he kisses the crease of your thigh, "Nothing to be embarrassed about, baby. Girls don't let it grow like this anymore n' it's such a shame."

You want to speak up and explain it's just 'cause you haven't had the time but your tongue doesn't know how to move anymore. Too tired to speak, too caught up in how he feels, how he touches, how he takes what he wants. You relent again, body relaxing; pliant while he spreads you apart for him a desperate moan pulling from you when his tongue -- still soaked in your blood -- glides from the pool of slick at your opening all the way up to your clit.

You almost gag at the way your body betrays you, sending a spread of electricity over your nerves from your core to your finger tips. "More," you whisper, not even believing you're begging for him, "Please, more."

Eddie's smug in his response, smiling with his eyes while he looks up at you from between your legs, "And good manners? You spoil me, princess."

Your back arches in a soft curve when your hips push back into the mattress, pressing yourself into his waiting mouth. He groans again when your body drips for him, leaving a damp sheen on his cheeks and chin. It's not about your pleasure despite how much of it he's bringing you, but about your consumption. He's devouring you. Licking his plate clean from the outside in.

The moans he takes from you spur him on, getting you further and further away from the fight you put up before. Spilling over for him like a puddle while you writhe, a hand reaching out to rake through his hair. His own reaches up from aroud your thigh to hold you by the wrist tight to your side.

"Hands to yourself," he murmrs, soft lips wrapping around your swollen clit to suck expertly on the bud. You whimper, tugging at his hold but it only makes his grip more intense, pinning you there without much a fight. Not even enough to distract him from the task at hand.

When his tongue sinks back down into your soaking core you feel it, the heat pulsing through your belly while he lets the muscle dip and swirl in your wetness. Your thighs twitch and shake when his nose bumps your sensitive clit, his free hand coming up to gingerly rub circles over it in tandem.

"Oh my god," you whine, "Oh my god -- K-kas don' -- oh my god, ohmygod." He snickers, contining his movements, murmuring a quiet, "God's not here, baby."

Another roll over your hips sends you reeling, his tongue gliding in long strokes when finally the coil in your belly snaps. You fall apart beneath him, loud moans and high pitched squeals while he consumes you through it. Your body vibrates, thighs clamping down over his ears, blood from the slices in your flesh staining his hair and jaw.

He hums low when you settle, gasping for breath on your already dry and scratchy throat while you come down.

Eddie rises slowly, shoulder blades and wings moving with him while he crawls up your body. Smooth and languid like a snake, his torso hovers above yours while he settles his hips between your thighs. You look up at him, his shape, the way his eyes have blown black, the newfound sharpness in his features. A creature, a monster in your wake — not the same person you saw at the cemetery.

“Oh,” he coos when he sees your eyes glassy and rounded upon him, “So precious.”

You're much weaker now, mind and body, the stings across your skin from the broken branches and his sharpened nails a pain you've become better accquainted with. You take another breath of calm, arms resting by your head with your palms up towards the ceiling. He takes the moment of surrender to hold them down against the bed. The pressure of his hips against yours keeps you pinned, but you barely fight -- maybe squirm, maybe whine. No thrashing, no screaming, the whispers echo through the wind again:

Vis, sentis, obedis. Vis, sentis, obedis.

"So, so, precious," he whispers while he leans forward, kisses pressed to one cheek and then the other slow and controlled. He inhales again when he dips down to your neck, piercing fangs dragging over the vein there. You feel the push and then the pain, the unbearable blinding pain of his teeth ripping through you. Through your skin, through the muscle, the pulse of his mouth while he holds himself there.

You cry out, nearly a scream while he holds himself there -- just enough to infect you, just enough to get the poison in. The pain reaches a blinding peak, bile growing up your throat, eyes filling with a white hot surge of anguish and then -- Nothing. Euphoria. An unknown lightness you hadn't felt before.

He releases, still holding tight to your wrists above your head when he raises up over you again.

"Open," he instructs, and in your hazy gaze you obey. Your tongue flattens against your chin without command.

"Very good, sweetheart," he praises, collecting the blood left on his lips and in his cheeks to spit it directly into your waiting mouth.

"You can close now," he grins, "And swallow."

He grunts, hips sliding against you so that you can feel his length between your legs; the girth alone sends a chill to the part of you that is screaming inside your head. How is it supposed to fit? How is he supposed to get this inside you? "Don't worry," he laughs, "It'll fit."

When your vision snaps up at him he laughs again, "I can hear you in there, princess. I can always hear you."

He dips down again, tip of his nose sliding over your cheek to your ear, "So be very careful what you think about."

He doesn't need his hands to guide the head of himself into your already needy center. It's a stretch, delicious but nearing painful. It's not something you've ever even dreamed of taking before; thick, large, inhuman.

Your legs lift on their own accord while he pushes in further, getting half way while you let out a choked sob.

"Aw, shh, shh, shh," he mocks, easing in more, "C'mon you can take it."

"You can --" his hips snap in hard for the rest of him, letting out a ragged grunt when the rest of him disappears inside you, "--take it."

You mouth hangs open in a desperate oval, face crumpling when you become so full of him -- all encompassing. A part of you now, buried deep within. He moves, dangerously slow and controlled; methodic in how he thrusts himself deeper and deeper inside. "Mmm, that's it," he growls, chest to chest with him while his hip grind at a deliberate pace. You feel his hot breath fan out over your lips, forehead pressed against yours. He's not hot, he's not cold, just skin against yours while it flashes with heat. You go from shaking to sweating with minutes in between.

When your hips roll to meet his thrusts you moan, the tip hitting you so deep in your core that stars burst behind your eyes. "There we go," he grins mischeviously, "S'at feel good, pet?"

"Ooh, yes," you hiss through gritted teeth, actively trying to bounce yourself againsth him now that your body has started accommodating his sheer size. He raises himself up on his hands like a cobra, snake like peering down at you while he meets the roll of your hips with an unforgiving thrust.

"Good," he oozes the word out like smoke, deliciosly deep seated in his belly when he thrusts hard again. He mumbles a quiet musing to himself that you can't hear -- too gone in the lightness in your body, in the way nothing hurts, in the way you're so full.

Can finally fuck you how I wanna.

He gets up, sitting back on his haunches while still inside you, pushing your legs up so your knees end up by your ears. With this leverage he sinks in deep. You don't even know how far in he is, just that he's in and he's there, he's everywehre, he's outside and in.

Eddie locks eyes with you, that same smirk from the cemetary that made your stomach flip dancing across his devilish features, "Tell me you like it."

Your mouth moves before your brain can hesitate, "I like it." "Tell me you need it," he demands, tone measured and sure.

"I need it," you say back, your voice coming out broken and weak, "Please, I need it."

He pulls back and punches forward, hard enough that you gasp at the impact. He grips you hard by the backs of your legs, thrusts starting slow and building at an unrelenting pace. His eyes are wild; boring down at you through from under furrowed and determined brows. If you had any mind left, you'd think that he hates you by the way he stares.

"Fuck," he snarls, leaning forward over you, one hand pressing down on the mattress next to your head, "Shit -- fuck, that's it. That's fuckin' -- shit, you're fuckin' mine." "Say you need me."

"I need you," you choke back without thinking, barely able to breathe at his speed. The coil tightens deep inside of you again, tears pouring down your cheeks in waves -- not even crying, just recieving. Absorbing him. Your body rocks like a boat on unsteady waves pinned beneath him, the only sounds are the whispers in your subconcious, his growls and sputters like an animal above you. The lewd slaps of skin against skin, the squelches of him pushing you to your limits.

He steadies himself over you, nose to nose again while he fucks you. Really fucks you. Impressed with himself, he lets out a breathy chuckle when you throw your head back -- eyes shutting tight with a pornographic scream.

"Oh GOD!" you cry out, "Oh my god."

His fingers and claws catch your chin with a firm shake, eyes snapping open to meet the knowing glare of his ruddy brown ones.

"Your god," he starts, panting into your mouth, "is right here in front of you."

You swallow, mouth falling agape again when you feel the bite of his nails on the fat of your cheeks. "Right here," you repeat, dazed and overwhelmed, "N'..n'fronname."

"Right here in front of you," he nods, leaning down to brush his nose against yours while his thrusts slow to a steady pace. It's then that his lips meet yours, the kiss searing with desire and claim when his tongue slides into your mouth. You can taste the metallic twang of your blood in his mouth, sighing into it while he guides the kiss. Breaking away and coming back in; rushed and heated each time while he feels himself get closer to his peak.

His forehead presses against yours, one hand finally releasing your wrist to hold your head in place over your hair. You keep eye contact with him, not even sure if you're blinking, if you even need to blink. You rasp breaths, mouth and throat dry and aching while you breathe into him. You're close, teetering on the edge while he pushes you up with his hips to rest your lower body on his knees and thighs.

"Come undone," he murmurs, "Let go for me."

The command ripples through you, bursting through your belly with a warm heat. You welcome it, eyes rolling, cries pouring from you in words you don't think you understand. He encourages you, offering you rough sweet nothings while you pray to him, beg for him, ache for him.

That's enough to send him over; seeing you completely at his mercy now. Obedient, trained, devoured.

He snares and snarls, growling while he comes deep inside of you. The hand on your head wraps painfully in your hair like it did before you started -- uncaring, brutal. The heat of his seed pools deep within you like the heart of your orgasm. Glazed over you groan, hips rolling up in one final cant to receive him fully. Your vision vingettes while he unsheathes from you; fluids leaking onto the sheets. You're empty and the room spins with a new blackness, you're fading. Fainting? Dying?

The fuzziness continues to darken arouns you, around him, until he's all that's left in the tunnel of your vision. "That's a good girl," he soothes smugly, "Very well done."

Your gaze and mind fade fully to a staticky black.

You wake, you’re not sure how much later.

Still on the bed and still undressed but your arms feel tight – a tug reveals your current state. Bound to a post on the headboard by a triple handcuff knot, dense hemp rope keeping your arms above your head.

You whine and struggle, coming to your senses now – no one knows where you are, you barely know where you are. An underworld – hell. Somewhere.

“Don’t look so terrified, sweetheart,” his smooth honey voice is heard before he appears in the candle light again, “I’m right here.”

“Wh-why am I –” you swallow thickly, coughing and sputtering with how dry your mouth and throat are now, “Why am I tied up?”

He looks at you with faux concern, brows raising, “Oh honey, are you okay?”

He reaches out, pushing your hair away from your face, “Don’t be stressed. Y’know something – I just realized, I never offered you anything to drink.”

“My uncle always told me you should take a girl out to dinner before makin’ the van rock and look at me,” he gestures at his chest, tutting at himself, “Where are my manners, huh?”

Your lip wobbles while he looms over you, “Are you thirsty?”

You nod, he grins – cheshire like, fangs glinting in the light, “I thought you would be.” He gets up, lazy and confident in his walk across the room. His body looks like marble, chiseled with the running and hunting you realize he’s been doing for over a decade. Stronger than ever; ethereal in his post orgasm glow.

