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diejager · 6 months

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Technical Issues Cw: smut, sex work, OnlyFans, porn, fuck machine, squirting, prostitution handjob, tell me if I missed any.

Part3

It started with a reluctant alliance between SpecGru and KorTac, two powerful PMCs that were tricked by the same employer, played and played again, unable to work alone to take them down. So both heads of the PMCs decided to work together to take down this problematic employer, which meant that they’d have to come and go between bases, sharing the same space and the same area. They were unenthusiastic about it, still holding a grudge against the other.

There was a technical issue in giving access to KoTac members sent over to the British base the right clearances for the compiled data, to-know intel and the statistics. That’s how König found himself in the database, looking up the different clearance codes to give him access to the information he needed before 1900, he only had half an hour to find the code if he didn’t want to miss the event.

Unfortunately, all he stumbled into was a page, a familiar name popping up on this person’s browser history. It was Soap’s. Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish, the snipe and demolition specialist that König knew from both experience and intel. It was a strange find, Soap had used a public browser to watch his nightly activities and had forgotten to wipe it clean —did he even wipe his history? Something ugly flared in König’s chest, an explosive warmth of possession and envy. How could’ve he not seen him on the chat when König spent so much time on it himself?

With dilated pupils and a one-track mind, he completed his search and rushed to his room, pushing past everyone he met in the hall with his broad shoulders and even bigger ego, nostrils flaring and seeing red. He knew this kind of reaction was nonsensical, near illogical on his par, seeing the type of content he consumed, but he couldn’t help it, he was the second highest payer.

Slamming and locking the door behind him, he ripped his mask off, throwing it haphazardly on the floor and ripped his clothes off, his skin hot to the touch in his cold room. It was 1857 —perfect. Settling himself on his temporary desk in nothing but his briefs, he felt his cock struggle against the fabric, head poking out on the side of his boxers. He was quick to open up the right tab, clicking in the sweet temptation of the profile picture.

A screen popped out, a familiar bed in a familiar setting with familiar objects surrounding the plush sheets, and in the middle, sat the little cherub of his dreams. Seraphim, the little slut that he was happy to spend his legacy on, to watch and indulge in the sinful act jerking off to a woman he might never meet or know outside of this screen. He pushed his waistband down his thighs and his cock swung out, hanging low between his legs, veins pulsing with the rush of blood from his head to his cock and uncut head drooling on his chair.

👑 gifted you 100$

“Hello, sir,” you smiled so sweetly at him, glossy lips pulled into an innocent image, “Thank you for the gift.”

He always gave you a gift at the start of each live he watched to get a greeting from you and would gift you much more with ever minute he spent watching you bend over your bed, ass up and face down, getting fucked by the fuck machine he gifted you. You had two cameras set up, one that let them view your tight cunt stretched around the silicone copy of his cock - thick and veiny - and one giving them a clear view of your tearful eyes and cock drunk expression.

König kept his eyes glued to your cunt, ploughed so roughly bu his girth that slick gushed around it, lips swollen and wet, and the little plug your pushed into your flared rim, the flat handle spreading your ass for them to see. He jerked himself, calloused fingers gripping the head of his cock and spreading pre down his shaft, the foreskin spread around his girth. He shuddered, his cock throbbing in his hand, reacting to the image of your ravaged and gasping figure taking the dildo so well, mewling and wailing like the angelic whore you were.

He wanted you to come, he wanted to see you squirt around the toy, slick rolling down your thighs in waves of pleasure, your voice breaking as you mewl and wail. He moved thoughtlessly, hand moving to type out his command, sending you more money, it was an addiction at this rate, his need to sustain you and your living. If you let him, he’d be your sugar daddy, paying for everything you’d need and you’d have the real deal, his hot and heavy cock rather than a silicone.

“Please let me come, sir!” Your begging had always been delicious and who was he to deny you of your pleasure when you brought him to his ground shaking climax.

He came with a loud groan, a deep rumbling in his chest, still pumping his cock as the head twisted, spraying his opaque cum over the table, white and viscous. His eyes rolled at the back of his mind, lids feeling heavy and body wracked with tremors, legs jerking as his hand slowed down, steadily riding out his mind-numbing release.

“Them too?” Horangi peered at the four Brits, an unamused gleam in his hidden eyes.

König nodded, his hood twisting with every motion, fingers moving gracefully over his rifle, dismantling and cleaning it after their recon mission. A groan caught his attention, his eyes moving from the beauty of his weapon to the cold blues that stared back at him.

“It does not matter,” Nikto’s voice had always been violent, a rough and jagged husk that exhumed power, “We found her first.”

It was a statement to himself, a strong and unyielding one that stemmed from Nikto’s dark and broken person, but they agreed.

Part 5

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rallentando1011 · 4 months

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hey so can I get a scenario with rottmnt Donnie where he keeps stealing his lovers purple stuff, he notices them not having purple stuff around anymore and one day they are like “yea so I don’t buy purple anymore. Too much stuff is disappearing. Hmmm I wonder where it keeps vanishing too? “ and they give him a knowing smirk?

Purple Habits Die Hard (rise Donnie x gn Reader)

(Hello! Thank you very much for the requests-I am really enjoying them and promise I’m working through them-

I am open to more requests, guidelines are HERE, and I’m not saying that I specifically would like writing some Donatello angst but yes I absolutely would-

Either way, I hope y’all enjoy!)

Word Count: 1082

You didn’t love him anymore.

That was the only logical conclusion Donnie could reach.

Was he grasping at straws with that hypothesis? Likely. But the fact that there were even straws to grasp in the first place was enough to raise his suspicion.

Data point 1: You hadn’t worn purple in weeks. Not really a commitment, definitely not a symbol of possession, wearing his color was just a symbol that he was in your thoughts. The lack of that implied that he wasn’t plaguing your mind like you did his. At least, that’s what he picked up from it.

Data point 2: You barely invited him to hang out anymore. The last few times you two had seen each other had all been initiated by him, three to be exact, and all of those instances had occurred at the lair. Not your residence, not some fun locale, the lair.

Data point 3: …

Well, to be completely honest, he only had the two. However, how unscientific or illogical his hypothesis was mattered not.

Something was awry.

And he was going to get to the bottom of it.

A text message drew Donnie out of his downward spiral line of reasoning.It was from you, alleging that you were almost to the lair.

Right. He had been so busy plotting and scheming that he nearly forgot the subject of such endeavors, and that he had invited you over for investigation and/or confrontation.

He needed to get ready.

He tugged off the lavender sweatshirt he’d taken from your place a couple of months ago, the chain of your stolen lilac bracelet jangling as he did so.

Oh yeah. He should probably take that off, too.

He didn’t want to seem like a kleptomaniac.

He barely had time to chuck the articles into the deep recesses of his lab and act like he was busy working on some project before you knocked and entered the room.

“Heya, D.” You plopped down on the desk chair adjacent to his seat and spun around once.

His answer was a disinterested hum.

You summed it up as him being busy and started scrolling on your phone before he spoke up.

“My, what an opulent blue shirt you have on.”

That was an odd comment, and were those hints of disdain in his voice? You continued on anyway. “Uhhh, thanks? It’s just a graphic tee, though..?”

“Oh, don’t undersell it. It’s rather nice.”

“...Okay then.”

You weren’t following. He grew frustrated.

“Yes, it is grand, but would it not look in another, similarly shaded cool color?” He prompted.

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

His eye twitched. You grinned.

You tilted your chair in his direction, tone lightly teasing. You two indulged in some lighthearted banter here and there, and that’s what you thought that was. “What, are you saying it’d look better in purple? Your color?”

“I’m not saying that I interpret the colors of your clothing symbolically, but yes, I do. You haven’t been wearing any of your purple articles recently, you barely invite me over anymore. You can just admit you don’t enjoy my company.” When his gaze fled to the ground, you realized that he was serious about this.

“Donatello…” you started, dipping your neck down so you could make eye contact. “That is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said. The reason I haven’t been wearing purple is because I don’t have any purple to wear. Something or someone keeps taking all of it. And, coincidentally, more goes missing every time you come over. That’s why I’ve been hanging out here instead.”

Donnie’s mouth was agape. The thought that he was the one causing his own problems hadn’t crossed his mind. Genuinely, thinking about it, it made a lot of sense. The worst enemy you can meet will always be yourself was really ringing true. But he couldn’t let his scientific validity and his dignity die in the same endeavor, so he took the next logical step. Lie.

The softshell swallowed before uncertainly droning, “I haven’t the slightest clue as to what you are implying.”

“I think you’re definitely smart enough to ascertain my implications. And you’re way past smart enough to know that I still love spending time with you even though I’m not wearing a specific color anymore.”

Donnie blinked. Oh. So, you two were cool, and he was actually just being melodramatic. He was still trying to figure out if that was worse than you being sick of him. It probably was. Probably…

However, he couldn’t dwell on that long. Something you said piqued his interest. The thing about the color of your clothing not holding any symbolic weight.

Expression growing subtly smug with the quirk of an eyebrow, he called your bluff. “If you are taking into account my intelligence, then should you not also observe that I am smart enough to discern the correlation between the formation of our partnership and you coming into possession of more purple attire?”

You blinked before countering with a smirk. “How would you know that I bought more purple clothes if I haven’t been able to wear them?”

Oh, Schrödinger. The only way that he would know, and the reason he did know, was because he had taken them

Regrettably, he mumbled. “... I plead the fifth.”

“Oh no you don’t. Public interest takes precedence over your individual rights, sir. Get subpoenaed, sucker!” You perked up in your seat and pointed an accusatory index finger at the man. “Where are my things?”

He crossed his arms.“You have no definitive proof that it was me. Your argument is circumstantial, at best. Good luck defending that in a court of law.”

Your excitement deflated. “Fine, fine. I suppose I must continue on without wearing purple, our color, forever.”

You batted your eyelashes sadly. It was a cheap tactic, but you weren’t afraid to stoop if it meant you could get your regular Donnie- you meant, wardrobe back. Yeah, you missed your clothes, but you missed having him over more. Probably.

It only took a couple more seconds for him to crack. “Sigh… Hey, completely unrelated segue, but could I come over tomorrow?”

