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shiorimakibawrites · 8 months

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The Accident (Part I of Happy Little Accident)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word Count: 7, 368 Summary: You tripped in the elevator and covered your neighbor in paint. Your ridiculously hot neighbor that you have an enormous crush on. Warning(s): Anxiety, Female Gaze, Referenced Sex, Referenced Character Death, Reference to assumed Attempted Murder, Thoughts about sex Happy Little Accident Masterlist My Masterlist Tag List: @loves0phelia Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. EDIT: Cleaned up some typos.

The Accident

You were painting in Central Park when your phone rang. You let out an irritated huff as you fished your phone out of your apron’s pocket and looked at the caller ID. Abby, your boss at the Daily Grind. It was tempting to ignore the call, pretend like you had forgotten your phone. Very tempting. It was a lovely spring day, one you would much rather spend painting than working. But in the end the knowledge that Abby wasn’t prone to bothering her employees during their off hours without a good reason had you accepting the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Abby said, sounding apologetic. “Can you cover for the afternoon shift today? Peter is in the hospital.”

“The hospital?!” you repeated, feeling immediately concerned. “What happened? Is he okay?”

Peter was one of the cafe’s newer employees. You didn’t know him very well yet but he seemed like a nice kid. If a little absentminded, given how often he arrived for his shift at a rush. And possibly even more clumsy than you are since you had often seen him with bruises which he claimed were the results of tripping over things.

Assuming he wasn’t lying about how he had gotten hurt. Which you thought that he was . . . some of those injuries didn’t look like they had came from a fall . . . It worried you. It worried others at the cafe too. Abby wasn’t usually so forgiving of such frequent tardiness and absences.

“He got hit by a car. Claims that he’s only got minor injuries but the hospital doesn’t want to discharge him without running some tests first. So can you come in today?”

You suppressed the urge to sigh. You didn’t want to send the wrong message. Because you weren’t actually annoyed with Abby or Peter but the situation. These things happen. Sometimes people got hurt or got sick. And when they did, someone didn’t get their day off. Today was simply your turn.

And well . . . it wasn’t like you couldn’t use the money.

“I’ll be there.”

“Thanks! You’re a lifesaver!”

You ended the call and slipped your phone back into your apron before starting to gather up your things. Your newly acquired shift started at three. It was only a little after noon, plenty of time to get back to your apartment and get ready, but you didn’t like to rush. Rushing tended to make you even more of a klutz.

You swirled the used brushes in the water jar, trying to get as much paint off of your brushes before rolling them in a small towel. A second towel, already stained with old paint, was used to wrap up your palette. The paint was thrown back into their carrying box. Which was technically a small tackle box but you had repurposed it for art supplies. The box went into the bottom of your tote bag along with the water jar, double checking that lid was screwed on tightly. You didn’t need to ruin another sketchbook. You squeezed your current sketchbook behind the tackle box. Next went your pencil case, followed by the towels and their respective cargo. Now the only thing left was your painting and the portable easel.

You removed the painting from the easel, careful to avoid the spots where the paint had spilled over onto the tacking edge. Your fingers already had enough paint on them. The painting was propped against a tree, fingers crossed for two things. One that the wind wouldn’t pick up and send your painting flying. And two, a police officer wouldn’t start yelling at you for it. You didn’t think using the tree as a momentary support while you packed up violated any park rules but you weren’t entirely sure. You had read the park rules but they were written like a legal document . . . which it probably was . . . but that made you feel like you probably weren’t understanding it right. After all, you weren’t a lawyer.

Luck seemed to be with you. You were able to get the easel broken down and put away without incident. You swung your bag into your shoulder before picking up your painting. After making sure you had a good grip on the stretcher and the tacking edge, you took a quick look around to make sure you weren’t forgetting anything. Then you started making your way home.

Your lucky streak continued. You didn’t drop anything. No one dumped into the wet canvas or you while you were walking. The subway was busy as usual but not packed to the gills. Your feet resisted the urge to get tangled up in some random piece of debris. Or your own feet. Or the absolutely nothing that you somehow managed to trip over sometimes . . .

In hindsight, you should have realized that it was too good to last.