He pulls his hair back while he walks, holding it up away from his neck while your eyes travel down his back where his wings have tucked in under the skin. You gag when you see them move above his blades, rippling beneath the tattoos he has there. He’s dressed in only shorts; silk – likely stolen to really own the whole vampire thing he has going on.

You take in a shaky breath when he gets what he needs, dropping his hair back to his shoulders when he makes his way back to you.

He holds the dagger coolly in his hand before gliding the tip down the center of his wrist. Blood blooms from the wound; he doesn’t even flinch.

“Open, princess,” he murmurs. Your lips clamp shut, shaking your head no while fear takes over – rot in your chest. He catches your chin again, forcing you to look at him like before.

“Open,” he repeats, slower. His voice reverberates like a gong between your ears.

Your mouth opens on its own accord and the smell of his blood becomes the most alluring scent you’ve had pass your nose in years. You latch on to the laceration, swallowing and sucking deeply on the wound while his blood and body quench and feed you better than any meal you think you’ve ever had. You feel revived as you devour him, eyes fluttering closed while the fill feels never enough.

“That’s it, keep goin’,” he encourages under his breath, “Won’t have to keep asking you to do things twice once this is all over with.”

You break away to breathe, gasping like you’re coming up for air, drowning in him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’ll be just like me, sweetheart,” he says, chuckling when you eagerly lean forward to drink him again, “After a night of some deeply insurmountable pain; and then nothing. Just mine. Undead and mine.”

“But y–you said you were – I’m –” your brows knit in confusion, “You didn’t h-have to d-do this; whatever you um – whatever you bred me with will die if you do this.”

“Oh, no, no,” he laughs evilly, “I didn’t breed you quite yet.”

He pulls his arm away, wiping the blood from your chin with his thumb roughly.

“Consider what we did a, uh…hmm,” he takes a second to think about it with a hum, shrugging cheekily, “A soul bonding experience.”

“You’re disgusting,” you spit.

“I’m delicious,” he corrects, smearing his blood from your chin to your cheek, “If you do say so yourself.”

He gets up again, pulling the covers out from under you to tuck you in. The chill getting to you in a way it never gets to him; you might as well be warm while you turn into actualized death.

“I can hear you, remember?” he asks, tapping your head, “You won’t be totally alone with me. There’s…shit there are plenty just like us.”

“Like Steve,” you pipe up groggily.

“More than just goodie two-shoes Harrington,” he groans, “God, do you ever shut up about him?”

You sniffle in response.

“I mean this place, this – dimension,” he says, “It’s more than just Hawkins, and there are so many more like us; even up there.”

He points upwards with a sharp nailed finger, “All around.”

“And now that you’ll be just like me,” he smiles, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you in the crook of you waist, “There’ll be all the time in the world to breed you.”

Your vision blurs, either from tears or from another fade, you aren’t sure. You can feel a slow burn through your veins, a rush of blood. You whimper.

“So it begins,” he smirks, running the tip of his finger over your nose bridge.

“Oh!” he says, eyes bulging, “Before I forget, and before I lose you – because you’ll be such a pretty blank slate when you come to – I felt like I should be honest.”

He gestures dramatically, a maniacal grin pushing his cheeks up to his eyes while they spark, “Again with my manners, it was so rude of me to introduce myself to Pete’s grave at the cemetery. We’ve met before! Can’t believe I had almost forgotten.”

Ice in your body fights the burning in your veins, you gag, bile coming up to singe your throat.

“And y’know, I didn’t mean to drop him in the quarry when I was done with him,” he says with a scrunch of his nose, like he accidentally wrote the wrong tip on a restaurant check, “Really, my mistake, but Christ did he hit every piece of limestone on the way down.”

He lets out a hearty laugh while he remembers it, your brother's body bouncing off rocks and metal before slipping under the water. You swallow your sick only or it to rise back up with a vengeance, staining your skin red while it seeps out of the corner of your mouth. You tug on the ropes in retaliation, hot angry tears stinging your eyes.

“All that fallin’ did a number on him – which is good because it really took the heat of anyone knowing it was me. I just wasn't as clean about it back then. Much better now though,” he nods, finishing with a superior and charming look like he just told a bedtime story.

He leans forward close to your face while your vision pulses in fuzzy black, browning out while he looks down at you.

“And I’ll tell you something, babe…”

Fading, fading, fading.

“He tasted divine.”

masterlist | fall frenzy | ko-fi

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #kas!eddie #kas!eddie munson #vampire!eddie munson #vampire!eddie #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fan fiction #tw: dubcon #tw: dub-con #dark!eddie #dark!eddie munson

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suzukiblu · 5 months

Text

Day fifteen of fic NaNoWriMo; obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

Kon grins wider, then holds his cup out to him. Specifically, he tilts it so Tim can take a sip instead of just giving it to him.

Bastard. Bastard-coated bastard with bastard-flavored nougat-y filling and a bastardly ganache coating and bastard sprinkles on top.

Bastard.

Tim thinks several more accusing things, then leans over and tries the smoothie. It does taste pretty good, though it’s a little too sweet for him to want to drink the whole cup. Blackberry is definitely more his thing.

“Not bad,” he says anyway, because it’s not and also goddammit, Kon is still grinning at him. Because again: bastard. Absolute full and complete and entire bastard.

“Yeah, for the East Coast, at least,” Kon replies with an easy shrug, reclaiming his cup for another sip. Tim does not think about indirect kissing or anything that ridiculously juvenile and middle-school. Not at all. Not even slightly, in fact. “I dunno, the whole thing just reminds me, um . . . like, I didn’t really do the whole ‘childhood’ thing, obviously, but you know that thing where people talk about extra-liking stuff they used to eat when they were kids? Tropical flavors kinda make me feel like that. Comfort food or whatever. I mean, it’s not Loco Moco or musubi, obviously, but . . .”

Tim blinks, makes a few mental notes, and wonders if there’s a single actually authentic Hawaiian restaurant in Gotham. Maybe? There’s got to be at least a decent food truck or two around, if nothing else. There’s always a food truck.

He could probably bribe one to come into the city for a day or two, if it comes to it.

“That makes sense,” he says, since technically Kon’s childhood pretty much was in Hawaii. He refuses to count the stupid fucking cloning tube, because counting the stupid fucking cloning tube is literally too depressing a thought to even contemplate. Fuck the stupid fucking cloning tube. Fuck it sideways.

Maybe Tim can just bribe a Hawaiian food truck to set up in Kon’s future cul-de-sac once a week or something, once he's conned him into moving into it. Just include it in their usual schedule or something, he doesn’t know. Or at least drop off a regular lunch order for him, maybe.

Whatever, he’ll work something out. He’s going to be working a lot of things out, at this point; hooking Kon up with a regular supply of his childhood comfort foods is not even an imposition. He doesn’t even know what either Loco Moco or musubi is, but he’ll put them on the list and do his damn research. He'll go to Hawaii and hire a personal chef straight from the source if he has to, at this point.

“Can I try yours?” Kon asks, grin going sly again. Tim’s head immediately empties out all over again, and he mutely holds his cup out. Kon’s grin widens.

He leans in and ducks his head and Tim has to deal with how long his eyelashes are and just how pretty his stupid face is and, worse, how pretty his stupid mouth is.

Fuck’s sake, this is just not fair at all. He knows Kon’s a flirt, obviously, but does he have to actually be good at it? Because Tim is not used to him being good at it, actually! Usually he’s being overbearing and too-eager and weird about it, in fact!

Tim has the unfortunate thought that maybe Kon always flirts like this and he’s just not seeing it as overbearing or too-eager or weird because it’s focused on him for once, then immediately dismisses said thought as a thought he absolutely cannot allow himself to ever have again. Just–ever. Not for anything.

Jesus, what is his fucking life right now?

Kon leans back; licks his lips. Tim dies, kind of. Like, just a little bit.

Alright, maybe more than a little bit.

“I like it,” Kon says, grinning at him. Tim tries not to think about how intimately he now knows how Kon’s mouth would taste right now, sharply sweet-sour with blackberry and tropical fruit and all warm and soft and wet and–never mind.

“Want a pretzel too?” he offers in a hopefully normal voice, tipping his head towards the stand.

“Sure,” Kon says, glancing towards it. “Sounds good, man.”

“Cool,” Tim says, incredibly awkwardly, and they head over. He orders a regular pretzel because he doesn't know Caroline Hill's pretzel order anymore than he knows her smoothie order, but “regular” isn't going to be interesting enough for Kon to make a note of either way. Possibly he should just be ordering things Tim Drake would, but the flaw in that plan is that Tim Drake isn't thinking very clearly right now and it is currently much, much easier to be in mission-mode than anything else.

Kon orders a cinnamon-sugar pretzel. Tim wishes the bastard would stop eating things that taste good, but also recognizes that it’s his fault that the bastard's been eating things that taste good. He’s literally the one both suggesting and buying said things for him.

So Kon’s mouth is about to taste like cinnamon sugar right now because of Tim, which is actually making the fact that Kon’s mouth is about to taste like cinnamon sugar right now infinitely worse.

Tim pays. They get the pretzels. Kon immediately tears off a bite of his and Tim wishes he had a cover identity that didn't like cinnamon, or at least was allergic to it or diabetic or gluten-intolerant or something. He could use a cover identity like that to fall back on right now.

“Wanna bite?” Kon offers.

“I'm good,” Tim says, because he will literally die if he takes him up on that offer right now. Or possibly go criminally insane like fifteen years ahead of schedule, which would be its own problem. He doesn't have enough kryptonite for that yet. “You like it?”

He doesn’t know why he asked that. Apparently he’s just a glutton for punishment.

“Yeah,” Kon says, licking sugar off his lips. “It’s good.”

“Good,” Tim says, then desperately flails for a subject that doesn’t involve the way anything currently in Kon’s mouth tastes. “Do you have a personal phone or just a work one?”

“Just work, technically. And then, like, I get issued communicators when I need them,” Kon replies, looking puzzled. “Why?”

Because Cadmus could very easily track and tap and block whatever numbers they wanted on that, Tim doesn’t say.

“I’m trying to get your number and I don’t want to call you on your work phone,” he says. “That seems weird.”

“You a little on the shy side, pretty boy?” Kon asks teasingly, flashing him a smirk. Tim does not examine anything about that statement or his own feelings about it. He also does not think about what Kon’s mouth tastes like, though Kon makes that incredibly difficult by immediately taking another bite of pretzel.

Has Tim mentioned what a bastard he is yet? Because he is a bastard.

“I’m buying you a phone,” he says, deciding if he just acts like it’s a foregone conclusion and some small little thing, Kon’s likelier to not reject the offer. “I cannot mentally deal with the idea of your boss seeing what I text you about on some random weekly report.”

“You can’t, huh,” Kon says, biting his lip around a grin and shifting in a little bit closer. “Why, Tim? What are you gonna text me about?”