“Suspicious timing, but I’ll allow it.”

“Great.”

“This meeting is adjourned.”

Somehow, by some otherworldly force/the magic of guilt tripping, your violet sweatshirts, t-shirts, accessories, gradually began showing up as the weeks went on.

By the same mysterious impetus, their return coincidentally synchronized with Donnie coming over.

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somebebop · 1 month

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Drinks offered, accepted and turned down

The Metatron’s coffee (oat milk latte with unknown amount of almond syrup), as well as the whole business about it, is symbolic, I think most fans have agreed on that. It seems to me not only the drink itself is important, but the ceremony of offering and accepting/turning down a drink means a lot as well. When I think of it something archaic comes to mind: accepting a drink creates a connection and builds trust between people, and such exchanges have been symbolic in many cultures for thousands of years.

I’m not very good at drawing conclusions, but I would like to sum up all the cases when drinks are offered in season 2. So that someone more analytical than myself might have clever ideas. And I love making lists, they give an illusion of some control over this complicated narrative.

Aziraphale offers Jim some gross matter hot chocolate. Everyone remembers similar moments in s1, right? Only this time Gabriel/Jim accepts, and it changes him, becomes an important element of his new personality.

Nina offers Maggie some wine and she turns it down in the weirdest way possible. ‘No judgement’ is already a judgement!

In the Job minisode Crowley offers Aziraphale wine and he turns it down.

Aziraphale offers Muriel a ‘cuppertea’, and they do the most remarkable thing: they neither accept, not turn it down. They find a third way to go about it, and I absolutely love it. This is yet another small detail about Muriel which makes them so special and sets them apart from everyone - humans, angels, demons.

The barman in the Resurrectionist asks what Aziraphale will be drinking, and he doesn’t order anything. Baffles me every time, it's so not in his character and completely illogical in this situation. Everything is wrong and upside down in this episode.

I mean, even Gabriel had enough wits to BUY drinks in the pub. Obviously later he tells Beelzebub ‘You don’t actually have to consume it’, so it makes the drinks accepted but not taken - almost like Muriel's.

Crowley makes hot chocolate for Jim

The ’smitten’ conversation at Justine’s. Aziraphale turns Crowley’s wine down, AGAIN

Metatron’s coffee

May have missed something, but even like this it seems a lot.

Not sure about the scene with Crowley and laudanum, it it definitely meaningful, but there was no offer. Another special case is Jim making his own hot chocolate. Precious 15 seconds of screen time are wasted devoted to an extremely informative scene where Jim makes the drink, drinks it and says ‘Ah!’. Whatever for?

More questions than answers as usual.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #good omens theories #good omens analysis

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little-pondhead · 2 years

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It was rare for the Fentons to go on a family vacation together.

What made this one special, however, was the fact they were going to another dimension. And while everyone was good and excited, the portal the family was using was only big enough for a single person. They didn’t think about how going into the portal one by one would land them all in different places.

Now, while technically trapped in another dimension and completely stranded from one another, each Fenton must request help from the local heroes.

Except, their perception of “urgency” was a little screwed.

Jack Fenton adamantly refused Superman’s help; instead he preferred the company of the lovely older couple whose farm he landed on. Martha and Jonathan Kent.

Jazz Fenton was on the streets of Gotham for less than a day before she ended up beating the Joker unconscious with a thermos and then seeking the aide of Red Hood. (Bonus points for Anger Management.)

Maddie Fenton meets Wonder Woman pretty darn quickly, but keeps wandering off to examine the hero’s villains in great detail. Her favorite study subject is Cheetah, who does her absolute fucking best to avoid the crazy woman in the teal hazmat suit. Wonder Woman can’t figure out if she’s upset at this woman for getting into things she shouldn’t, or thankful because now she can catch a break.

Danny Fenton was probably the worst. Somehow, someway, he keeps managing to end up in places that are completely illogical and highly illegal. He’s been spotted all over the world, doing the most random shit without ever needing to go ghost. Several heroes catch up with him, as do villains. He rejects all promises of power or help, determined in his stubborn teenage brain that he can find his family on his own.

And if that requires visiting every major tourist spot he’s ever wanted to see, then so be it. His parents obviously aren’t on top of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, so it’s time to move on. India next, maybe? They have good food.

Extra: Dani came along with them, and got plopped down in The Flash’s path in the middle of a battle. He tripped, landing face first into the rough asphalt. She panics, picks up the Flash in a fireman’s carry completely ignoring the now flabbergasted villain behind them.

Dani doesn’t know where to go; she essentially just kidnapped a superhero and her family was missing. So Flash wakes up in a makeshift dumpster bed that hides him from the public, with a green sticky note on his forehead.

Sorry I tripped you, Mr. Dude. But I can’t afford the insurance if I take you to the hospital so hopefully we’ll never see each other again:)

-Elle

#danny phantom #dp x dc #danny fenton #jazz fenton #maddie fenton #jack fenton #dani fenton #superman #wonder woman #the flash #red hood #danny phantom crossover

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generalkenobee · 2 months

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Imagine Spock loves you so much but can't compute why

SMUT

You looked over at Spock while he typed away at his computer "this is so aggravating" you walked over and placed a hand on his bicep and smiled to yourself knowing that he would never have shown his distress to anyone but you.

" oh Spock you work yourself too hard baby" he looked up at you raising his eyebrows, he knew what you were about to do. "won't you come to bed"

"if it means to sleep" you giggled "you're out of luck then" Spock looked up at you seeming to be contemplating something. "Well then I suppose I'll just have to 'go to bed' myself"

The look of fear and helplessness that crossed his face, even just for a second, spoke volumes. Spock hated your human antics. He hated how much he loved it and the way you made him feel. You make spock feel almost human and he hates it so much because he can't understand why. And Spock hates what he doesn't understand.

You took notice of the fear in his eyes and thought it better to ask again. You hand now resting on the side of his neck, your other set of fingers running though his jet black hair as he looked up at you with parted lips and pleading eyes.

"won't you please come to bed" you put extra emphasis on the 'please' "I miss you"

Your human touch lingered on his skin, the same human touch that aroused yet agitated him at the same time. You walked over to the bed with your boyfriend close behind you, looking like a lost dog.

The look of this was embarrassing and pathetic. An "emotionless" Vulcan following his human girlfriend around because he can't control himself.

Spock spent his whole life not feeling emotion. He'd never wanted to have sex before he met you. Why would he? He's a Vulcan after all. However...when he did meet you he thought he was dying, he was fully convinced there was something wrong with him. Why did he want to be around you? That's completely illogical and makes no sense at all. Whenever he wasn't close to you he felt fidgety and wasn't able to sit still. Why?

"Spock I love you so much" you moaned out into his mouth with one hand scratching deep red marks down his toned back and the other cradled the back of his head, pulling slightly on his hair. "I love you..Spock I love you so much I-" he loved this. More than he can ever explain or wrap his head around. Your voice and praise, your mouth on his.

Your thighs were wrapped around his hips pulling him closer. "Please Spock" He looked up to meet your pleading gaze, taking notice of the tremble in your legs.

Your boyfriend obligated, slowly and gently sliding his cock inside. Your tight walls clenched around him letting out a high pitched squeal. The slow dragging was almost unbearable, the feeling of his head gently kissing your sensitive g spot. Spock was fighting off his own pleasure too. Your hole practically pulsating, your nails scratching through his scalp, your sweet sounds.

"yes, yes, yes!!" It was always so slow and intimate with him "faster!! Please Spock please!!" He heard your pleas and couldn't take it anymore.

"Spock!!" His hips snapped into you, his hips meeting yours at a perfect pace.

Your boyfriend brought his hand down and rubbed your sensitive button with his thumb "I know that this part feels good for you, this is where most of the nerves are" That was it. The way he spoke, his voice, the pace of his hips, his thumb right on your clit. You felt like you were going to explode.

"fuck!! Fuck I'm-" your hips started to buck up into him, your arms wrapping around his upper body while clawing at his back, wailing and squealing uncontrollably. Your orgasm washed over you like a freight train, and Spock followed close behind filling you up.

"so good..feels so good when you do that" you gave him a quick kiss. "I know, that's why I did it."

#x reader #generalkenobee #star trek #spock #spock smut #spock x reader #mr spock #star trek imagine #star trek TOS

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faith-forgxtten-land · 2 months

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Cinderella | Leonardo

okay, i am aware this isn't my greatest work but i actually kind of like it, or i enjoyed writing it at least because i'm a sucker for fairytales being applied to non-fairytale stories/settings... also i spent about the same amount of time writing this as i did attempting to find a gif of leo in that damn suit and then i ended up having to make my own because i couldn't find one of just leo...

2003!Fast Foward

warnings: none? cleavage mention, one innuendo, fem!reader... genuinely nothing other than non-proof read writing

summary: when leo meets cinderella

word count: 1437

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Leonardo likes people watching – which is not stalking no matter what Raphael says. He likes imagining their lives and catching snippets of arguments and jests and idle conversation, and he especially likes watching people in his colour, even if some of the gowns and suits he sees are abominations fit for incineration rather than an evening out.

Although, he concedes, there are a lot of pretty outfits tonight, including a dashing cornflower blue, pinstriped three piece suit – complete with a fedora and all – that Leo quietly longs to have in his closet. His brothers would probably laugh and Donny would accuse him of wanting to look like a noir detective (and so what if he did?), but Leo was used to tuning out their teasing.

He settles against a wall and continues to watch. There’s a lot of blue in the crowd; shades of navy and midnight, indigo and periwinkle threatening to bleed into purple and catching and sparkling in the light.

For every fashion win, however, there are another two fashion failures, and Leo can't hide his wince as a woman saunters past with undeserved, and therefore impressive, confidence clad in a ghastly shade of turquoise and adorned with fur trimmings.

He loves blue more than anyone else, he really does, but even that shade has skipped over the boundaries of ostentatious into obnoxious, and Leo has to blink to try and erase the monstrosity from his mind.

Pulling his eyes away from another blasphemous shade of cyan passing through the doorway, he scans the sea of people casually and smiles amusedly as he quickly spots Raph. He’s got his arm around Donny who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, clumsily hunched and torn between politeness and awkwardness as his brother flirts brazenly.