Things began to go awry when you were waiting for the elevator to arrive. You looked down and saw a tube of paint in your aprons’ pockets instead of the tackle box where it belonged. Normally, you’d shrug and try to remember to put it away later but it looked like the cap hadn’t been screwed back on correctly. Your frown deepened after you transferred your painting to one hand and realized that the cap was loose. Loose enough that it was a minor miracle that it hadn’t fallen off somewhere between the park and here . . . you hoped the paint hadn’t gotten dried out . . .

You heard the elevator dings its arrival as you pulled the paint out of your pocket. Trying to one-handedly shift the tube so its cap could be gripped between your fingers and twisted close, you didn’t look when you heard the elevator door slide open. You just moved forward. And immediately tripped over . . . something . . . you had no idea what.

You just knew that you were falling, that you had lost your grip on your painting as your hands instinctively rose to protect your head from the oncoming impact. An impact that never came. Someone caught you before you could hit the floor. Unfortunately the hand holding the paint had squeezed down, spraying paint on yourself and the chest of your rescuer.

It was like a train wreck. You didn’t want to look but you also couldn’t tear your eyes away from it. You stared in horror at the giant splash in the middle, the magenta color of the paint shockingly bright against the light gray suit, white dress shirt, and blue tie . . . Your eyes darted to the array of smaller droplets that radiated outward like shrapnel . . . you raised your eyes with the growing dread. Because you recognized that suit and tie, that broad chest . . .

Sure enough, when you looked up, you were greeted with the very surprised face of Matt Murdock. You felt your heart sink. Of course it was Matt. It couldn’t have been someone else. Anyone else. Preferably a random stranger that you would never see again. But no . . . it had to be your neighbor. It had to the man you had developed an enormous crush on.

Your face felt like it was on fire. You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you. You wanted to cry. Matt returning your feelings had always been a long shot . . . but now? There was no chance. You had turned out of his nice suits into a terrible Jackson Pollock . . . you were going to be lucky if he ever talked to you again . . .

You don’t know when you started apologizing. One minute, you were frozen in humiliated shock, the next increasingly frantic words started spilling out of your mouth. What words you couldn’t say. You couldn’t hear anything past your heart pounding in your ears . . .

A hand cupping your cheek was so startling that it immediately pierced the panic clouding your mind. Big, warm hand . . . you blinked and realized that someone was speaking to you. A familiar deep, soft-spoken voice . . .

“. . . shh, shh, sweetheart, it’s okay . . .”

Sweetheart?! You could hardly believe your own ears. But that was definitely Matt’s voice, his face that you were looking at, and those oh-so-kissable lips were moving . . .

This wasn’t the first time that Matt had called you sweetheart. He had been doing that since the first time you meet. If literally running into someone counts as meeting them. You would like to say no but it wasn’t like your second encounter with your then new neighbor had gone much better. You weren’t always a klutz around him but your bouts of clumsiness did occurred around him with embarrassing regularity.

And provided he was nearby when it happened, Matt always caught you when you started falling . . . so finding yourself in his arms also happened on a regular basis.

This had some upsides. For one, it gave you an appreciation for how much muscle must be hiding under those suits of his. Because he never had any trouble catching you or helping you get back onto your own feet. There was something very hot about the way he could lift you up like you weighted nothing. For another, he is very warm. Which had been especially nice during the recent autumn and winter months. And he smelled good. Like plain soap, ink, paper, and something woodsy like sandalwood with fainter notes of leather, cooper, and something else familiar but that you couldn’t quite remember what it was or where you had smelled it.

On the downside, you were never in his arms for very long. Certainly not long enough to really enjoy being held by those strong arms. He’d catch you, make sure you were steady on your feet again, then his arms would slide away and he stepped back. Taking all of his warmth and good smells with him. Which was always a little disappointing even if you did appreciated that he didn’t assume that he had permission to hold you longer than was absolutely necessary. And that he didn’t use those moments as an excuse to get handsy. Which you knew some people would have.

Further on the downside, being in his arms for any length of time made it very hard to pretend that he didn’t get you all hot and bothered. That having his warm breath brush against your neck and ear when he said something like ‘Careful, sweetheart’ didn’t make the skin there prickle and the rest of you shudder. Or, last week, when your shirt had gotten ridden up, that feeling those callused fingers against your bare skin didn’t make you shiver. Or the absolute worst, when you had to act like you hadn’t just been touching yourself while fantasizing about him, that you hadn’t just been moaning his name, that being in his arms hadn’t renewed the heat between your legs . . .