Tim realizes how that might’ve sounded much too late, but by then it’s too late to rephrase or backtrack, so fuck it: time to commit.

“Depends on what you text back, I guess,” he says. Kon laughs, then grins at him again. His face is a little red again too. Tim is resigned to having to survive the experience.

“Well, I guess you’d have my number if you got me a phone, huh,” Kon says.

“I would, yes,” Tim says. He’s going to have to resist asking Kon to turn on “find my phone”, probably. Or adding any trackers or bugs to it. It’s the Bat instinct, but it’d probably creep Kon out if he caught a “civilian” doing anything like that. And also definitely concern him, what with the “supervillain creep” concerns he was already having. And Tim would have a really hard time paying for Kon’s entire life if Kon decided he was a supervillain before he’s even become a supervillain, so he’d prefer to avoid that outcome.

He guesses Caroline Hill could give it a shot if Tim Drake can’t pull it off, though. She’d still probably have better chances than him anyway, given Kon’s usual taste in people.

They eat their pretzels on the way to the electronics store and Tim tries to plot how to convince Kon to let him get him the best possible phone but is incredibly, incredibly distracted by watching him lick cinnamon sugar off his fingers. Tim actually hasn’t seen Kon with his gloves off too many times, come to think of it. Or possibly, like . . . ever. Like, he might’ve actually never seen him with his gloves off before.

Alright, well, that’s a thing that he hadn’t yet realized and is now going to be completely normal about.

Definitely normal. Very, very normal. So normal.

They toss out their empty pretzel wrappers outside the store and Kon licks a little more sugar off the pad of his thumb. Tim wonders if he has any callouses. Probably not, considering the TTK, but who knows. Maybe he trains with it down? Or maybe TTK just doesn’t protect his skin quite that thoroughly. Tim’s never actually seen him get cut or scratched or even bruised, though, so . . . maybe?

He really has no idea, at this point.

He supposes he could ask. Tim Drake’s already said he knew about tactile telekinesis and that he did some research, so . . .

“Does TTK protect you from callouses?” he asks, gesturing at Kon’s hands with his smoothie and a little too curious to repress the question. Kon tilts his head and smirks at him again.

“You tell me,” he says, then casually reaches over and catches Tim’s free hand in his own.

Tim had thoughts in his head at some point today, he’s pretty sure, but hell if he knows what any of them were.

#timkon #tim drake #kon el #conner kent #dc robin #superboy #rinfic #wip: obligatory sugar baby kon #long post

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cockslutpadalecki · 1 year

Text

Love Thy Neighbor

Summary: After your husband leaves, you’re grateful to be accepted into the tight knit community your neighbors have created, but soon you wish they hadn’t.

Characters: Dark!Steve x F!Reader.

Words: 3.8K.

Warnings: non-con, gaslighting, multiple orgasms, cum on tits, unprotected ex (wrap it before you tap it kids),18+. MINORS DNI.

A/N: Have an early birthday treat from me to you. Beta: @princessmisery666 but all the general bullshit is entirely mine. While likes are gold, feedback is golden. Please support our content creators by sharing our work.

The kitchen is full of Annabel’s friends when you enter, there’s not a single familiar face among them. You spot a couple of your other neighbors outside, deep in conversations with more people who live close by, but not one of them comes to talk to you.

You can’t blame them— Josh never wanted to socialize when he lived here, and in turn, you felt like you couldn’t either. Small smiles across driveways and the occasional hello when you’d be putting out the garbage at the same time were the most social you got.

The neighbor across the street, Annabel, is the only one who truly made an effort when Josh moved out, inviting you into the close knit community she’s developed over the years. At first, you were reluctant to accept her olive branch— fearing you had alienated the entire street for too long, but she was persistent. Inviting you over for coffee, to go shopping, and then eventually inviting you to all of the parties she and her husband, Steve, host throughout the year.

The first was their anniversary potluck dinner in early April (which you almost flaked on at the last minute), then the 4th July street party, and now it’s their annual end of summer barbecue before fall takes over.

And even though you’ve been around these people often enough, they’re still cautious about approaching you. Gently, you set down the pie you’ve baked for the occasion, wondering how easily it could be to sneak out now without anybody noticing you had shown up— the tin and oozing pastry the only indication you were even here.

“Mm, that looks delicious.”

The voice startles you and you turn, glancing to your right, coming face to face with Annabel’s husband, Steve. His bright cobalt eyes glisten in the daylight, like the sun’s reflection off of the ocean’s surface, and when he smiles kindly at you, you find yourself smiling back. He’s so handsome, you almost can’t believe he’s real.

“Oh, thank you,” you reply, timid.

He leans over, sniffing the air above it and smiles wide. “What’s in it?”

“Damsons,” you say, before offering, “I made it myself.”

“Homemade?” He looks amazed. “Where did you manage to find damsons in the city?”

“I have a tree in my backyard.”

Steve laughs softly, shaking his head. “How have I never noticed that before?”

You shrug, not really knowing what to say. Even though it’s obvious. Why would he have noticed it? Your house faces his in the small cul-de-sac, the backyard shielded from his view, but you’re too nervous— too shy, to put logic into the air. Instead, you glance at the rosè bottle in front of you, too afraid to reach out and grab it while you can feel Steve’s stare still on you.

“Little overwhelming, huh?” he continues.

“It is,” you admit, fiddling nervously with the clasp on your handbag. “I don’t really know anybody.”

“Ah, you know me,” he starts with a smile, “and Bels.”

You want to tell him that knowing him barely counts, and you can’t glue yourself to Annie’s hip all afternoon, but you merely smile gently and thank him.

The cold fall air nips at your cheeks as you step outside, the fading heat from the glass jar helping to keep your hands warm. You cross the road slowly, careful not to drop it as you approach the house across the street, but it’s not until you reach the driveway and the empty space where Annie’s car should be, that you realize she’s not home.

You pause in the driveway, debating what to do— leave it on their doorstep with a note or come back when Annie gets home, but both ideas are squashed when the front door opens. Steve stands before you, hands in his pockets with his lips curled up into a smile.

“You lost?” he calls with a chuckle, which pulls you from your shock and your eyes are immediately drawn to his casual attire. His gray sweatpants sit low on his hips and tight black material strains across his biceps as he folds them over his chest, propping himself against the doorframe. Swallowing hard, you walk the remaining few steps with shaky legs. His presence instantly puts you on edge, your stomach twisting with heat.

There’s something about Steve that makes you nervous as arousal blooms in all the places it shouldn’t. Shame sits thick in your chest as you push down immoral thoughts of sleeping with your neighbor, and hold out the jar in front of you. Anything to create a barrier between you.

“I made some Damson jam,” you explain as he reaches to take it, “For Annie.”

“She’s gonna love it, thank you.” Steve gives you a wide grin, his fingers gently grazing yours. “Come inside, you look frozen to the bone.”

Every fiber inside you screams at the thought of being alone with him. “Oh no, it’s fine.”

“Please,” he insists, “Bels would have my neck if she knew I left you outside in the cold.”

You argue with yourself, knowing that Annie would also have yours if you declined Steve’s invitation, even if the warmth and familiarity of your house is literally across the street. Instead, you smile, following him straight towards the kitchen. The house is eerily quiet, the lack of noise strangely unnerving. Steve rounds the kitchen island, placing the jar down gently before heading towards the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of vitamin water.

“Where is Annie anyway?” you ask curiously, watching as he shrugs, his biceps flexing while he unscrews the lid.

“Not sure,” he replies, nonchalant and takes a sip. “One of her event planning things with the girls, I guess. Who knows with Bels, she’s always off galavanting somewhere.”

You nod silently in agreement. It’s so hard to pin Annabel down at any one place at any given time— if she’s not busy hosting a yoga class, it’s a bake sale here or a charity gala there. You can’t help feeling a little put out though, the lack of invitation heavy on your mind.

Steve studies you as he moves back around to your side of the island, closing the gap that separates you rapidly. “You alright?”

You snap out of your daze when his fingers brush yours. “Mm yeah, fine, I’m fine.” You smile, but it’s small and forced.

“You sure?” he confirms, slowly swallowing the space that still resides between you. It’s like slow motion as you watch him lick his lips before he’s leaning in, lips brushing yours before you step back in shock.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Steve shuffles forward and reaches for you, fingers skimming your hips as he tries to pull you against him. Quickly, you put your hand to his chest to create a barrier between you..

“We can’t do that,” you protest.

“Why not?” he scoffs lightly. “Could be our own little thing. Nobody has to know.”

“I would know. Annie is my friend. Your wife.”

Steve just shrugs, like he doesn’t care. “I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he says thickly. “You can’t tell me you’ve not thought about it. How I’d feel inside you.”

You shake your head furiously.

“Wanna know what I think about?” He grabs your hips firmly, this time putting all of his weight behind the movement to pull you roughly to his chest. Steve’s breath is hot on your cheek as he reveals, “Fuckin’ you in every hole until you’re beggin’ me to stop.”

You’re mortified by his confession, but deep down, there’s a part of you that feels reassured in the knowledge that all of the longing looks across crowded rooms isn’t something you’ve dreamt up in your loneliness.

Slamming your eyes shut, you use all your strength to push yourself away and it confuses you when he loosens his grip, allowing you the space to move. Your eyes spring open when you step back to find Steve smiling.

“Y’know, it must be frightening in that great big empty house of yours all on your own. Shadows in every corner, hiding places you’d never even think of,” he says, a terrifying lilt to his tone and you can’t tell if he’s threatening or warning you. “Better make sure your doors are locked at night, wouldn’t want anybody sneaking in to take whatever they want, whenever they want.”

The harsh wind whips around your face as you run back to your house, tears cooling instantly while they stream down your cheeks. Your feet pound along the sidewalk, perfectly in rhythm with the thud of your heartbeat inside your chest.

You don’t want to chance a look behind you, scared of what you might see. Somehow the thought of Steve not chasing you is more distressing than if he were. At least you know your fear would be justified in the moment, but not knowing when he could strike sends a cold chill down your spine.

You reach the house, front door in sight, sanctuary mere inches away. It’s only when you lock it with trembling fingers and slam your back to the wood, you finally feel safe, but with the subject of your fear living just across the street, the feeling doesn’t last long.

You avoid the house across the street for well over a month. Using every excuse in the book not to involve yourself on the occasions Annie would invite you for brunch or coffee.

At night, you sleep with a kitchen knife under your pillow just in case the shadows in your room begin to shift into the form of your neighbor, coming to make good on his threat.

As the days pass, and the nights eventually allow you to rest a little peacefully, your fear begins to slowly wane. You haven’t seen Steve since you ran from him, but it still doesn’t stop you from looking over your shoulder whenever you have to leave the safety of your home, feeling vulnerable every second you’re not surrounded by the familiarity of your own four walls.

The time alone isn’t usually something you enjoy since Josh left, but now, you feel comforted by it. Safe in its presence. You almost don’t want to break the cocoon you’ve made, knowing that you’re likely to emerge unchanged.