He can’t find Mikey and he lets his eyes roam the room once more to make sure he hasn’t missed him, although missing Mikey is pretty impossible, not least because he's in a bright orange tuxedo. It should worry him more, although he’s not sure whether to be worried for Mikey or for whomever Mikey is with, but all thoughts of his little brother are expelled from his mind when he catches a breathtaking shade of blue across the floor.

The dress is long and shimmering, fabric pooling on the floor, and Leo follows the material upwards, transfixed as it cascades and ripples over skin like water. It’s so blue.

His breath hitches as he traces bare neck and lands on the most beautiful face he’s even seen. You’re looking right at him. He feels faint, hyperaware of his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears, the racing flap of a hummingbird’s wings matching the flutter of butterflies within his stomach.

Love at first sight is such a ridiculous, illogical notion. It's fanciful and childish. It’s unrealistic and goes against everything Leo has been taught and everything he expects from himself. But your dress matches his suit, matches his mask, he's a mutant turtle, and he’s already striding towards you and you’re meeting him halfway, and before he can even stop and think about what he’s doing he’s asking you for a dance.

His breath hitches again as your palm glides against his and he rests his other along the curve of your hip, feeling the heat of your body through your dress.

Years of training have made his feet steady and his frame strong, but Leo still feels a little out of place as he does his best to lead you around the floor. You smile at him, soft and amused, easily reading the tension in his shoulders with the palms of your hands. “You need to relax,” you murmur teasingly. “Breathing would be a good start.

His shoulders gradually slump under the gentle caress of your hands as you dance in companionable quiet, and your answering beam causes his breath to catch in his throat. This doesn’t feel real, it feels like a dream and a fairytale all at once – perhaps also combined with a nightmare because his brothers are watching and even Mikey has reappeared to gawk – as Leo twirls you gracefully.

He might feel out of place, but the two of you are perfectly in sync. You’re calm and flowing in his arms, your gown whirling and billowing behind you like a silent wave rolling against the shore with every step and spin, and you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

In all honesty, Leo has no idea what to say now that you’re in his arms. He should probably speak before it gets awkward, before you leave and he never gets to see you again, but his heart feels like its trapped in his throat and even the thought of speaking makes him nauseous as those butterflies continue to assault the lining of his stomach.

He thanks every deity he can name that you break the silence first. “Do I get to know the name of my dance partner?”

Your smile is wide and bright as you wait for his reply, and it takes Leo a moment to register your question. When he does, his answer is a stammering mess that makes it impossible for you to hide the gooey endearment on your face, eyes all-but moulding into little hearts as you slowly bridge the sliver of space between your bodies.

You can feel solid muscle flexing beneath your palms as his breath stutters, and you can’t hide the satisfied grin blooming across your lips, cheeks aching when his hand flattens against your spine and he extinguishes the final inch between you like smothering a flame – except the instance your chest is flush against his, that flame is burning brighter, roaring and scorching, and your eyes flutter as his lips brush yours in a whisper of a touch.

“And your name?” Leo asks, breath fanning your face and unable to tear his gaze away from you. “Don’t tell me it’s Cinderella.”

You laugh, eyes crinkling and nose scrunching, and Leo’s heart clenches in adoration. “That would be silly,” you tell him playfully, glancing down at your dress and pretending not to notice the way his eyes drop to your cleavage, pausing for a moment too long, as they follow yours. “I would never be so on the nose.”

“Of course, my mistake. I am terribly sorry for my misjudgement.”

“Although,” you admit, accepting his tongue-in-cheek apology with a mischievous dip of your chin and letting your lips roll to conceal a smile as you glance at him coyly from under your lashes, “I do actually have to leave before midnight.”

Leo blinks. “Don’t tell me this dress will turn to rags and your carriage is a pumpkin.”

You shrug nonchalantly and it’s Leo’s turn to laugh. “A girl has to have her secrets.”

“Are you hiding glass slippers beneath that skirt?”

“Oh, I bet you’d love to know what’s under my skirt, Leonardo.”

His face is hot, and Leo has never been more glad to be a turtle, green skin disguising a heated blush. “You’re a terrible tease.”

The music has stopped, and Leo reluctantly lets you step back, already missing the warmth of you as he takes in his surroundings as though seeing them for the first time, as if the two of you have been underwater, alone in the world, this entire time and have only just broken through to the surface.

It’s no longer just his brothers gawking; you’ve attracted quite the crowd with your dancing, and he realises he’s not sure how long the pair of you have been spinning away – it could have been a minute, or it could have been twenty.

As he glances at his brothers and does his best to ignore the whispering swarm, he’s not sure his face could get any hotter. Mikey is grinning widely, cheering and hooting and receiving plenty of dirty looks, not at all phased by the chastising glare Leo shoots him, while Donny and Raph look equal parts awed and confused, impressed and disgruntled.

Leo rolls his eyes and turns to face you again only to be met with the lingering scent of your perfume and empty space. Panic shoots through him like lightning and he’s about to rush for the nearest exit when he almost stomps on something.

His laugh is barking and loud and his brothers look even more confused as he picks up a heel. It’s not a glass slipper, but it is blue and there’s a slip of paper with a phone number and your name that Leo slips into his pocket.

#tmnt #tmnt x reader #tmnt leonardo #tmnt imagine #tmnt leonardo x reader #leonardo tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 2003 #tmnt fast forward #leo tmnt #tmnt leo x reader #leo x reader #leonardo x reader #tmnt 2k3 #tmnt leo

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scentedpeachlandcreator · 17 days

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hello i want to share a success story and encourage people that manifesting illogical things isn't impossible and that nothing is impossible, everything is within and already in your grasp.

i manifested to stop time and here's the story:

it was today on a school morning my mom woke me up and told me that i had to go to school and to not fall asleep again because she had to go to work and wouldn't wake me up if i fell asleep again i went yeah yeah and turned over only to fall asleep💀 and when i woke up i saw that it was extremely bright outside, its summer so even in the mornings its bright but i felt like i was in the middle of the day and i opened my phone to check the time and it was 10:47💀💀 and i have to be at school by 8:30 so i was EXTREMELY LATE but i was like oh well what can i do and went to the bathroom to wash up. as i was washing my face i thought what if i stopped time? because anything is possible. when i was done i did some other things and later checked my phone again to see that it was STILL 10:47 AND I FREAKED OUT CAUSE I THOUGHT IT WOULD'VE BEEN LIKE 11 OR SOMETHING BUT TIME DIDN'T MOVE I FREAKED OUT AND JUST STOOD THERE CUZ DID I JUST STOP TIME??? BUT AFTER A WHILE IT STARTED TO MOVE NORMALLY ALSO I EVEN CHECKED MY COMPUTER AND IT DIDN'T CHANGE EITHER AND YOU COULD TRY TO ARGUE THAT WHEN I FIRST CHECKED THE TIME I WAS PROBABLY SLEEPY BUT I HAD ALREADY COMPLETELY WOKEN UP CAUSE I HAD BEEN STARING AT THE SUN FOR A WHILE-

anyways that's my success story and i have a few more albeit quite small ones like making the buss late so i wouldn't miss it and other stuff but yeah that's it!

OMG I'M PROUD OF YOU! SEE? IT WAS EASY RIGHT? NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE WHEN YOU PUT YOUR MIND INTO IT!

And thank you for sharing your illogical success story i really loved it and it was so Cool 😭💗🫶🏻

Love ya💗

#law of assumption #loa tumblr #loa #loa blog #law of manifestation #asks #anon ask #loassumption #loa success #!!! success story #success story #illogical success story #success stories #void state

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satorugojjo · 10 months

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I don’t think there’s a single book BookTok has promoted in the last couple years that’s turned out to be an actually good “you cannot miss this read” which now makes me and so many others I know avoid it as a whole.

A lot of BookTok books seem to be specific for very young or very new readers who haven’t cut their teeth on fanfic or haven’t been reading from a young age. The writing style is either a really profound Instagram metaphorical caption kinda overwrought and over flowery language, or it’s trying so hard to be edgy and sardonic and ends up being completely tell and almost zero show. This Is How You Lose The Time War is a PERFECT example of this - where the flowery and poetic language actually takes AWAY from a scene and distracts you from it rather than adding anything to it in the moment, and for those who do like poetic fiction this will be up their alley but if you don’t and you pick it up because of badly marketed hype when you normally wouldn’t, it’s gonna turn you off reading in general!

There’s nothing wrong with starter fiction to help get readers engaged and then find their way into actually good books, but my gripe is that it’s never ever marketed as that and as if it it’s just generically good fiction. Nothing Colleen Hoover has ever written is objectively good - the writing style is mediocre and she romanticises taboo topics which will seem spicy to the average population who doesn’t READ. And yet she takes up every bookshelf which I promise you will end up turning many readers who ARENT on booktok away from reading altogether.

YA is another genre that has declined a lot in recent years because it’s full of marketers trying to fit all the buzzword tropes into their books and getting young readers to buy it because it’s “enemies to lovers pirate cyberpunk found family” or whatever - and it feels more like focus group fiction rather than actual writing. I LOVE YA but nothing that’s been released post 2020 has had any depth, plot, character development or any style to it.

A great example is Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros - i tried reading 2 chapters as a sample and it was shocking to see how illogical, overdramatic, overedgy and exceptionally “this happened then this then this then that” it was. There was absolutely zero nuance and it felt so “I’m telling you all this but I’m not gonna prove any of it”. And yet it’s rated either 5 stars or 1 star. I’m sure it’s a great starter middle grade/teen book but it is definitely not deserving to be on the same pedestal as other YA books like Hunger Games or Six of Crows. I used to think that perhaps I’ve just outgrown YA but considering I can pick up YA from 2018 that I haven’t read before with no problems, it’s so specific to BOOKTOK YA.

It’s getting to the point that if I see a book that’s being overpromoted on tiktok, I’m more likely to believe the bad reviews because there hasn’t been a SINGLE book where I’ve disagreed with them, and then go find a different book in the same genre that hasn’t been on booktok - it’s getting hilarious actually that the books that are actually incredible get zero screen time and traction on booktok because they aren’t just cheap easy airport reads. Once again - nothing wrong with an easy airport CH book or YA book, but we aren’t going around parading a Lee Child book as peak literature no matter how enjoyable they are.