Sunday, you wake up to the sound of your phone pinging, alerting you to a text. At first, you ignore it until three more high-pitched dings follow and you reach over to grab it, ready to silence it when your eyes catch sight of Annie’s message, addressed to you and six other women in the neighborhood.

“Hey ladies, don’t forget the bake sale for the animal shelter is on Friday afternoon! See you all there! Axxx”

You itch to text back with another excuse— tell her you’re not well, but Steve is never at these events, your brain helpfully reminds you, you’ll be free of him. No need to hide from him behind pumpkin pie and toffee apples. Deep down, you desperately want to get back out into the world. Sick of hiding away.

With a loud but triumphant sigh, you start to type back. Time to break out of the cocoon.

As soon as you step inside the town hall, something instantly feels off. Everyone stares daggers at you and you suddenly don’t know where to look. Still holding the slowly cooling Damson pie, you scan the room for Annabel and her group of six, but the former is already storming towards you, her face screwed up in disgust.

“You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” she spits as she reaches you.

“I… don’t understand, what’s going on?” you ask, confused.

“Don’t act all innocent,” she continues. “After all I’ve done for you, opened my home to you, and you have the nerve to try to fuck my husband?”

Your jaw drops at the revelation. “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,” you try to defend. “Steve,” you pause, taking in a huge shaky breath, right on the verge of a panic attack, “Steve… he’s the one who came onto me.”

A white hot sting explodes across your cheek from the weight of Annabel’s slap, and the silence that follows is deathly. Every pair of eyes in the room now focused on you, the judgment on their faces clear to see. Hot tears pour down your cheeks in shock and pain. Slowly, you lift a hand to your cheek, the warmth of your skin doing nothing to help the throb in your face.

“How dare you,” she seethes through gritted teeth. “Steve would never.”

You want to plead with her, tell her that he would, but you know it’s futile. She has an image— a fantasy of Steve in her head, and nobody will ever be able to alter it, regardless of how much they might try. To her, Steve can do no wrong.

“Please,” you mutter softly, “you have to believe me.”

Annie screams, and for a moment you think she’s going to slap you again, until you feel an uncomfortable warmth seeping through your dress. You glance down and the bright plum of your pie is splattered across the fabric, blotting like ink. Shame and humiliation heat your cheeks at the sight, all of the effort you put into baking it, slopping onto the floor and your sneakers.

When you look up, eyes full of fresh tears, Annie is crying— almost fake, overdramatic sobs, but they still manage to create a crowd around her. All of their disgusted accusatory stares pointed at you.

“You should leave,” one of Annie’s friends interjects as she cuddles her. “You’ve put poor Belli through enough already, and now you want to stick the knife in even more by claiming such lies?”

“They’re not lies,” you weep. The friend tuts at you as the remaining women surrounding Annie continue to console her, occasionally flashing looks full of vitriol in your direction.

Annie lifts her head from one redhead’s shoulder, spitting, “No wonder Joshua left you,” with venom at you. ”Married to a liar and a whore.” At her words, more tears trickle the path the old ones have already made down your cheeks and drip onto the bust of your dress.

You can’t take it any more, never even looking back as you run from the building, Annie’s threatening words ringing in your ears.

“You better stay away from my husband, bitch.”

The small cul-de-sac is filled with people, staring up at the sky as New Year fireworks fill the night with bright flashes of blue, magenta, gold. You watch from the kitchen window as you fill up a glass of water, eyes prickling with tears of sadness.

You didn’t mind the seclusion before, knowing you still had friends when you were feeling lonely, but now that they think you’re capable of stealing their husbands, you’ve never felt so alone.

Sharply, you rebuke yourself for getting so upset and take a step away just as a heaviness drapes across your back through the darkness. You feel a scream leave your lips, but the noise never manages to escape. A hand covers your mouth as another snakes around your waist, gripping you tight.

Silence greets you before it’s broken by Steve’s deep voice in your ear. “Ssh, it’s okay, it’s just me.”

You thrash in his arms, but he has too tight a hold around you to give you any chance to escape.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he breathes, running his nose up your cheek. Fresh tears fall over your lashes— tears no longer indicative of sadness but of abject terror. “It’s a shame things had to go the way they did, but,” he sighs, “you forced my hand.”

You curse beneath his palm, but the words are merely muffled noises, discernible to everyone but the one who voiced them.

“Sorry doll, I didn’t quite catch that?” he asks with a sneer. “You regret turning me down?”

You try to answer, twisting and turning your head to free yourself of his grip but nothing but muffled whimpers greet your ears.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, placing a kiss on your cheek. The arm around your waist loosens as Steve roughly gathers your nightdress in his hand and pulls it upwards, exposing your behind. “I’ll let you earn my forgiveness, one fuck at a time.”

He runs his palm across the curve of your ass, kneading the skin teasingly before he smooths his hand over your hip, down into the valley where your legs meet. You tighten your thighs, trying to prevent access but Steve sharply digs his knuckles into your flesh as he forces his hand between them.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but if you keep resisting me, I’ll have no other choice,” he grunts in your ear, his warning enough to make the muscles in your thighs release.

Your eyes flutter closed, eyelashes wet on your cheek as Steve’s hand slides over your pussy, the entirety of it cupping you tight. Whining into the hand still over your mouth, you hate the way your body reacts to the way he touches you.

“You like that, baby?” he purrs, voice tender like he could be talking to Annie in the throes of intimacy. Your stomach twists at the thought of her. “I guess it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Steve’s hand slowly slips away and disgust rolls through your gut as you ache for the warmth of it against you. You don’t have to miss it for long when the heat of his skin returns, sliding rapidly towards your cunt.

Two fingers delicately curl beneath the hem, Steve roughly plucks your panties to one side, causing the material to bunch up between the folds of your sex and rub against your clit. You let go of a muted whimper, clammy hot beneath his palm.

Without warning, his hand suddenly falls from your mouth, cupping your jaw close in case you decide to scream, but you don’t have the strength in your lungs to do so.

“Yeah, that feel good?” Steve taunts. He gives your underwear a gentle tug and your body jolts from the contact as another welp bursts from your lips. “Just wait ‘til I’m inside you.”

“Why are you doing this?” you choke out, voice thick with tears. The bulge of his forearm slips into the space beneath your chin, limiting your ability to breathe.

You feel him shrug against you, a small scoff huffing past his lips as the distinct sound of a belt buckle unclasping fills the otherwise silent room. “Hm, everyone in the neighborhood already thinks you’re a whore, why not make it reality?”

Hot, hard flesh skims across your ass before it's aiming south between your legs. You instinctively clench as the tip of Steve’s cock drags wetly through your folds before it’s pressing against your opening.

“C’mon, don’t fight it,” he soothes gently just as the head pops past your entrance. In unison, you let out strained moans— Steve’s of satisfaction, and yours, revulsion. “Fuck,” he adds with grit, slowly edging himself deeper inside you. He opens you up like a flower catching the first ray of sunshine and your body begins to sag.

More fireworks light up the sky, bringing with it loud bangs that shake your entire house.

You hear your neighbors cheer at the display outside and Steve chuckles, “Imagine if they could see you right now,” lowly in your ear.

Don’t you mean, us?

He finally slides his way home, the head of his cock nestled deep. You can practically feel it in your stomach and it makes your gut coil at how good it feels, despite the violation.

After a moment, he still hasn’t moved and you wonder if he’s going to remain like this all night, when he starts to pull out. Sensually slow. And he’s even slower pushing his way back in.

The tenderness doesn’t last long.

Steve’s thrusts are brutal and commanding— pain exploding through your pelvis until it melts away into a syrupy warmth, and everything becomes… hot.

So hot you think you’re going to burst into flame from the inside out.

The tighter his forearm gets across your throat, the further you have to arch your back to save yourself from choking. And the more you have to arch your spine, the deeper Steve gets.

“I can’t wait to feel you come around me,” he breathes hot against your cheek, snapping his hips even harder. His spare hand moves between your thighs, slipping through the small patch of curls before rubbing gently across your clit. Your body reacts immediately, hips canting towards Steve, pushing your pussy further onto his cock.

He groans deep, feral— from the gutter— fucking you harder while his fingers flick and tease at your throbbing bead.

“G-g-gh,” you splutter, tiny sparks beginning to ignite in your core.

“Let it go,” Steve encourages. “Let it go.”

“N-n-nh.” Again, words fail, but your body doesn’t. You come hard, your limbs tensing as wave upon wave of ecstasy engulfs you. You fall silent, voice trapping in your throat while Steve praises heavy in your ear. Proud of you for giving in so beautifully.

When the sensation returns, you tremble against him, the overstimulation sending you back over the edge before you have the opportunity to return from it. You succumb and quiet tears trickle down your cheeks as the sound of thick slaps against wet skin fills the kitchen.

You fear, from the way his thrusts change pace, that he’s close, but before you realize what’s happening, Steve is pulling out and roughly turns you around. With his hand on your shoulder, he forces you to your knees and with the other, he pumps his cock in long, hard strokes.

“Fuck, lemme see those tits,” he growls, almost inhuman. He rips at the front of your nightdress, fully exposing one of your breasts and half of the other. Sudden warmth splashes across your naked chest and face as Steve comes all over you with a strained grunt.

It feels like it lasts forever until he’s finished draining his cock dry, making sure to leave every last drop staining your skin.

Steve doesn’t speak as he tucks himself away. He doesn’t even look at you. But you watch him— watch as he approaches the doorway and lifts his hand to the hook that your keys hang from.

It’s only then he acknowledges you again, the threat he fires at you before slipping off into the night rattling deep in your ear: “Don’t even think about changing the locks, honey.”