I don’t even have a conclusion to this entire rant - I’m sick of books like Babel getting steamrolled because it was “too sad or too hard” in favour of the latest SJM book, and getting even more sick of the decline of media literacy due to books getting easier and more spoonfeedy. When they aren’t? They mistake flowery metaphors for complexity and depth.

#booktok #books #bookblr #Rebecca yarros #fourth wing #colleen hoover #this is how you lose the time war #Babel #rf kuang

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itis-obsessesions · 2 months

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Tbh, I do think Lenore is kind of stupid for being surprised/mad that her wife passively almost murdered Duke-

Like, girlie. She told u she would do that. She was very literal and honest about her intentions of using people in the death game yall are trapped in to get you both out of that academy. U just stubbornly decided "Nuh-uh. I don't want that.", which is valid, but bro. U did not communicate it successfully. You agreed to the alliance and the game Annabell was setting up without understanding the rules-

And now u reap the consequences and are mad? Huh?

Bestie. That's not it. U lovesick fools have to learn communication, asap, or its only gonna get worse.

(/hj this is missing a lot of nuance, I'm just ranting)

•••

Edit: Guys. Me calling Lenore kind of stupid for being mad about a situation that she was told would happen does not mean I think she is fully and completely stupid. Smart characters can be illogical and make stupid decisions. It just means that Lenore is a complex smart character with a strong moral standing that got blinded by said strong moral standing. Lenore can have flaws and be stupid in her decision-making sometimes and still be a smart character. It's not mutually exclusive.

#whiteraven #lennabel #lenore webtoon #annabel lee webtoon #nevermore #nevermore webtoon #webcomic nevermore

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icycoldninja · 1 month

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here is an idea: DMC 3 Dante x Fem hunter reader where they are dating/demon hunting partners, she falls pregnant and dose not know until when she is on a mission and she goes into labor meaning her BF (Dante) needs to deliver there baby and comfert her (example: calling her a good girl and praising her) away from the demons

OK first of all let me just say something real quick--there is physically, scientifically, and biologically no way you can get pregnant and be completely oblivious about it until labor. What about missing your period? What about hormonal and weight changes? What about pains, aches, and cramps? What about the extremely noticeable tummy growth? This whole thing is gonna be ridiculously illogical, but I'll still do it. Enjoy. 💜

Sudden labor (DMC3! Dante X Fem!Pregnant!Reader)

You and Dante had been dating for a few years now, being loyal partners both in regards to your relationship and to your job. You hunted demons together by day and passionately made love to one another by night.

One day you two sent out together on a mission to exterminate a massive clan of demons that had taken a liking to a particular forest not too far from a moderately populated city. You and Dante were doing just fine at first, relentlessly chopping down and shooting holes through creatures without end. Everything was going perfectly well, until suddenly, you felt a sudden and sharp pain shoot through your stomach. It wasn't a stomachache, it wasn't period cramps, it wasn't like anything you'd ever experienced before. It was so painful, it brought you to your knees. You dropped your weapons, collapsing onto the ground, crying out in pain. Dante heard you, and fearing that you'd gotten attacked, rushed to your side in an instant.

"Babe, what's going on? You alright?" He asked, worriedly.

"I--I don't know! It hurts...everything hurts!" You suddenly became aware of something runny trickling down your legs, and you looked down, only to find a mixture of blood and other fluids leaking out of your privates. "What the hell?!" You shrieked, fearfully. "What's happening to me?!"

"It looks like you're in labor!" Dante screamed. "How did--?! What--?! How the hell is this possible?! How come we didn't realize you were pregnant before?!"

"I don't know!" You replied, panting heavily. "What do we do?!" Dante answered you by scooping you up and carrying you to a location far, far away from the (slowly dying) demons and carefully set you on the ground. After removing your bottoms and taking a quick glance at your contracting vagina, he realized there was no time to get you to a hospital. You'd have to give birth here.

"OK," Dante began, taking deep breaths. "Uhh...push. Yeah, push. That's how you deliver a baby, right? Push!" You nodded, and though the pain was intense, you grit your teeth and pushed through as hard as you could.

"Good job," Dante encouraged, patting your shoulder with trembling hands. "You're doing great. Keep going. Stay strong. You're ok. Good girl--you're doing alright. Keep pushing." You could tell by his frantic, stammering speech that Dante was just as terrified and anxious as you were, given the sudden nature of all this, but he did his best to stay calm and collected so you could have someone to lean on.

Confused, frightened, and in so much pain, you continued pushing hard, and eventually heard a hollow pop, followed by a small cry.

"Oh my God!" Dante shouted, diving down to scoop up the baby that had just slid out of your uterus. "You did it, babe! You--you gave birth! You gave birth!" You let out an exhausted chuckle, flopping back against the ground with a sigh. Your newborn baby cried and failed about in Dante's arms, making him smile. Even though it was under really strange circumstances, you two now had a baby! Hooray!

"Is...is it a boy or a girl?" You asked, gratefully sucking in deep breaths of air.

"Y'know what?" Dante replied, sounding unsure. "I have no freaking clue. Let's go to the hospital and ask the doctors."

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bloodynereid · 2 years

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Donec mors nos separaverit - Love and Death

a/n: hope you enjoy this little self-indulgent meet-cute fic :) I am currently obsessed with Wednesday so send in requests for any of the characters and I would be delighted to write them. also I was listening to Weyes Blood while reading this so you might want to listen to the And In the Darkness, Hearts Aglow album (which I fervently recommend)

pairing: wednesday x fem! necromancer reader

tw: talk about death, organs and resurrection, descriptions of alchemy and necromancer stuff, dead rabbit that gets re-alived

description: Weems needed Wednesday to find an extracurricular activity and that leads to finding you, the singular member of the alchemy club and a necromancer.

“Well, this has been a complete and utter waste of time.” Wednesday stood at the top of a winding staircase that she hadn’t even remembered seeing at any point in her short time at Nevermore. Which was illogical since the staircase was right next to the path she took to classes. Narrowing her eyes, she took a step into the shadows thinking that the worst that could happen would be her being bored again. The best thing would be a kidnapping or even better the cold embrace of death finally catching up with her, even if it would be a pity not to have solved the mystery.

The walls that lined the staircase were completely bare except for a succession of torches, the cold emanating from the solid stone permeated Wednesday’s bones, making a little smirk appear on her face. A strange combination of herbs and some unusual underlying scent got stronger as she descended the stairs. It reminded her of home. She was liking it better and better every second.

When she finally reached the landing a strange sight awaited her. It was similar to a library but also completely different. Rich, old multi-colored volumes lined one side of the room, a large fireplace containing a lilac and green flame sat behind a table as well as the entirety of the other side of the room had a collection of small windows but mostly had shelves filled with distilled organs, strange bubbling solutions and vials of what seemed to look like black blood.

The most curious sight of all was the woman sitting with her back turned to the stairs, clad in a dark robe with the sleeves rolled up, she had her hands hovering over a… white rabbit? And those hands seemed to have bulging black veins.

“Just a little more, darling.” What previously looked like a lifeless rabbit suddenly jumped a foot in the air but the girl caught it in her now-normal looking hands. “Good boy. Now let’s get you out of here.”

Sensing that the girl was about to turn around, Wednesday’s mouth snapped shut and her usual neutral face reappeared. When the girl caught sight of Wednesday her eyes widened and the hand that was stroking the rabbit immediately stopped.

“Um, may I assist you with something?”

“Principal Weems sent me down here. You are the last extracurricular on my list.” Wednesday answered matter of factually, trying to stop thinking about what she had just seen. She was in awe. Something that didn’t happen often. But she was also suspicious of this girl she had never even heard a thing about from Enid.

“Oh right! You must be Wednesday, she did warn me about your visit. I am Y/N L/N, Nevermore’s resident necromancer.”

You swallowed quickly after your introduction and looked down to Nivens, your pet rabbit that had somehow had the wonderful idea that he should drink ‘Aqua regia’, a mixture of hydrochloric and nitric acid, the poor fella had nearly been eradicated if you hadn’t found him in time. You went back to stroking his silky hair, glancing up to meet Wednesday’s striking brown eyes again.

“Necromancer as in…”

“Bringing dead things back to life, yes. I also specialize in alchemy but with more of a scientific edge. Which is what this club is all about. Peculiarly enough, not many people exactly appreciate looking over old books or seeing the dead rise again.”

“Well they seem to be missing something quite intriguing.” Your eyebrows shot up, Weems had warned you that Wednesday was well… unpleasant to say the least but this, this was not that.

“I- thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me? I am merely stating a fact. Death intrigues me and your ability to elude it just adds to the fascination.”

“Glad I have found a like-minded soul. Let me just put Nivens into his cage and I can show you some of the ropes. Feel free to look over anything but be careful to touch anything, that is how this little guy perished.” You bopped Nivens’ nose before pointing to the black vials. “Those you can touch or drink. They’re just coffee with variants of minerals and minute amounts of esters. Side project I was working on a while ago.”

You gave her a nod before slipping into the side room and carefully putting Nivens back into his cage. Passing a stick of celery and double-checking the latch, you took off your cloak and pulled on a comfy, white knit sweater. It gets drafty down here.

While Y/N was going to put away her Alice in Wonderland rabbit, Wednesday took the opportunity to shake herself out of whatever pleasant wave had come upon her while meeting the necromancer. She had even complimented her! When did she last do that? Probably never. Right, snap out of it, Wednesday.

She first went over to look at the organs, carefully examining each of them and seeing the first states of deterioration on some of them. That explained the unusual smell that lingered in the air. Rotting flesh. One of her signatures.

Wednesday then inspected the black vials that Y/N insisted were coffee. Well being poisoned to death was a comforting thought. She shrugged and picked up four of the little vials and then took a seat on a stool at the center table. Carefully plucking off the stopper on one of them, Wednesday took a swig and let the explosion of flavors encompass her mind. Wow. That was the best coffee she had ever tasted.

You walked back into the room dawning your sweater when you spotted Wednesday nursing one of the vials as she skimmed over what definitely looked like your journal.