***

ALL CE: @buckymydarlingangel @broadwaybabe18 @captain-asguard @chamberofsloths @cevansgurl @dreamlessinparis @deanwinchesterswitch @fandom-princess-forevermore @hurricanerin @kellhems @ladybug05 @mugi-chwan95 @navybrat817 @otomefromtheheart @oneoftheprettynerds @patzammit @rebel-stardust @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @sammykb1994 @syrenavenger @saiyanprincessswanie @sunwardsss @selfsun @threeminutesoflife @vicmc624 @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @wintasssoldier @xoxonotme

4EVS: @amirra88 @andreasworlsboring101 @b3autyfuldisast3r @cheesyclaire @chibijusstuff @callsignrambam @dangertoozmanykids101 @daughterofthenight117 @doozywoozy @foxyjwls007 @geekofmanyforms @heyyouwiththeassbutt @i-opened-the-chamber-of-secrets @ilovefanfic86 @kind-of-crazy-butthatsokay @letsby @letsdisneythings @labella420 @mogaruke @maliburenee @notyourtypicalrose @nik2writes @obsessivelycapricious @patrick-hockslutter @princessmisery666 @phildunphyisadilf @sage-writing @sea040561 @sweeterthanthis @slutformarvelmen @smokeandnailz @stoneyggirl @stoneyggirl2 @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @thegirlnextdoorssister @unfortunate-brat @wayward-dreamer @warriorqueen1991 @xoxabs88xox

#steve rogers #dark!steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #chris evans fanfiction

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bunkoos-mole-enthusiast · 5 months

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Weekly Jungkook Fanfic Recs:

Some fine JK fics for your reading pleasure. Please show your appreciation to all the wonderful authors :) Calling You Cool: After your band finishes a coveted club gig, you’re frustrated that your dope ass night ends with you hiding in a bathroom stall. At least, this is what you figured - until someone comes along to change that. https://kithtaehyung.tumblr.com/post/714257289848160256/calling-you-cool-m-jjk Of Skin: The sexploits of a man made of skin and bones. https://archiveofourown.org/works/21048614/chapters/50068430 Blackout: You’ve just been laid off, and all you want to do is eat some dinner, curl into bed, and forget. Unfortunately, the neighborhood block party is tonight, and the festivities turn downright chaotic when the entire city loses power. Don’t fret, though. Jungkook will help take your mind off things for a while. https://bonvoyagenoona.tumblr.com/post/686722234680786944/blackout-jjk The Cul-De-Sac Cons: Your two-story Tudor sits at the end of the cul-de-sac, miles away from the life that you used to lead. The life that involved more than a few scrapes here and there. The life that kept you on the run. But here, with your darling husband, you’ve found roots. You’ve found peace. The kind of peace that, unfortunately, could only be ruined by the new neighbors moving in. https://bonvoyagenoona.tumblr.com/post/644486168112742400/the-cul-de-sac-cons-jjk-jhs Corrupt: You’d be crying out in pain begging me to play my games. I could corrupt you, it would be ugly. Vampire au. https://bratkook.tumblr.com/post/621115500050694145/corrupt-jjk-m Center Of Attention: It was supposed to just be you and your boyfriend tonight but your friends decided to come over for an impromptu slumber party. Of course, he’s not happy about it but he’ll get the attention he wants, one way or another. https://bangtanintotheroom.tumblr.com/post/673832725356134400/center-of-attention-m Show Me Something: He was your first kiss years ago, only to become your first heartbreak the next day. Your life would have been much easier if only you would forget about him and move on. https://yoonia.tumblr.com/post/647238369227702272/show-me-something-m Frost Impressions: Jeongguk is so disgustingly smitten with his new coworker that he ends up making a terrible first impression, and neither of them realize they’ve actually been in love with each other for the better part of a decade. https://www.tumblr.com/fortunexkookie/190071380261/frost-impressions-m-jjk Little Bean: Nothing has been normal for Jungkook since he moved to Seoul to become a trainee as a boy, and yet noticing a beautiful girl in a coffee shop is the most normal thing a young man can do. Asking her out, super normal. Falling in love, totally normal. Everything about Sasha makes him feel normal and important, and yet nothing can ever be truly normal when your relationship has to be secret. https://archiveofourown.org/works/27237484/chapters/66536458

#bts jeon jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic recs #jungkook imagines #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x you #bts fanfic #bts jungkook fanfic #bts fic recs #bts smut #bts imagines

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hamsterclaw · 7 months

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Fic Library: Jungkook (Part 1)

I realised whilst compiling this library just how many Jungkook stories I've read and recced. It's probably because Jungkook stories are far and away the most prolific on my feed and also probably because the maknae looks and acts like he does. I hope you enjoy these, don't forget to show these writers some love.

Rattled JJK x reader, single dad JK by @gukslut. The Jungkook in this story breaks my heart with his grit and humanity, and the MC is so relatable it hurts. If you haven't read this, do yourself a favour and be prepared to have your world rocked. Probably my favourite fanfic of all time.

The Cul-de-Sac Cons JJK x reader, JHS x reader, con artist AU by @bonvoyagenoona. I've read and re-read this a lot, the love story between JK and reader is fraught with intrigue and danger, and all the side characters - cuckolded husband Hoseok, Yoongi, Namjoon, are fleshed out perfectly as well.

Lonely Hearts Club JJK x OC, dystopian sci-fi tattoo artist AU by @joonbird. A story that made me think about fanfic in a completely different light, angsty and terribly sad.

Ego JJK x reader, fuckboi college AU by @suga-kookiemonster. A series that had me hooked from the first chapter, a rolling romp, with the perfect ending. Adore.

Feels like summer by @badbhye is a sweet, funny, coming of age story featuring reader and an grown-up, glowed-up next-door-neighbour Jungkook. Also features the immortal line 'Fucking Aquarius bastard' which makes me laugh every time I think of it.

Blink and you'll miss it by @satnin-darling is a fun, fast-paced story with great scene-setting featuring a street-racer reader and rookie lawyer JK.

Spin Cycle by @miscelunaaa is a slow burn series where reader meets Jungkook in a laundromat and their relationship develops over a collection of fun-size drabbles.

Damsel in shining armor by @jimilter is a follow up to the equally great Knight in distress and features chaotic chaebol JK and a competent, take no prisoners reader. A fast-paced, hilarious caper involving reader trying to do damage control as JK wreaks havoc.

Burning bright by @snackhobi is a Pacific Rim AU featuring Jaeger pilots Jungkook and reader, and an unforgettable classic in my book. I love this, and it always reminds me how damn talented fanfiction writers are.

Ghosts just wanna have fun by @sugaxjpg is about a Jungkook who has the ability to see ghosts set in a med school AU and features Yoongi and Taehyung as cockblocking spirits. Sweet and so, so funny.

Blackout by @bonvoyagenoona is set during one night when the entire neighbourhood loses power and Jungkook and reader navigate the neighbourhood block party. It's the perfect romantic almost first date.

Under the stars by @madbutgloriouspond is a sweet, cute, fluffy, real story about Jungkook and reader in a college AU that I love, love, love.

THAT nose riding drabble by @here2bbtstrash honestly doesn't even need a title. JK is sweet, clueless but willing, and Yoongi? He's the voyeur of my dreams.

Disaster management by @jimilter is gold. Unruly chaotic chaebol CEO Jeon Jungkook is back, and company President reader is right by his side as they try to avert disaster.

Leave the door open by @here4kpopfics is a strangers to lovers neighbours AU story that makes me think about how annoying and irresistible Jeon Jungkook would be if he lived next door.

Car sex by @musicloverxoxo7 features co-workers Jungkook x reader who flirt their way to a smutty, sexy encounter.

Euphoria by @btssavedmylifeblr is a beautiful study of life, love and mortality that is one of the best stories I've read. Unforgettable.

Part 2

#fic library: jungkook #fic rec list: jungkook

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mauesartetc · 10 months

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Thoughts on Helluva Boss 108 ("Queen Bee")

Yeeeah so we knew pretty much from the jump that this episode wouldn't have much substance to it. Viv Medrano herself said as much. But again, I have to wonder: What's the point of making a full episode of a show if you don't have the story to support it? You know the phrase "This meeting could have been an email"? This episode could have been a music video.

I typically include a list of pros and a list of cons when I write these, but everything was just so bland I can't functionally categorize much of it. I wasn't angry, I wasn't entertained, I didn't feel anything. All my thoughts about this episode are floating around in a soup and I just can't be bothered to sort them into the usual boxes. So this'll be more of a barely-coherent brainspew than anything else. If the writers couldn't put the effort in, why should I?

Fuck it, let's do this.

First, the elephant in the room: Beelzebub's design. That's a lengthy separate rant I'll save for another time, but I'll just say the first time I saw it, I thought it looked like some kid's DeviantArt fursona. But let's be real, I've got a feeling she only looks the way she does so Viv could make an easy reference to her "Die Young" music video.

I get that Kesha is Viv's idol and it must have been huge to land her for this voice-acting gig (though to be clear, she didn't sing the song in the episode. Helped write it; didn't sing it), but man, the self-indulgence is just leaking through the screen. This wouldn't feel so uncomfortable if Viv herself did any of the animation in this episode, but if you check the credits, she didn't. She wrote this plot cul-de-sac of pointless filler just so she could make other people animate the most complex character design to come out of the show and pat herself on the back for all of it. Again: Could have been a music video.

The episode's actual "plot" consists of Loona having a series of awkward conversations, calling Blitzo, and driving him home when he gets too trashed. There is a little development in their relationship? I guess? But of course no one mentions what went down at the beach. Much like what happened between Blitzo and Stolas in "Ozzie's", we can safely assume that event will get swept under the rug, never to be heard from again. I'd like to point out that the musical number takes about three minutes out of the fourteen-and-a-half-minute runtime. They could have cut the rest of this shit and nothing would have been lost; in fact a good amount of time and money would have been saved.

Three minutes. That's all you would have needed.

As far as Bee and Vortex, I never would've guessed they were a couple unless Vortex said so. They act more like good friends than boyfriend and girlfriend. Y'all couldn't have shown us a kiss, a little flirting, or even a hug? The PDA doesn't have to be excessive, but some indication of chemistry might be nice. This would also create more tension and discomfort for Loona, as it'd be hard to watch the guy she has a crush on make out with someone else.

Also, question: In this universe, hellhounds have roughly the same social status as imps, right? Maybe lower? Why, then, is it perfectly okay for one of the Seven Sins, who outranks Stolas, to date a hellhound, but it's not okay for Stolas to date an imp? What the fuck was the main conflict of "Ozzie's", then?! Hello?? With what little worldbuilding y'all give us, could you at least try to keep it consistent?

Speaking of which, the cleanup in this one is just rife with inconsistencies. It's not usually something I comment on as it hasn't been too noticeable in other episodes, but damn. Sometimes the outlines are thick, then they're thin, then they're thick again. The screenshots below came from three consecutive Loona scenes:

And take a look at how often Beelzebub's longest eyelashes change:

I noticed a bit of this in Exes and Oohs as well, with the scratch on Chaz's nose changing thickness from scene to scene. I'll repeat what I said then: Make sure the whole cleanup department sticks to the same brush size.

As for the song "Cotton Candy"... eh. It was alright? Not really my thing, but I'm not a big pop music fan anyway. Would I listen to it in my everyday life? Nah. But it's fine. I will say there's a hiccup in the meter of the lyrics that kinda threw me off:

Hey, I don't know why I'm whatchu want but it's the truth I'm not your lie Let them eat cake let them eat pie Or better yet Let them eat COTTON CANDY!

Feels like there could've been more after "or better yet"; the "cotton candy" seems abrupt there, as if the song were playing on vinyl and the record skipped. Maybe "Or better yet/ The sweetest treat that any one of y'all can get/ COTTON CANDY!" Like I'm not a songwriter by any means and I don't pretend to be anywhere near Kesha or Drew Pearson's level, but perhaps a few more syllables would've made that verse feel more complete.

But the animation for the musical number was really good! (Sounding like a broken record here, but this could have been a music video and it would've been much more tolerable.)

Kesha's voice acting was okay, though in some spots it came off like she's never said the f-word before. Just didn't seem natural. But the rest was alright.