“You know that looking at other people’s personal items isn’t exactly polite, right?” Wednesday looked up from the table and didn’t even have the audacity to look ashamed, her pale face wasn’t even dusted with a blush.

“It wouldn’t be private if it was just sitting out here, ready for anyone to pry.”

“You are quite right. That is one of my old journals so it would mostly contain nonsense. Here, if you are going to look at my material, at least read the interesting things.” You placed my newest and not yet finished leather bound notebook on the table.

After a few minutes of skimming and leafing through the pages, she looked up to try and meet your eye but you had silently made your way over to the fireplace. She found you staring at the flames before carefully adding powders that were on the mantelpiece. Muttering under your breath the inscribed instructions in the journal she had just been looking at. Wednesday shut the book, picked up another vial and made her way over to stand next to you.

“What exactly are you doing?”

“Well… I wanted to do something basic for you so I brought out one of my old experiments. Flame tests I did when I was five years old. Nearly gave my mother more of a heart attack than when she found out I was a necromancer. Here.” You placed a pot of silvery black powder into her hand, careful to avoid skin to skin contact. “Just throw in as much as you’d like.”

Wednesday’s pale fingers picked up a pinch of the powder and then she tossed it into the multi-colored flames. A second later they erupted and turned a bright blue. The room became tinted in a blue sheen that disappeared a second later. Wednesday turned to you with a smirk on her face. Oh no.

“Could we do black?”

The rest of the afternoon and well into the twilight hours were spent throwing in different powders as well as minutely speaking about random subjects that the girls both held a fascination with. Mainly death. They conversed about their funeral plans and Y/N showed Wednesday some of the different organs she had been experimenting with. All animals, sadly.

You gifted Wednesday her own journal and sent her off with a few historical books as well as one of your own journals. Tasking her with reading them for your next meeting.

Wednesday had never felt such anguish in the presence of a kindred spirit. She had an inkling as to what her parents may feel for each other, even if she would never admit it.

You eagerly awaited the next time you would see Wednesday. You were incredibly unfamiliar with the feelings that sprouted the second she had entered your little world but you were eager to explore them.

hope you enjoyed it and feel free to voice ur thoughts in the comments

#wednesday #wednesday netflix #wednesday x reader #wednesday the series #wednesday addams #wednesday addams netflix #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday series #netflix wednesday #wednesday show #wednesday imagine

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physalian · 1 month

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Physalian’s Curated Tips on Worldbuilding Megapost

Some of these are *not* mine, they’re from author Randy Ellefson, I’m just interpreting the tips I like in my own words. These specifically come from his book, 185 Tips on World Building. I don’t agree with all of them, because he tends to read as a “you must do this specific thing to be successful,” which is limiting and doesn’t consider when elements work because they’re different, these books are also in the “throw all your eggs in one basket” camp for your one series/mythos, instead of different worlds for different universes.

Ellefson also disagrees with my argument of “everything you build doesn’t have to serve a purpose”. Verbatim, in his book, he says: “There’s no reason to invent something if we don’t have a plan for it.” Which, sorry, no. Easter eggs and details purely for fluff in a one-off sentence make your world feel real.

That said, he does have some useful nuggets I’ll paraphrase below, and some I just went off-book entirely.

1. Pacing your Workflow

Rome wasn’t built in a day, and sitting down to hash out all the elements of your world in one sitting and never deviating from that path greatly limits the scope and variety you could come up with. As I wrote in my “when worldbuilding gets weird” post, the real world wasn’t manufactured by a nitpicky author on a quest to absolve us of plot holes—let your worldbuilding be a little illogical and contradictory and just plain strange and inexplicable.

The best way to do that is to worldbuild when inspiration strikes, or at least leaving your worldbuilding loose enough to add in extra details and spice whenever you come up with something cool. Do a little note here or there, toss it in your “worldbuilding” bin, and you’ll likely end up with something far more unique and organic than following any step-by-step method.

2. Are the Gods Real?

In essence—say you have your fantasy world and your fantasy religions. Decide whether or not those prayers can actually be answered, and to what degree, and how the existence (or just speculation) of your world’s religion impacts scientific thought and endeavors.

You can write a whole-ass religion with all these beliefs and practices, and leave it entirely up to speculation whether there’s anyone listening. Or strike it somewhere in the middle where they do exist but aren’t very hands on, or they do exist, but only for certain groups, or they did exist, etc.

In my WIP sci-fi series, I had a little bit of both. One world where they’re very much real and there’s proof, and one world where everyone sure believes their capital-G god is real, with zero evidence.

3. Species vs Races

Most of the time, in fantasy, they’re different “races” in that they can intermarry and interbreed and create things like half-elves. In sci-fi, they tend to be different species with different lifespans, biological structures, diets, habitats, restrictions, etc. If your world is the latter, something really underexplored in these kinds of settings is how being completely different species can be devastating to romantic relationships that connect on an intellectual level, but just can’t on a long-term scale.

Also an aside—if you’re going to write a racism allegory consider the following: Racism in the real world is a social construct. We are all human and the differences between us are negligible, making all the fearmongering baseless. And yet, in so many stories, fantasy racism is between two legitimately different species or between one group, and one Much Cooler group (mutants, fairies, elves, aliens, supernatural entities). Suddenly the fantasy racists have a leg to stand on because they aren’t all the same species and they are fundamentally different, which… misses the point entirely? Elves vs “Dark Elves” are a whole different ballgame than “Elves vs Humans”.

4. The Planet of Hats

Taken from OSP, and Ellefson. “Gee, I wonder who the bad guys are?”

The bad guys: Blood red eyes, stereotypically ugly features, skulking around in the dark with yellow teeth, claws, a penchant for hissing, and a color pallet of reds and blacks.

The good guys: Conventionally gorgeous, pastels and bold rainbows of color, sunny utopia of a civilization.

Unless the point is to comment on the planet of hats, or be funny, try to inject some variety and nuance in the Bad Guy realm.

5. Determine the Social Hierarchy

Most of us can come up with the lower class and the rich one percenters for our worlds rather easily, I think, because those tend to be emphasized most heavily in fantasy, and your hero/villain will likely fall into either side. But do you have a middle class? What socioeconomic hurdles are in place to keep everyone in their lanes?

What’s the difference between homeless, impoverished, poor, getting by, renting, home-owning, and land-owning? How can you tell, and how does your world’s rich maintain their place, outnumbered by your world’s proletariat? Hunger Games is a fantastic example—some Districts are much more heavily favored and nurtured by the rich than others.

6. Monsters

Similar to whether or not the gods are real—are your monsters real? Does your world have their own in-universe metaphors and allegory for the “monstrous” that are still myths? What does that say about these people? Has that view around those “monsters” and what they allegorically represent in-universe changed?

If the monsters are real, are they actually monsters, or the victims of propaganda? Are the “normal people” the real monsters? Are they all just people creating violent slander against each other?

7. Plants, Animals, and Natural Resources

Stuff like this is, in my opinion, only important to heavily detail and think about if the plot demands it. As in, I don’t need to know about the land’s farming practices if a food shortage or grain disease or fantasy inflation of corn prices isn’t part of the story. A one-off line? Sure. A farmer’s backstory? Sure. Taking a random aside to talk at length about genetic engineering of onions in your book about fantasy spies? No.

That said, if this is part of your plot, mix together some real-world analogues and when it comes to fundamental methods for survival, like farming, think of what would be the path of least resistance for these people to come up with. A seaside village is probably going to survive mainly on fish, mussels, and crustaceans because it’s right there for the taking, as opposed to trying to farm avocados on starved soil. If they are trying to farm avocados, now that’s a peculiar story I’d love to hear more about.

8. Zombies?

Or the general concept of an afterlife, and reverting back from it. Is there a religion around their dead and where they go when they’re gone? Can they come back? Do the people only think they can come back? Are there whole rituals or beliefs around revival or reincarnation or body-hopping?

What parts of your afterlife really are a myth, and what can you prove within the narrative? Does it even matter to the plot if fantasy heaven is real? Do your characters refuse to believe in it, despite evidence to the contrary?

Are the “undead” bound to religious rules, or supernatural? Meaning: If I write about vampires, am I writing with Christian rules (with the churches and the holy ground and crosses being problematic) or something older? If I write about zombies, are they a natural phenomenon, or a plague from the gods?

9. On Practical Planets (Physalian’s)

I just watched a movie where there was a lock-box with a celestial combination lock, and to unlock it they needed to know the specific future date the last people who touched it would have thought of. The problem: That box predates the modern calendar, and the writers either didn’t know, didn’t care, or didn’t think it was important (it wasn’t, but still).

Same principle applies on creating planets: How “real” do you intend to get? We’re already off the edge of the map when we create multiple humanoid alien races, implying a cosmic degree of convergent evolution. The more “real” you get with your worldbuilding, the more questions you open up, the more it starts to fall apart as you put the audience’s ability to suspend their disbelief under a microscope.

Example: Artificial gravity. We can either make spinning spaceships, or just say the ship has some fancy alien tech that magically makes it happen and not explain in any further detail. And people will buy it because this is sci-fi.

When it comes to planets and concerning elements like tides, seasons, weather patterns, different gravitational pulls, whether the air should even be breathable, it can get very overwhelming very quickly if you yourself don’t allow some room for your own suspension of disbelief. So consider playing with elements on non-Earth worlds like how the night sky would look on an inhabited moon, or a binary star system, but also, this is fantasy. Just roll with it.

If you are intending to write a universe with very realistic and grounded physics, you have a lot of research to do and authors like Ellefson have plenty of guidance to help you.

10. Practical Geography (Physalian’s)

Once again: If it’s important to the plot, go ham on your climates and weather patterns and how the geography and mountains shape rainfall and such. The more bearing the physical environment has on the story, the more detail it deserves. Your fantasy city is going to need a source of freshwater and ample fields for food if they farm, vs import.

But also, get weird. Fill your fantasy geography with crazy natural phenomena. You might have a forest of trees that your fantasy woodpeckers bored a million holes through, and when the wind blows, the entire forest sounds like a godly flute. Or you have a river that runs beet purple in the spring because of a natural mineral deposit upriver, perfectly harmless. Or you have a flower that can walk, creeping around the forest floor on its root ball devouring beetles all night long.