I did like how Beelzebub was actually a decent person, since it would've been way too easy to make anyone Vortex was dating (who wasn't Loona) a total bitch. But Bee is gregarious, generous and actually nice to Loona despite her social awkwardness. And hey, Loona had a somewhat-positive interaction with another female character, so brownie points for that, I guess?

Not sure what Loona actually learned here, though, or how she magically dropped the attitude and became more social after some rando flirted with her (I mean you were literally crying a minute ago but some dude calling you hot is enough to change your mind about leaving?). I don't know, it feels like the episode could've shown her connecting with other introverts and doing something fun in their own little enclave, enjoying the party in their own way, rather than making her extroverted in a matter of seconds. Then maybe her newfound friends would like her for who she really is, not for the arbitrary box she tried to squeeze into. There's more than one way to have fun at a party, y'know? Perhaps a way that doesn't involve drinking, which Loona seems keen to avoid (but has no problem cheering Blitzo on in a chugging contest, apparently-?).

One nitpick about the hellhound in the purple shirt who called Loona a hottie: That was not the voice I expected to come out of him. The delivery just doesn't match at all. Something deep, sure, but maybe smoother, more sultry? (Seriously, if you played the audio of that line for someone who hadn't seen the show and asked them to match it to a male character from this episode, I'd bet anything they wouldn't get it on the first try.)

I know I've said before that Helluva Boss is what happens when you write fanfic of your own IP, but this episode, more than any other, reeaaally felt like fanfic. This felt like a fan asking, "Hey, what if we saw what Loona was up to in the Ozzie's episode?", then creating a bottle story that didn't affect anything else in canon. This whole thing (apart from Cotton Candy) was truly a waste of everyone's time. I'm glad the animators got some good reel fodder out of it, but whatever they were paid, it wasn't enough.

#helluva boss #helluva critical #review #critique #criticism #long post

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itspkuwu · 3 months

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EEnE headcanons

Double D is only nice to Kevin sometimes because he doesn’t want him to beat up Eddy. Besides for that one time when Double D thought Eddy deserved it for making him think he had an illness. And because he knows that even Double D can get aggravated with Eddy, Kevin tries to encourage him to pick on the con man with friendly interacts. So it’s kinda sorta like gaslighting. But Double D still doesn’t trust him because he knows this. He cares about Eddy too much. Not to mention that pretty much everyone in the cul de sac is nice to Double D because Double D is nice to them. What goes around comes around. Sarah is a huge example of this, she literally has a crush on him.

Plus Double D did somewhat feel bad for Eddy getting a beating afterwards.

Stuffed Pig’s Head is only a meal Rolf’s people eats when a swine has been put down from old age. They say the inner strength and soul of the dead pig will give those who consume it power to continue on. So it’s considered a tribute to the cycle of life. (And it would explain why Rolf hasn’t eaten Wilfred lol)

Marie does May’s nails.

There’s a big red and purple scar under Double D’s hat. When he was extremely little, probably just a few weeks before reaching 2, his curiosity found him in the middle of a dodgeball game with much older kids who teased him for being bad at the game. Later on, Double D built a machine that would launch dodgeballs like rapid fire. He met those same kids and again and used his invention in the next game. Something went wrong, and he, along with the other kids there were sent to the hospital, leaving him with the scar. His parents were utterly ashamed of his actions. The young genius they were raising had turned out to be a monster. Thus, they thought it was better to move to Peach Creek to try and leave this tragic event in their lives behind. Poor Double D is constantly reminded of the guilt whenever his hat is removed. And his parents, now distant and somewhat afraid of their son, community with him through sticky notes.

And yes, his mother stopped rubbing his feet with oil after the incident.

Ed is neurodivergent autistic.

So is Jonny

Rolf’s mother use to comfort him a lot when he was little, hence why he tends to shout “MAMA!” whenever he’s afraid or in pain.

Jimmy is a demi boy

Lee can retract her third eye to hide her demons powers from others. But in that sunflower field was the one time she didn’t think fast enough.

Her father Butch had some kind of demon genetic trait that if he were to repopulate, that DNA would be passed on to the child. Like… all of it… and no, he couldn’t use those demonic powers himself, that’s another side effect of the trait. And that’s also why he left, not because he didn’t wanna be a parent, it’s because he was terrified of what he had brought into the world. (And for good reason) (Also yes demonic traits and powers do exist in this universe, along with holy ones. For example: Jimmy and Sarah with Cupid powers)

Kevin and Nazz were a thing, but broke up cause it just wasn’t working out. Later, Nazz realized she was more in to girls and Kevin thought he’d just be better off single. Plus he was in love with his bike anyway

Blue is a natural hair color

Kevin was Rolf’s first friend he made in the cul-de-sac and was the one who taught The Son of a Shepard (TM) how to play sports.

Nazz is a hippie

Sarah was taught to hate Ed by their parents

Wilfred is Rolf’s emotional support animal for his ptsd towards the wolf incident he experienced as a kid.

In the actual incident, the “wolf man” tore the baby sheep’s head off with his teeth. Leaving poor Rolf traumatized.

And that’s also why Rolf keeps all the sheep in the basement, he wants to protect them.

There’s a program in Peach Creek where the elementary schoolers are allowed to visit the jr high, hence why Jimmy and Sarah are there sometimes despite their young ages.

Speaking of ages

Ed, Edd, n Eddy: 12-13

Sarah: 7-8

Jimmy: 6-7

Jonny 2x4: 11-12

Nazz: 13-14

Kevin: 13-14

Rolf: 14-15

May: 11-12

Marie: 12-13

Lee: 13-14

Eddy’s Brother: 23

Plank: Immortal God

Yes, Plank alive. Again, more demonic powers.

If Edt3 is to be canon, which to me it absolutely is, then I wouldn’t have their relationship with each other be any other way, besides for maybe a little less violence. That’s why I like the ship, nothing needs to change to see the goodness and love they show towards each other. It already feels canon.

Eddy and Double D are bi while Ed is full on gay.

that’s all I have for now. Thanks for reading :)

go hug a chicken

#ed edd n eddy #eene #edt3 #eene rolf #kanker sisters #eene nazz #eene jonny #eene sarah #eene headcanons #headcanons #cartoon network #CHICKENS

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slowdrippingnoise · 7 days

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thinking of ways to fix my problems with earthspark's starscream lore cul-de-sac situation. next season hashtag gets to Remember The Plot Point and actually distrusts megatron because of it (shades of teen rebellion + "he just like me fr" attachment to stsc) which puts her in big conflict with twitch (idolizes megs, imiates him as "leader of the pack", he shows her favoritism in particular. little bird ^^) they have more and more little conflicts leading up to a Big Actual Sibling Argument episode a/b plot- with both of them putting together arguments for why their favorite uncle that they use to prop up their own confidence (#: "im not a bad kid" realest starscream girlie)/(twitch: i can protect my whole family im strong im stable i can do this i have to) has Done Nothing Wrong Ever (fueled by the fact that it's more about their own senses of self, they're kids they need role models) meanwhile megs and stsc are on the sidelines watching this fight go down like coaches at a boxing match. it takes them way longer than it should to act like responsible adults and break up the fight because, besides stsc already just being thrilled to have Anybody in his corner, megs keeps giving him the I Will Murder You eyes from across the scene and that sets him back to thinking this is all hilarious every time he notices it. punchline: they have to step in though after a while because hearing their respective kiddos' most godawful blorbo takes known to mankind makes them cringe too much to let it continue. no little buddy thats not how that happened- no- no that very much was my fault- ok how about we all go cool down for a while how about we go pet fluffyears wouldnt you rather do that- ends as a lesson in maturity for both the siblings and mg&ss (doesn't necessarily mean the latter must be forced to be around each other in future, but at least chills megs out a bit + gives stsc more room to develop) / further examination of the different character groups' personal perspectives on the war / kind of mk2 of thrash's 'con phase from s1 i like hashtag so much. my daughter

#transformers earthspark #uhh #hashtag #starscream #because i like them #this is copied directly from my hasty personal notes just now #also i havent watched tfes in a bit so forgive me for anything im definitely forgetting/misremembering #i want Conflict! i want Lore! i want Jokes!#this is kind of the lightest version of a resolution i can think of here. please understand this is not Megs Apologism by any means lmao #i have Many thoughts but its tricky to work ideas around existing plot and tone yknow #the other sadder version i think ive already talked about is hashtag beginning to mistrust dot as well #which i dont think will happen #but anyway

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heartfucksmouth · 11 days

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I have a LOT to organize in my brain. I've never done something like this where I try to fully plan and organize a timeline.. I've always had to initiate changes in the moment of crisis

but we are thinking 6 months to a year, we will move to my mom's house. Aidan will be closer to 2 years old, I'll have recovered from hip surgery... she'll live downstairs and we'll have the ground level. we'll obv share the kitchen and myles will have his weight room in the extra room downstairs. but I think it will work out and we'll be ... happier. the only huge con, is that my mom has a cat and myles is super allergic. but I'll have my garden back, I'll have space to be myself... Aidan can play safely outside bc no cars ever drive down the cul de sac, zaiyah will have more freedom.

I'm gonna be doing a lot of purging and re-organizing and writing lists and budgeting and I'm kind of excited but also a bit stressed.

as long as nothing happens again where we need to leave quicker, I think we can make this a pretty smooth transition. trying to stay hopeful and confident after such a painful few days/weeks../months.

it's nice to have a feasible solution on the horizon to keep us going through the shitty days here. things are usually quieter and nicer for 2 weeks and then it's back to the bullshit. so we'll see.

#personal

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minisugakoobies · 2 years

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Exes to lovers/angsty fic recs too, pretty please 👉👈(づ￣ ³￣)づ

Oooh, I have not read a lot of exes to lovers/angsty fics, so once again I asked some friends for suggestions. I'd also like to recommend you check out Ggukkiereads - @ggukkieland's INCREDIBLE library that you can search for more fic recs!

These are either exes to lovers, or angst, or both. All are M(18+):

Evolution of a Lover's Heart by @jeonstudios

Last Christmas by @xjoonchildx

On the Ropes by @raplinesmoon

Promise Me... by @sahmfanficbts

The Cul-De-Sac Cons by @bonvoyagenoona

Teardrops On My Guitar by @playmetheclassics

Cupid's Curse by @ressjeon

Neeba Zow by @joonscypher

Everyday is Saturday by @reliablemitten

And of course if anyone else has some recommendations, feel free to add! 💕

#fic recs #ot7 #exes to lovers #angst recs #asks #anon

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yesybloss · 1 year

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Amo dibujar a Doble D teniendo gay panics. Es lindo y divertido (a mi internamente me pasa con alguien 🙈🙈🙈...) espero les guste.

Ah si ando practicando background. Ya hice mi intento de cul de sac para la tesis, así q vamooo, un backgroung más y estamos (?.....hacer la tesis es heavy, nunca hagan 1000 ocs para una tesis, quieranse (?

#eene #ed edd n eddy #eene eddy #eene double d #eene ed #fanart #ed edd and eddy #ed edd y eddy #eddeddy #eddxeddy #eddyxedd #ededdneddy #ededdandeddy

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denimbex1986 · 13 days

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ANDREW SCOTT IS REDIRECTING THE CONVERSATION.

The actor, who plays the enduring queer-with-a-questionmark antihero Tom Ripley in the new Netflix series Ripley, has been doing just that in interviews as of late, and you can hardly blame him; he’s just coming off a promotional run for All of Us Strangers, a romantic fantasy film that has the real-life gay actor playing an adult gay man reliving his youth, including coming out. Scott — beloved as the “Hot Priest” from six-time Emmy winner Fleabag (Prime Video) and nominated in 2020 for an Outstanding Guest Actor turn in Netflix’s Black Mirror — got an avalanche of accolades for the film and, unsurprisingly, questions from reporters keen to link Scott and the character he plays. Interviews hint the Dublin-bred performer, who started acting as a kid and then matriculated through theater, may be weary with forays into identity politics, at least in relation to acting. He’s advised we retire “openly gay” as a descriptor and has likened the sometimes meandering “representation” discourse to a dead end. “It can be a cul-de-sac, certainly,” he told The Guardian. “I think transformation is as important as representation.”

He transforms in Ripley. This adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s novels is a stylized, eight-episode noir thriller, with Scott as the titular, elusive con man. It’s true that people had a lot to say about The Talented Mr. Ripley’s queer-coded subtext almost as soon as Highsmith published it in 1955, with critics and essayists noting the homoeroticism oozing from Tom’s obsession with Dickie Greenleaf. Novelist Edmund White read Tom’s penchant for forgery as a metaphor for “passing,” as gays and lesbians of the era did to survive. Of course, cultural commentary and musings about identity have only intensified since, and that discourse nowadays can influence who gets cast and what gets made in the first place. Ripley is rendered in black and white, but black-and-white connections to Tom’s ambiguous sexual orientation, to his behavior or to Scott’s own interior life are, to this actor, the least interesting part of the story.

“I wanted to work very, very hard,” Scott tells emmy from Palm Springs, where he’s gone for a rest after sprinting through awards season. “And that involves just trying to imagine what it’s like to be this character, not play what people’s perception of what the character is. Tom has a very large brain. And watching the brain at work is what makes him such a fascinating character. Anything else, to me, is superfluous. I’m not sure he thinks about himself too much in that way.”

Scott was seduced by the writing. "The scripts were just so brilliantly economic and gripping," he says. "I thought it was a great opportunity to spend that amount of time with such a fascinating character." Steve Zaillian, who wrote, produced and directed Ripley, won an Oscar for his Schindler's List screenplay and received three Emmy nominations for HBO's The Night Of, which he cocreated, cowrote and directed, in part.

Set in the early 1960s, Ripley begins in New York and traverses a handful of Italian locales including the Amalfi Coast, Capri, Rome and Venice. Production ran from the summer of 2021 through the spring of 2022, including some of the pandemic’s most intense days, which forced cast and crew to adhere to stringent protocols. Yet the timing also meant that the citizens and tourists who ordinarily clog streets had vanished, allowing Ripley unobstructed views of Italy’s scenic vistas. As a result, Ripley has a strikingly stark feel that, combined with its blanched palette, conveys a chilly, quiet sparseness that affords full focus on Scott.

“Andrew’s transformation from a disreputable petty crook on the Lower East Side streets of New York to a sophisticated expatriate thriving in Italy is extraordinary,” Zaillian says. “Everything about him gradually changes — the way he looks and carries himself, how he behaves and speaks, how he thinks. It is a finely measured performance.”

Ripley follows Highsmith’s text almost to the letter. In the first episode, we meet Tom in the slums of New York City’s Lower East Side, where he ekes out a living by forging collection notices, stealing checks and committing petty grifts. You know the rest: Tom has a chance encounter with the wealthy father of a casual acquaintance, Dickie Greenleaf (Johnny Flynn, Genius: Einstein, Emma). Pretending to be an Ivy League grad and closer friend than he is, Tom is hired by Dickie’s dad to go to Italy and bring home Dickie, a trustafarian flitting about Europe with his girlfriend, Marge Sherwood (Dakota Fanning, The First Lady, The Alienist). Armed with a first-class ticket on an ocean liner and enough cash for six weeks, Tom finally tastes the affluence he’s always wanted, resented and believed he deserved but was never able to touch. He finds Dickie and develops an unhealthy obsession with him that eventually culminates in murder and identity theft.

It's the unsettling crime story where the bad guy not only wins but makes us complicit in his devious deeds. "What I think Patricia Highsmith does brilliantly," Scott says, "is make us root for somebody, even though they're doing something that we probably wouldn't do ourselves. He is constantly surviving. I can empathize with him, what that feels like, where he's just not being looked at. It's easy to say that someone is a monster because that moves us away from having to look at ourselves. Human beings do monstrous things to protect themselves. That's why that story has stuck around for so long."

Transforming into Tom Ripley took a toll. Even for a performer as versatile and energetic as Scott, who won a Best Supporting Actor BAFTA for playing Moriarty on Sherlock in 2012 and stunned audiences in 2023 by playing all eight parts in the Chekhov-inspired Vanya on the West End. Ripley demanded more than is typical. "What's unusual about this particular bit of television is how much time you spend with one character," he says. "A lot of the time in television, we can spend time with a hospital crew or a family or a police department, but it's unusual, I think, to spend so much time with one character over eight hours," He's in almost every frame. "I had to have an awful lot of stamina."

You really see that stamina in Ripley's fifth episode, a contained, tightly wound thriller unto itself. Scott is terrifying as he feigns innocence to Freddie Miles (Eliot Sumner), a friend of Dickie's suspects foul play. We know Freddie is doomed the moment he enters Tom's elegant Rome apartment, but it's at the end of Freddie's visit that we see Scott's endurance tested as he lugs a heavy body and makes split-second decisions to elude attention, exuding a demented, friendly calm all the while. Scott - with minimal dialogue - slithers past whatever moral walls we believe separate us from monsters.

"You have to, through his face, be able to understand what he's feeling - sometimes in absolute silence," Scott says. "You have to e able to radiate a thought, which is quite difficult when you don't have language to support you. (The audience) is not thinking, 'I hope that inspector catches him.' No. You think, 'Oh my God, hurry up! Someone's coming!' That's extraordinary considering what he's just done. That feeling of, 'What would you do?' That's what the scripts have achieved."

Ripley's hushed tension is complemented by a cinematic approach that producers don't want to call "Hitchcockian" but that whispers influences like La Dolce Vita and Nightmare Alley. Hard lines, curves, shadows, stairways and vacant passageways tease sensual danger, while meticulously curated costumes and objets d'art (including the ashtray that extinguishes poor Freddie) bathe viewers in a fully fleshed-out world of savage beauty.

"The world that Steve wanted to represent was very lonely," says production designer David Gropman, who previously worked with Zaillian on Searching for Bobby Fischer and A Civil Action. Zaillian was exacting and precise about the tone he wanted "cat and mouse," Gropman calls it. That specificity helped him execute Zaillian's vision, but having a clear brief didn't make the realization easier.

Gropman's team included three researchers, five art directors and two supervising art directors, all spread over different countries. They spent months sojourning the Italian coast to select the perfect hotels, banks, post offices and train stations. The team built facsimiles of the main train stations in Naples and Rome, as well as the Lower East Side tenement apartment where we first meet Tom. Every single object we see serves a purpose; in episode five, Tom is in a record shop purchasing a copy of "Il cielo in una stanza" by the Italian singer Mina, who vanished from the public eye in 1978 and has not been seen since - though she continues to release music. A subtle allusion to Tom's ghosting act? Perhaps. Either way, the prop is one of countless Easter eggs that nod to the time, place and sense of dark romance associated with the era.

"He cares about every detail," says Gropman, a two-time Oscar nominee. "We, by Steve's decree, weren't allowed to shoot on streets where there wasn't cobblestone. There were over 200 locations. It's the hardest thing I've ever done."

Others agree that Ripley was a difficult and intense, albeit rewarding, shoot. Flynn recalls struggling with the isolation and anxiety caused by quarantining and distancing after travel, which made seeing his wife and three children in London complicated. Scott and Fanning spent a lot of time with just each other in barren towns. They were lonely, but as number one on the call sheet and a producer, Scott took ownership and worked to take care of his team. "I was finding it really hard," Flynn admits. "He was trying to sneak me care packages. It was really sweet. He was generous and available to everybody, even though he's carrying this huge thing, which I thought was commendable." Fanning called Scott one of the loveliest people she's ever met - warm, funny and full of life. "He's the opposite of his character."

Marge is deeply suspicious of Tom from the jump, but like Tom, she has minimal dialogue. Her intuitive awareness manifests in a furrowed brow, a pursed lip and a clipped smile deployed as a mask. "There's not a lot of people in the story that are fooled by Ripley," Fanning says. "Marge knows something is off but can't quite put her finger on it. There's a lot of acting without words." She loved playing in that box, and with Scott especially. "We just dove in and went through it all together. It was such a challenge, but he couldn't have been a better person to take on this role. He's a grifter who's making you emotional."

Grifter, con man, crook, thief - Tom Ripley might deserve a lot of labels, but one Scott is reluctant to apply is "sociopath" or, for that matter, any other badge that files him in some neat category. "It was important not to diagnose the character with lazy assumptions," he says. Of course, Scott understands all the thinking about Tom's queerness; he's even thought about Highsmith's own complex relationship with her lesbianism in relation to her writing. But he says thinking too much about Tom's orientation, and any notion that it could be more pronounced in this modern take, distracts from the real power of the narrative. "Homophobia can exist sometimes through silence or people's speculating about other people's sexuality," he says. "And there's a lot of speculating about Tom. Sometimes the speculation itself is the (more) insidious thing."

As he told The Guardian, transformation can be as important as representation. And anyway, Tom's sexuality isn't what makes him alluring. It's his ambiguities. All we need to know about Tom Ripley is on the page.

"I wanted to ask questions about him without necessarily answering every single one of them clearly. He has to make stuff up on the spot for survival. He's an absolute brilliant, talented genius," Scott says. "Who is Tom Ripley? The point is we never really know."

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capuletangel · 2 years

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Slow Like Honey

Inspired By The Song; Slow Like Honey

Word Count: 2333

Story Summary: Ben Solo falls into a deep obsession with the local new baker, and Ben always gets what he wants.

Tags: DEAD DOVE; Stalking, Obsession, Creepy Ben Solo, Non-Con, Bittersweet Fluff, Misogyny, Major Character Death, Dark Themes and Eventual Smut. AFAB.

Also Posted To AO3 | Wattpad

Masterlist

Chapter One; Ben Is A Patient Man

Ben had always gone to the bakery, Lazy Loaf. Though not because he wanted to. God, no. His mother sent him once a week to get bread, maybe some sweet rolls if she asked for them. Always the same bitter old woman that served him, never offering a smile, never asking if he wanted anything else, just him buying bread and leaving.