Real world physics are fun to play with and can create some interesting problems: Like your heroes crash land on a jungle world with air they can’t breathe, demanding they address this problem that many sci-fi stories overlook, but it’s also terribly constricting. This is fantasy. Get fantastical.

11. Fantasy Politics and Why They’re in Power

100 years from now, I’d love to know how the textbooks describe the evolution of early 2000s American politics. If you have a fantasy dictator, figure out how they came to power, who they stood on to get where they are, and what parts of the populace were so desperate for a world they don’t live in, that they gave this leader the shirts off their backs.

Figure out the answer to “How did we get here?” Let it be illogical, and let our current political climate serve as example. You can have whatever hill you want to die on for your chosen politicians, for the most arbitrary reasons, and most of us don’t have well-thought-out theses on why we vote the way we do. Our views are filtered through the media we consume, and the media we don’t consume.

Let the system be broken and nonsensical—you can’t get any worse than reality.

12. Romanticizing (Physalian’s)

In other words, does your world have an era, a style of design, a way of living, a philosophy of a bygone time that they romanticize? Do they have idolized fantasy celebrities? A type of home or settlement that’s the Fantasy American Dream? What’s being advertised by the fantasy luxury, leisure, and cosmetic brands?

Was there a previous leader who led like no other? Do you have your own “Make Fantasy Land Great Again” group? Do they have merit? Is there another culture one group strives to live like? Architecture or clothing or cultural items they buy en masse to “be like the idols”.

I have a world with cultural artifacts inspired by Italian Murrine style glassblowing and via magic, they can make some physics-bending art pieces. Those artifacts, from that ancient culture, have been stolen and sold to enemy museums and the elite and have become a status symbol, even though the ancient culture just made plates and bowls out of necessity and would be horrified at their legacy.

13. Fantasy Weaponry and Innovation

Necessity inspires innovation, but what if your world never invented cars or gunpowder? For example: American land travel and urban design was built, with rare exception around our oldest cities, for cars in mind, not trains or horses and wagons and foot traffic, because of where we sit on the industrial revolution timeline. Our cities aren’t retrofitted for cars, our roads are wide enough for that sole purpose. Our settlements can be very widely spread apart because they were built with the knowledge of speedy travel in mind. Very few things, especially in the South (where I live) can be considered in “walking distance,” much less safely. You must own a car, you have no other option. The Powers That Be also hate trains because more trains means less need for cars and car companies like money.

Alternatively, how does warfare change depending on how deadly and plentiful your fantasy weapons evolve to be? Modern soldiers don’t prance around in their national colors and fancy feathered hats anymore, standing across from each other and shooting on command. Was there any practical reason for dressing your soldiers in bright, candy red, Britain? Surely must’ve been easy to spot for an ambush. Surely wasn’t practical, or logical, but it did happen.

14. Timescales

I want to address the alternative to the obvious “create a standard unit of measurement”. Show what happens when there isn’t a standard unit of measurement, and let chaos ensue. You should have one for the sake of not confusing your readers, but in-universe, have different cultures choosing to die on their hill of having 25 months when the rest of the world has 23, with the former based on their local natural phenomena and the latter based on lunar cycles.

“Military time” as we call it in the US, is the standard 24-hour clock that still confuses us and has us counting up on our fingers. A system we refuse to change even though it’s fundamentally the same amount of time, is a broken system that we still use because it's too hard to change (like the imperial measurement system).

15. Famous Places and Significant Architecture

Do you have a fantasy Disneyland? What about a fantasy remnant of a fantasy World's Fair randomly in your city? Or a bidding war between rival artists amounting to crazy monuments and art installations around the region trying to one-up each other? Your own Chicago Bean with a real name that no one uses and most of us aren’t even aware exists?

Or for religious purposes, what do your churches look like? Do they tower skyward as a monument to a celestial creator, or do they bury deep below ground and into the ocean, to reach a land or water god? Are they massive monuments or humble temples? Are they beautiful displays of wealth, or little wooden gazebos built by the locals? What does your architecture say about your culture?

16. Languages and Cultural Barriers (Physalian’s)

Whether you decide to write your own language (of which I made a guide for) or come up with a few words here and there and allude to foreign tongues, how do these languages, and the people who speak them, navigate foreign lands? How is the dominant language taught? Is the foreign language looked down on and discriminated against? Is even speaking it or having a name from it considered a crime? Are signs and advertisements written in multiple languages or just the dominant one?

What foreign traits are seen as unsavory by the dominant one, whether it’s clothing, religion, lifestyle choices, names, social behaviors, food, parenting, etc? How does the dominant culture discriminate–through law or social pressure?

Is your culture striving to protect a dying language and offering free courses and resources to learn it? Is there a dialect specific to one class or group or region? Do you have a pidgin or creole (not Creole) that comes from a blending of cultures, by force or by chance?

—

I want to make it clear that I don’t think Randy Ellefson is objectively wrong. He makes a lot of good points—for grounded worldbuilding. As I said above, the more central any one piece of your worldbuilding is to the plot, the more detail and thought you should put into it so it feels believable and it feels like there’s much more beneath the tip of the iceberg than just what’s on the page.

He points out many facets of how a society is established where it is, when it is, and why a people would come together, stay together, thrive together, and fall apart. Lots of elements you might not think about when you’re staring at a blank canvas.

I just think his tips don’t allow for the creative freedom of the weird and illogical aspects that make a world feel organic, and not manufactured with step-by-step instructions. His tips are for world building, not world discovering.

#world building #tips for writers #writing resources #writing advice #writing tips #writing tools #writing a book #writing #writeblr #fantasy #sci fi #scifi #long post

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mystra-midnight · 9 months

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Haunted Hoedown - DAY FOUR

summary: it felt like a thunderstorm was roaring in your head. Yyu heard him, but his words didn't register in your brain the way they should have. there was only building, mounting, and ruining pleasure that was spreading through your organs and seizing your limbs.

warnings: ghost!eddie x reader. mentions of an unsatisfying sex life/readers ex being a douche. masturbation. voyeurism. somnophilia. eddie being a tad mean/dom.

words: 5.7k

notes: day four of the haunted hoedown challenge being hosted by @inklore and @psychedelic-ink. a bit delayed because i was away seeing amy lee live and in person and fangirling. i tried a different style here with that i'm not 100% sure i love but i hope you enjoy reading.

prompt: american horror story Inspired + “i would burn the world for you.”

May 7th. 2001.

"Tell me why this place is so cheap."

You looked wide-eyed around the apartment. It was utterly perfect—exactly what you'd been hoping for when moving to Hawkins, Indiana. The walls were painted off-white, there were brand new stainless steel appliances, and there were timber floors throughout. The ceilings were high, and there was a little reading nook, two large bedrooms, and a large clawed bathtub.

But the best part was that it was advertised at more than half the true market value. It was absolutely ridiculous, crazy, and completely illogical, and you couldn't understand why.

You saw the realtor flinch at the question, which immediately brought you down from the clouds. Shit. Of course, it was too good to be true. There had to be something wrong with the property for the owner to be selling it for practically next to nothing.

With a sigh, you faced him. His expression was grim.

"Well, you see, um, there was, uh," he stammered, tripping over his words as he searched for the right ones, the ones that wouldn't scare you away. "About fifteen years ago, before the urban development and technology boom came to Hawkins, a young man died in the trailer park that used to be on this lot."

Your heart dropped as the horror of his words sank in, but the feeling was fleeting. Someone who was a stranger to you died ten years ago. They hadn't even lived in the apartment, so that didn't explain the next-to-nothing price. You said as much to the realtor, pressing him for more information.

"The owners want to sell the property quickly, rather than for money. They've explained that there were some... how do I put this? Some strange events occurred while they were living here."

"Such as?"

"Things would move when no one was around. There were always problems with the central heating. The televisions and radios would change channels in the middle of programmes or turn on in the middle of the night. I assume most of this is because of defective wiring somewhere in the building, but none of the electricians were able to find the cause."

You watched him cringe, as though saying the words aloud was physically painful to him. It all sounded ridiculous. And none of it was enough to make you turn down such a fantastic property for such a stupidly low price.

"That's all?" You teased, flashing the man a smile. "Consider the place sold.

June 11th. 2001.

Despite the realtor double-checking and then triple-checking, you crossed your T's and dotted your I's and bought the apartment that same day. You moved in the following month, piling boxes upon boxes, each one with a specific room written on it in your scribble: kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, guest room, reading. You bought new furniture and decorated the walls with pictures of your family and the knick-knacks you'd accumulated after college.

It had taken weeks to sort out all the rooms and empty all the boxes, but the apartment finally felt like a real home, and you'd completely forgotten what the realtor had said when showing you the property: strange events.

It started after three blissful and uneventful weeks. Things had started to go missing, just like he said. It wasn't anything overly important, just small things like your rings, your glasses, or sometimes even your panties. Things would go missing for days at a time before reappearing in locations that they had no business being in.

And then the cold started. Not just cold, but freezing cold.

It got so bad that some nights you would see your own breath misting in the air. It never seemed to matter how high you set the thermostat or how many blankets you piled on top of you—you couldn't stop shivering.

But while all these things were certainly strange, they weren't illogical. You could explain each of them: you misplaced things because you'd moved towns—hell, you'd moved states—and were getting used to living somewhere new. It was also cold because the central heating was faulty. The lights would flicker because the wiring was done wrong. All of that made perfect sense.

But what didn't make a lick of logical sense was when things started to move while you were staring right at them. Hallway doors would swing wide open, slamming into the walls as though they'd been ripped open violently in fits of rage. Shadows would creep along the walls when you weren't looking. You'd catch a glimpse from the corner of your eyes of these stalking shapes, only for them to be gone when you turned to look at them.

Then the photos started to fall from their hooks on the wall, sometimes thrown across the room, so that the frames broke and glass shards littered the floors. You make yourself a meal only for the plate to be thrown off the table and against the wall, leaving the paint stained with splotches. It frightened you, leaving you turning off the lights, running to bed, and hiding under the covers like you were suddenly twelve years old again.