He’d always appreciated soft spoken women, looked out for them—but after high school it went dry, only catching a brief look at a girl at a grocery store. The sightings were rare. Especially in rural texas. Leaving Ben hungry. Desperate for affection.

A long ten years had passed since high school, and he remained the same hungry man he’d been in senior year. She reminded him of how much he craved. Her weakness made Ben aware of it.

Stern and distasteful. Husky tone from all the cigarettes she’d shoved into her lungs, excessive frown-lines burnt into her face via the insufferable Texas sun, subpar bakes if you asked for Ben’s opinion and a crooked smile which revealed her cramped rotten teeth.

He’d never have gone if his mother hadn’t wanted him to. Ben would find any excuse to not visit it, resisting bile that raised in his throat at the mere sight of the wretched hag. And that was Ben being polite.

But then, the baker passed. Good riddance, Ben thought. Leaving the bleak store empty for a few months. Fading away in its cul-de-sac, surrounded by other derelict stores.

A good three months before new sage green paint layered the front of the shop, in contrast to the former beige. Delicate, trendy font spelling out ‘LOAF’ instead of the former cheesy name written in the boring, dated, comic sans font. The inside is decorated with a display, organised — cared for, soft wall lamps and a sight for sore eyes.

Poor Ben’s eyes thumped at the sight of a girl. A woman, if you will. Small, kind, sweet. Confused when he first saw her. Wondered if he were so desperate he’d formed a hallucination. If he’d gone insane from being so touch starved. So abandoned by the lack of feminine touch.

Her cheeks were rosy, plush with youth. A coating of flour smudged over her left eyebrow. Dressed in a sweater which hid underneath a linen apron, thin blue stripes contrasting against the off-white fabric. Soiled with splashes of food colourings, batters and icings, some faded — some fresh. Hair clipped up into a messy bun. A tender smile.

Instantly wrapped around her finger. She would smile at him, holding the most beautiful grin he’d ever seen. She wishes him a good day and laughs — flushes at his jokes. Nothing like the stale old woman who worked there for years beforehand. The woman who reminded him more of a man rather than any lady.

No, she was a delight. To talk to. To look at. To know. He found it hard to take his eyes off of her. Adorable. With her delicate voice, her coquettish blushed cheeks, and her bakes. Her bakes were to die for.

Far better than the previous owners. Ben found himself going bi-weekly, instead of just on his mother’s command. He’d get two Danish pastries each time. He’d go to the store hungry, but not for the baked goods. Graced by her presence. The cadences of her small talk and the dainty hands which seemed so fragile, yet made such pretty patisseries. Award worthy.

“Will that be all?” she would ask him, and he smiles every time she does. She knows his order like it’s the back of her hand, but she always insists that he should experiment, try something different. But, he refuses each time, and she still says it without fail.

She’s teasing him, he thinks. Flirting. Flirting in such an innocent way.

He looks like a mess compared to her, his dirty plaid shirts and stained jeans from working on the ranch. Huge, overly large hands that could crack her if he wanted to, but he didn’t, he reminded himself.

He wanted to see her in one of his flannels, imagining how they’d reach her mid thighs. How the material would drown her. Cover all of her, he’d be the only one to see what was beneath the material. He’d make sure of it. Protect her, even if it meant he’d have to capture her.

Of course, he doesn’t go into the bakery every day. That’d be creepy. Ben isn’t creepy. Ben is a nice guy. He just likes to see her. He wants to guard her.

Ordering the same thing each time, two Danish pastries. He isn’t sure why. Perhaps they remind him of when he first met her; they were the first things he bought. She always tells him he should change it up, that the buns are just as good, but Ben doesn’t like change, so he tells her maybe next time.

She just moved into town. He wondered why she’d come here — to this broken-down town in rural Texas. It must’ve been fate, he thought. There was no other explanation. A gift from a higher power for all the struggles he’d encountered over the last twenty-eight years. A present, just for him. But, he is also for her. A hulk of a man, though Ben was also soft. He’d hold her, soothe all her worries. Ben would take care of her.

She told him she was from Seattle. He knew little about Seattle. God, he’d barely even left Lakeridge.

He’d been to Houston a few times, and a small town near Waco for a shipment issue. She talked about how she missed the city, missed the rain, and her friends. She’d come down to live with her father — he was ill and she wanted to live a simple life with him until he passed.

That made him even more entranced by her. She cares about people and sees the best in them. She wants to nurture them. Ben wants to be nurtured by her. Have her hands run through his hair as he cuddled her. Whisper sweet nothings until they fall asleep in each other’s arms. The time would come, he knew that. He was hopeful. But most importantly, he’s patient.

Ben is a patient man. He reminds himself each time he walks into the bakery. He is a patient man. Ben had always struggled with the concept of patience, but he’d wait for her. He would wait a lifetime if it meant one day she’d be his.

She isn’t like the other girls he’s been with. She would understand his needs, understand that he cares, understand that he’d die for her. And besides, she doesn’t want any other male attention. He can see that. He knows that. He knows her. He’s always been excellent at reading people.

She wears the same sweaters for everyday of the week, organised. Like Ben. But she’s quirkier than him. Ben wears tattered flannel shirts over and over again. But, she wears unique sweaters.

Monday is a brown chunky knit. It hangs so loosely that it shows her left collarbone, and if he’s lucky, her bra strap too. When he first saw it, he had to tear his eyes from her, instead forcing himself to act as if he was interested in another loaf of bread. Imagining how soft her skin was. How she’d feel beneath him. How she’d taste.

Tuesday is a multi-colour knit. It hangs off of her in such an adorable way; she has to roll the sleeves up so they don’t dangle over her hands. That’s another thing that drives Ben into a frenzy. How tiny she is, compared to him. He works with his body all day. Heaving heavy equipment, which built up an impressive amount of muscle. She came up to his chest. So meek for him.

Wednesday is a cream cotton, she wears a turtleneck underneath it.

Thursday is another multi coloured knit, but it’s jagged and thick. She made it herself. She told him. He couldn’t contain his smile when she told him that. So feminine, baking and knitting for fun. He knew he wasn’t wrong about her. She had a nurturing energy about her, a natural caretaker.

Ben’s mother Leia wasn’t like that. He’d always craved it as a boy. Wishing that his mother could be gentle and ladylike. But she was stern. Ben broke that out of her. Eventually.

Friday is a green fluffy material. He wants to cuddle her in it, nuzzle into her chest, he finds himself leaning in sometimes when she wears it. He wants to feel her tender touch.

She is classic. Unchanging. He likes that.

She isn’t after attention. She’s herself. She laughs at Ben’s jokes. When she tilts her head back, some hair falls out of her bun and falls in front of her face. Ben wants to tuck it behind her ear for her. But, he resists, he’ll do it one day. And he’ll follow it with a soft kiss, and she will blush and kiss him back so tenderly.

Thursday is his favourite day. That’s when she’s happiest. Of course, she is always happy to see Ben. She wears her hand-knitted sweater, and it makes him feel so light. He can’t wait for her to knit him something. Even if it was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen, he’d cherish it. Cling to it. But it is closely followed by Monday. Her skin does something to him. She does something to him.

He knows she is desperate for him. Just as desperate as he is for her, but she wouldn’t make a move because she thinks Ben would say no. He knows she feels that way because of how shy she is. Submission runs off of her.

“Hey kid,” he hums as he sees her, swiftly running his eyes over every inch of her, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the semi he gets from the excitement of her presence.

Whenever he sees her, it’s like time is standing still. He basks in her presence. He wants to stand in that bakery for hours, watching her knead bread, glaze buns, and decorate the small cupcakes she makes. Watching as she smiles as he talks to her. She blushes easily.

“Hey stranger,” she flashed him an angelic smile. Sometimes Ben wonders if she is an angel, so delicate and talented. “I have no idea what you’ll order,” she taunts. She’s so horny for him. He knows it. He almost doubles over as she speaks, but he plays it cool, raising an eyebrow and playing along with her flirting.

“What do you think would best suit me, ma’am?”

“Well, I’d love to encourage some experimentation, we have cherry turnovers this morning—fresh out of the oven—fruit tarts, eclairs, apple strudels, but...” she’d already made her way over to the danish pastries, sliding two into a brown paper bag, “I think that you’re a classical man, unchanging, old-fashioned... so I’m going to make the brave decision of handing you some danish pastries, is that completely outspoken?”

Ben looks at her with fake disgust, clutching a hand to his chest, taking the bag she passed him and peering inside with a grimace. “I can not believe that you would lower me to a danish pastry.”

There it was, that laugh. Tilting her head with a delightful giggle as her lips parted, a smile reaching her eyes.

A piece of her hair detached from the up-do, dangling in front of her face, which she tucks behind her ear, looking up at Ben with an expression that made his semi turn into a full erect one. So tempted to have brushed it away with his own fingertips, feel her skin beneath his fingertips, inhale her scent—which was vanilla and lavender.

“Thank you,” he says, giving her a five-dollar note that had been crumpled in his fist due to lust and bewilderment. Wondering if she knew what she did to him, but shook off those thoughts. Of course she does. She means to. She wants to. Just as he wants her to.

It isn’t unrequited, they just both struggle with words. Two awkward people finding an interest in each other will always be difficult. But he’ll wait for when the time is right. He is a patient man. And she doesn’t want to make Ben uncomfortable. She is only twenty, after all. Still young. She feels like he’ll be disgusted. But she’ll learn he won’t. She’ll learn.

“Is that a new jumper?” He furrowed his eyebrows at the dark orange wool. It had small specks of white running through the yarn. He had never seen it before. She wore cream cotton one on Wednesdays. It upset him. She wasn’t sticking to her routine jumpers.

“Oh, this?” She smiles, running a hand over the sweater, rubbing the sleeves under her dainty fingers, “I made it the other day—I spilt something over my old cream one which was oddly a godsend, I’d just finished making this thirty-minutes before, do you like it?” God. Ben thought. He didn’t mind the change when it came to knowing she made it herself. It turned him on.

“Yeah, it’s nice—the colour suits you.” The words flew out of Ben’s mouth before he could catch them. Tensing, would she think that’s creepy?

“Thank you. Orange has always been one of my favourite colours.”

Ben nodded stiffly. It was getting harder and harder to not touch her. To ignore the ache in his groin. He is a patient man, he reminds himself. Tearing his eyes away from hers. “Thank you,” he ushered, holding up the bag, almost like it was a toast.

The bell jingled as he opened the door to leave, giving her a tight smile as he turned his head to look at her again. “Have a good day, Ben!” she called.

Even his name on her tongue made him spiral. He couldn’t wait until she was screaming it.

#ben solo x reader #ben solo x you #adcu fanfiction #adcu smut #adcu community #dead dove do not eat #dead dove #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #ben solo fanfiction

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