The worst of it was when the dissonant whispering started. It would wake you in the middle of the night, leaving you clutching a baseball bat for dear life. Your co-workers all agreed that you were stressed and overworked, probably exhausted from uprooting your entire life and moving across the country. None of them believed in ghosts, horror stories, or haunted houses.

You thought you might be going insane until you saw him.

July 4th. 2001.

Eddie Munson.

"Hey!" You called, startling the boy standing in front of your dresser. The top right drawer was opened, and your panties were on full display. Hidden beneath them was your vibrator, and you found yourself flustered, angry, embarrassed, and scared.

He looked at you with wide doe-eyes, swimming pools of brown that you could easily get lost in if he wasn't holding a pair of your panties to his nose like some god-damn pervert. You held a bat in your hand, ready to swing, when he turned and ran. You give chase, following him around the queen bed with fresh sheets and into the bathroom that joined the two bedrooms.

By the time you rounded the bed and made it through the doorway, he was gone, seemingly having vanished into thin air. Your panties were on the ground. You spent hours checking rooms, closets, and any nook and cranny a boy of his size could hide in. You even called the police and filed a report, but there was no evidence of forced entry.

In the days that followed, you took to sleeping with the bat besides the bed and a kitchen knife beneath your pillows. It was childish, but having them so close made you feel safer.

The next few weeks were surprisingly and uneventful, and soon you settled back into a familiar routine. Work five days a week, from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon, come home and eat, channel surf for a few hours, shower, and sleep. You were even able to have friends over without anything weird ruining the atmosphere.

It was as you were chancel surfing that you saw him again. You were looking through the music stations for something to listen to while you showered; you skimmed through the pop stations and skipped over the metal stations before setting on one that was playing When It's Over by Sugar Ray. The song was catchy and tended to get stuck in your head with how much it played on the radio, but it was a good one.

"Wait! Go back!"

You screamed.

With your heart pounding wildly in your chest and your stomach having fallen out of your arse, you stared at him. He seemed entirely unaware of your fright, instead gesturing frantically at the television. "Turn it back!"

This was the first time you'd gotten an up-close look at him. He was dressed in black jeans with rips in the knees and a shirt that said Hellfire Club. As he motioned between the remote in your hand and the television, it rode up, revealing a trail of hair that started at his navel and disappeared into his jeans. He had a leather jacket on and a denim Dio vest over it.

He looked like something straight out of the 80's.

"Back!" He yelled louder this time. He sounded panicked and frantic, and that was what snapped you from your stupor. You flicked backwards through the channels, finding the metal music one, when he ordered you to stop. He stared wide-eyed at the television, where Metallica was playing a live concert. You recognised the song; it was Fuel.

"That's James Hetfield," he said, his tone disbelieving. He flopped open-mouthed onto the couch as Kirk Hammett and Lars Ulrich began the opening rift. "This is Metallica."

"Yeah?"

"I don't know this song."

"It was released about four years ago; how can you not have heard it?"

You pressed yourself tightly into the arm of the couch, feeling it dig painfully into your back, when he whirled around to face you. His face was overcome with surprise, shock, and something else you'd yet to comprehend. Wild curls bounced around his face before settling into place.

"Four years?"

You shivered beneath the intensity of his stare and his emotions; even his presence in your apartment sent a chill down your spine. You nodded quickly, clutching the television to your chest like it was a weapon. Your grip was so tight that your knuckles ached.

"That's not possible," he whispered, turning back to the television as the lyrics started. "They look different. They sound different. This is crazy. They just released Master of Puppets?"

That caught your attention, and it was then your turn to be surprised.

"That was fifteen years ago."

"What?" He rounded on you a second time.

Over the next few weeks, you learned more about him. He’d lived in the trailer park with his uncle Wayne, and he’d passed in a tragic accident, an earthquake; his uncle had never found his body. You suspected there was more to it, but he was unwilling to give more details.

That accident had happened fifteen years ago, and the trailer park had been demolished about seven years later. A development block had been built to replace it, which eventually turned into an apartment complex as Hawkins expanded.

Eddie had only been twenty-one when he died. You learned that he liked music. Well, no, you learned that he loved Metallica and Dio. So you started to leave the television on when you went to work, letting it play from dusk to dawn to keep him entertained. Then you started buying magazines and comics to leave them open for him to read; you even bought home Metallica's latest CD.

And as the weeks dragged on, his presence in your apartment became less terrifying, except for the times he would seemingly materialise from nowhere. You even started asking him to hang out with you at night. The two of you would spend hours watching movies and music videos and just talking.

September 19th. 2001.

"Come on, Eddie!" You whined. He was behaving like a child, and you were exasperated and fed up with his antics. He was standing in front of the door with his arms crossed over his chest, obscuring the words on the front of his shirt.

"Don't you 'Eddie' me," he cautioned, his brown eyes narrowing into a glare. He hated the idea that you were mocking him, though he was smart enough to realise that wasn't what you were doing right now. "He's an asshole. I don't understand why you can't see it."

"Because I know him! You've only ever seen him! Briefly, I might add!"

Eddie threw his hands up in frustration; the sound that left his mouth was all but a growl. He wanted to grab you by the shoulders and shake you until your brains leaked out of your ears. Then you might be smart enough to realise that Michael was a fucking douchebag. "And I see you too!" Eddie spat, the fieriness in his tone making you roll your eyes and shiver simultaneously.

"Every time you've seen him, you come home frustrated, like the man doesn't know how to fuck or something! You always come back bitchier than when you left!"

"Eddie!"

If you could have hit him, you would have. His words hit too close to home for comfort. Michael was nice enough, if not vain and at times arrogant. He came from money, and he often acted and thought that money would carry him through the world. But he treated you well enough, and you enjoyed his company most of the time.

Except Eddie's intuition hit the nail on the head—Michael didn't know how to fuck. At least, not well. Each time you felt the familiar warmth of orgasm approaching, the same thing happened. It didn't matter that you'd be crying out his name and clawing at his back, begging him not to stop; he'd move, change his angle, change his pace, change his position, and you would be left a frustrated mess.

On the rare occasions he cared, he was able to make you cum. He'd work you over until you tumbled into oblivion, his fingers buried in your pussy as it clenched and spasmed around them, your back arched off the mattress. But he cared for his own pleasure above all others, and nine times out of ten, you didn't finish.

"Eddie!" He mocked. "Is my name the only thing you can say, sweetheart?"

"I'm not taking dating advice from a dead man!"

You regretted the words the moment they left your mouth. Tears burned in the back of your throat from how you swallowed the urge to cry, your emotions reaching a fever pitch as you walked through him. And as you passed, the cold of his presence enveloped you in a frigid hug but didn't stop you.

Instead, you left.

You drank too much that night; said too much, and let Michael work you over for far longer than you normally would. After being compliant and patient all night, he draped your legs over his shoulders, grunting and groaning as he fucked you, only to cum on your stomach before kissing you goodnight and slipping away. That had been the boiling point.

The relationship ended with you slapping Michael so hard that your hand hurt.

When you made it back home, the apartment was dark, cold, and empty. The television had turned off automatically at some point in the evening, and none of the lights were on. You’d expected him to be waiting for you with a smug smirk and an I told you so attitude, but Eddie wasn’t there, and that hurt more than the disappointing sex.

September 26th. 2001.

Six days later, you still hadn't seen him. Each night you tossed and turned, his absence from your life a gaping wound that often left you bleeding out and gasping for air. The apartment felt too large without him—too quiet and too empty. But you resigned yourself to the fact that you'd chased him away. He'd have found someone else to haunt, someone who appreciated him instead of insulting him. So you found something else to occupy your mind.

Except while you were settling into the mountain of pillows on your bed, the scent of clean linen and vanilla swirling around the room, he decided to make his grand reappearance. Well, no, not exactly.

The moment he chose to reappear was when you were sprawled on the bed, thighs spread wide, and heels dug into the mattress as you worked the tips of your fingers over your aching clit and into your leaking hole. You hadn't had sex since breaking up with Michael, but the ache had been in your belly long before that. The knot between your hips was pulled taut when you saw Eddie standing at the foot of the bed, panic bursting to life inside your chest. You snapped your thighs tight together, your hand flying to press into the sheets to hide the sticky evidence of your arousal.

"Don't stop," he said softly, his voice breathy and light. His wide-doe eyes meet yours. "Please."

"Eddie," you whispered as your face warmed with embarrassment. He didn't miss the way you rubbed your thighs together, desperate to stifle the ache between them. In that moment, you wanted him to be the one touching you. You wanted to feel the warmth and weight of his palms as he held you down and his breath on your neck as he kissed, bit, and sucked. You wanted him in the worst way, and it hurt you beyond words that you couldn't have him.

"Open them." His tone was harsh this time—forceful and demanding, enticing a soft whine from your parted lips. The smirk that found its way to his plump lips was sinful. "No wonder he couldn't get you off. Was he too soft, sweetheart? You need to be told what you want to do, fucked like a whore, to be able to cum?"

Eddie wanted to grab your ankles and drag you to him. Your little nub was so sensitive that he wanted to spread you open and rub the tip of his tongue against it until you were begging for him. He wanted to watch you cum on his cock, his fingers, his thigh, his tongue, and his cock again. He wanted to feel you with every fibre of his ghostly being. "Be a good girl and open your legs, yeah?"

You were slow to react. You parted your thighs slowly and shyly until you were exposed to his hungry gaze. The insides of your thighs were sticky and shiny with the evidence of your first orgasm; your puffy folds were still slick as you parted them with your fingers, moving to rub one on either side of your clit. Your breath hitched at the sensation and the way his eyes followed your movements.

"Eddie," you whined his name softly while your head tipped back, your throat exposed, and your chest heaving with each sharp intake of air. The crown of your head mashed against the pillows, leaving your hair a mess. You imagined the way his hands would feel—rough and calloused. He'd played guitar before his death; you knew he'd be good with his fingers. He'd be able to find that spot deep inside your gummy walls that made stars, no, galaxies, burst to life inside your veins.

"What a fucking prick." He spat the words through his teeth, each syllable filled with venom. "Didn't know how good of a thing he had until it was gone. Never even deserved to have such a pretty pussy if he couldn't get you off. I bet he couldn't even do it with his fingers buried in there or with his tongue, either. Bet he just rammed his dick in without getting you worked up first."

"He doesn’t.." You sighed, your breath airy and full of arousal. "He... he never tasted me."

If it were possible, Eddie would have cum in his pants like a fucking virgin. Not only had that asshole left you a worked-up and unsatisfied mess because he didn't know how to fuck you right, he'd never even tasted you, which was a crying shame. Right now, all Eddie wanted to do was have your sweet cunt beneath his mouth. You were a feast on display, and he was forbidden from tasting, touching, and fucking.

Eddie watched as you pushed your fingers into your clenching hole, chasing the orgasm that was starting to sear through your veins. You were so wet, your slick dripping down the crack of your ass, only to be lost in the bed sheets. "Forget about him," he followed up with a gentler tone, the cold of his presence enveloping the air around you until your nipples turned to hardened peaks that crowned your tits. "Forget about him. Just touch that hot cunt for me, sweetheart."

You answered him with a whimper, your lower lip quivering before being captured between your teeth as your fingers moved deeper, seeking and searching for that sweet stop. You heard his sharp intake of breath as you fingered yourself; the schlick sounds echoing around the room were obscene and pornographic. Your slick arousal coated your fingers, your hand, your palm, and your thighs, shining beneath the dull glow of moonlight that peaked through the windows.

"Harder," he barked, and you obeyed. The heel of your palm slapped against your clit with each thrust of your fingers. "Faster."

It felt like a thunderstorm was roaring in your head. You heard him, but his words didn't register in your brain the way they should have. There was only building, mounting, and ruining pleasure that was spreading through your organs and seizing your limbs. You come hard and long, crying a pretty symphony made up entirely of his name.

October 31st. 2001.

It worked for a while.

In spite of the entire situation making your face burn, you couldn't say no to him, not when he looked at you with those pretty doe-eyes or when he called you his good little whore. Thus, Eddie watched as you masturbated for him every night. He would tell you when to cum and how to touch yourself. You'd be told how many fingers to use and watched as you fucked yourself open.

It worked—until it didn’t.

After days and weeks, it wasn't enough to just touch yourself. You wanted him to touch you, but that was entirely impossible. So you threw yourself into your work and your social life to distract your meloncholy heart. But each night, in the privacy of your apartment, you belonged entirely to him. You worked a double shift today in preparation for Halloween. Eddie hadn't said anything when you'd come home exhausted. All you wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep like the dead.

And that was exactly what you'd done.

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you knew you weren’t awake yet—you were floating on clouds in that blissful in-between. It was 3:15 a.m. in the morning, and you vaguely recognised the blurry red outline of the didgital clock on the bedside table. The witching hour on All Hallows' Eve.

It was only the sudden, sharp zing of pleasure that woke you.

You cried out. Your voice was hoarse, and your vocal cords were thick with a myriad of emotions: sleep, confusion, panic, and sudden desperation. Reality finally dawned upon you as honey-sweet pleasure swept through your limbs, making them feel heavy and sluggish even as you grabbed a handful of the thick mop curls between your spread thighs.

You bucked your hips without intention, pushing his face deeper between your sticky folds until he grabbed your waist and pinned you to the mattress. When he pulled back and wrapped his wet lips around your throbbing clit, you could feel him smiling. A deep hum rumbled through his vocal cords and vibrated through your core until you were moaning outloud, your back in a perfect arch as red-hot lightening sizzled through your veins.

"E-Eddie?"

The panic in your voice finally encouraged him to lift his head. His doe-eyes were blown wide with lust, almost entirely black. You saw the way his chin dripped with a mixture of his saliva and your slick; he was a vision of exctasy that made your brain short circuit. This wasn't possible—it literally wasn't possible. But it was real. You felt the weight of his hands on your waist, the way his fingertips dug into your skin hard enough to leave bruises, and the way his weight dipped into the mattress.

"Was wondering when you'd wake up, sweets," he mumbled, his breath hot against your mound. Your thighs trembled and squeezed around his head when he dipped his head to lick from your quivering hole to your clit, lapping at the slick that practically leaked from you. There was a part of you screaming, wanting to rage and be angry at him for doing something like this while you were sleeping. There was also a part of you that wanted to be as distraught now as you had been the day you found him sniffing your panties.

Both parts were quiet, making room for the horny, touch-starved part of yourself to come to the surface. Your nails scratched his scalp when you tugged hard on his hair. Eddie tightened his hold on your waist to stop your impatient squirming as he kitten-licked your folds. You were already embarrassingly close, and he knew. It was obvious from the way you were squeezing your thights around his head until his hearing muffled and how you squirmed and wriggled as the pressure in your belly built.

You made this sound—a little gasp of pleasure—that sent arousal rocketing through his veins and straight to his cock when he pushed two fingers into your tight pussy. His fingers were thicker than yours, larger and longer, reaching deep and rubbing against all of your nerves. You came without warning, slick walls clamping rightly around his thrusting fingers as the world shattered around you into sweet oblivion. Eddie kept his lips wrapped around your little nub, sucking and flicking his tongue against it as crystal shards of pleasure shot through her entire being. It felt like a bolt of white-hot lightning had struck your soul and set her world ablaze.

When you sagged against the mattress, Eddie climbed the length of your body, his lips leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses from your clit and up your belly, through the valley of your tits, until you were tasing yourself on his tongue. You touched him for the first time with shaking hands, feeling his skin against your palms, tracing the outline of each tattoo, and feeling how his muscles shifted and tensed beneath his skin as he settled between your thighs.

He was real; he was here, and he was yours.

As Eddie rubbed his cock against your sticky folds to get himself slick and lubricated, he groaned into your mouth. The flushed tip nudged your clit, causing you to gasp and arch beneath him. "Eddie," you moaned softly, your entire body burning and your eyes pleading for more.

"Say it." He growled. His breath was hot on your neck as he smeared open-mouth kisses along the column of your throat. He already knew what you wanted, but he wanted you to say it. He had to hear you say it. When you bucked up against him, desperate to feel him fill you or for friction of any kind, he pinned your hips down, refusing to give into your demands.

"Eddie," you whined. "Eddie, please, please, fuck me—ah!"

The stretch as he pushed inside was intense and immediate, more so than anything you'd ever felt. But it wasn't painful. No, it was deliciously mind-numbing. Your nails dug deep into his shoulders as you threw your head back. Your lips parted in breathless cries when he bottomed out, filling you so completely. The two of you have never talked about this moment, his size, or what to expect when having sex. Mostly because neither of you had expected this to ever happen.

Now that he was between your legs, holding them open with heavy palms, you knew that he was big—bigger than Michael and your other ex's. Eddie watched the way your lips clung to him as he pulled back, leaving only the crown of his cock nestled in your tight walls, and he moaned as you sucked in each inch of him when he snapped his hips forward. It felt like he was carving his way into your guts, rearranging your organs, or hitting the back of your throat. Maybe that was over dramatic; you were cock-drunk and delusional already. Maybe it was just the intensity with which you wanted him to act that made you irrational.

All that you knew for certain was that he was here, and he was fucking you, and you never wanted him to stop. You were crying, the tears having finally fallen, and you couldn’t stop shaking as lava pooled in your stomach. Eddie grabbed you by the chin, his thumb and forefinger pressing into your cheeks, so that you were pouting when he kissed her again. "Look at me when I'm fucking you."

Your eyes snapped open. When did you close them? You didn't know.

"This is what you needed, huh? You just needed a cock inside you—someone to fuck the attitude out of you. You're just a cockwhore, aren't you, baby?" His voice was rough as he growled the words through his teeth. He was hovering over you, hands on the mattress either side of your head, trapping you in the shelter of his body. You cried out when he made a particularly deep thrust; his aim never faltered. He found that spot that made galaxies come to life and made your thighs tremble around his slim waist.

"Answer me!" He repeated it louder this time.

"Yes!" You wailed. You felt racked with pleasure when he put a hand on your tit, palming it roughly and pinching your nipple to bring your attention to him. "Yes, yes, I'm a whore, just a cockwhore—of god, right there, right there."

"Whose whore?"

"Eddie, Eddie, please, need to cum—"

"You wanna cum?"

"Yes, yes, please." He was holding you at the edge of the world, leaving you staring into the abyss. You were buzzing with excitement, entirely ready and willing to take a leap of faith with him. You needed to free-fall; you needed to float through the clouds, and he wasn't letting you. Not yet. Not until you gave him what he wanted.

"Then tell me whose whore you are."

"Yours! Your whore! Just yours!"

Now that you'd given him what he wanted, he fucked you harder, impossibly so. The sound of his pelvis hitting the backs of your thighs was a constant smack, smack, smack. The headboard hit the wall with a resounding thud, thud, thud. The neighbours would surely complain, but you don't care because he's going to break you, ruin you, and wreck you.

The knot in your stomach unrolled quickly and all at once. A fresh wave of rapture raced through you like lightening arching through your veins, leaving you staring at the roof with wide-open eyes that took in nothing that they saw. Your back bowed into a perfect arch as you came harder than you thought was ever possible—even harder than you had the first time he'd watched you touch yourself.

Eddie buried his face against your neck, his abdomen dipping in and out as he chased his own release, his breath superheated against your skin while he panted. He was lost in you—the smell of your shampoo, the taste of your chapstick—utterly and hopelessly lost. Eddie came only a moment later, long and hard, painting thick ivory ropes along your quivering walls.

"So fucking good, baby. Pussy was made for me." He rambled between kisses, licks, and bites along your neck. Your nails scratched down his back as you preened beneath his praise, your mind somewhere in the clouds, no higher, in the thermosphere. "You're squeezing me like a damn vice. Fuck, you're perfect. I would burn the world for you. You're mine, aren't you, baby? My desperate whore. All mine."

Eddie kept you pinned to the mattress, legs still thrown over his shoulders as he huddled over you, almost folding you in half. He grabbed you roughly by the chin, forcing you to look at him. Your eyes were unfocused, and your face was streaked with tears. He felt your pussy still fluttering around his softening cock as you rode the coattails of your orgasm, each aftershock making you twitch and shake. He kissed you hard until you were breathless. You mewled into his mouth and pawed at him.

And you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were his.

#haunted hoedown #hauntedhoedown #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x you

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