Those moments, it was really difficult to stop yourself from doing something crazy. Like ask him if you can find out if those pouty lips are soft as they looked . . . or if how much of that beautiful ass you could fit in your hands . . .

You suppressed the urge to groan. Serena, your best friend in the world, was right. You needed to get laid. Because even at the most embarrassing moments of your life, when you were half-considering changing your name and moving somewhere far away, you still couldn’t keep your mind out of the gutter.

Your imagination was out of control. It kept trying to convince you of the wildest things. Like that there was something more to the way his fingers had rubbed that little sliver of bare skin last week than just some mild curiosity when his hands didn’t encounter the expected shirt material. Or those tightening grips on your waist was anything other than making sure he wasn’t about to drop you. Those moments when his voice went deeper and huskier weren’t due to attraction but Matt was obviously coming down with a cold or something.

You ignored the grumbling inner voice that pointed out, aside from when he had the misfortune to get stuck in the elevator with that guy from the third floor who smelled like he bathed in cheap cologne, you had yet to see Matt so much as sneeze. Or that none of those moments had overlapped with the times Matt had looked ill – tired and moving like his body ached.

You weren’t going to get your hopes up. Matt was way out of your league. So far out that you weren’t even playing the same sport. He was incredibly good-looking, easily one of the most handsome men you had ever meet. You were the textbook definition of Plain Jane. Not ugly but not beautiful either. He was confident, outgoing, and charming. You were anxious, shy, and awkward. He was a lawyer with a successful law firm. You were an artist whose work didn’t sell well enough to make a living off of it. Hence the waitress/barista job at the Daily Grind.

Maybe not the most sensible job choice for a shy klutz but there were only so many options for someone with an art degree. Plus you had been working there since college and Abby had displayed remarkable patience for your clumsiness (and the periodic broken dishes that went with it). Mostly because you were otherwise reliable. And while you would never enjoy making small talk with strangers, you could do with a smile. It helped the majority of the regulars were nice . . .

“Sweetheart?”

Any blood that managed to drain out of your cheeks immediately flooded back. You were really batting a thousand today. First you spray him with paint, then you babble incoherently at him, then you stand there like a moron ignoring him for god only knew how long. If Matt didn’t already think you were awkward and weird, he certainly did now.

“Sorry,” you said, not sure of what to say.

He smiled at you. That sweet one that seemed . . . .dare you say it? . . . fond? Which did nothing to diminish the flush in your face. Neither did the little circles his thumb was rubbing into your right cheek or the reassuring squeeze from the hand at your waist.

He’s just trying to keep me calm, you told yourself sternly. It didn’t mean anything. He just didn’t need you panicking again. Lawyers are busy people. He probably had things to do and didn’t want to waste anymore time on you.

“And to answer your earlier question, no, I’m not going to sue you.”

You had actually said that? Out loud? You closed your eyes and let out a low groan. Everytime you think this situation couldn’t get more embarrassing . . . that idea of moving some remote mountain which hopefully had no insanely hot lawyers living on it was sounding better and better. The only thing thing that would have been worse was if your word-vomit had decided to detail just how attractive you found him. Then, in addition to everything else today, you’d have to listen to him say ‘I’m flattered but . . .’ while your heart shattered into a million pieces . . .

“Sorry,” you repeated. Because what else you could you say to something like that?

“No need to apologize again, sweetheart,” he said as his hand slide off of your face before joining its fellow in helping you get back on your own feet. Then, as usual, his arms pulled away entirely and he took a small step back. As usual, you told yourself that you weren’t disappointed or felt colder. Both were a lie.

“It was an accident,” he continued. “You said you were sorry. No harm done.”

You couldn’t stop your eyes from flickering around his suit. The mess hadn’t miraculously disappeared. It was still here.

“No harm?” you repeated. “You’ve got magenta splattered all over your suit!”

“Which one is magenta?”

“What?”

“I don’t think I remember what magenta looks like,” Matt said, sounding thoughtful. “Can you describe it for me?”

“Er . . . pink?” you said, trying to think of how to describe it. “This particular shade is darker than bubblegum, more purplish-red? Like some plums just under the skin or a pomegranate?”

“Sounds pretty,” he said. “Foggy has been telling me that I need to wear more color.”

“I think he probably meant new clothes that are different colors, not paint splattered on your existing clothes,” you said slowly, unsure of what to make of this conversation. It was not turning out at all like you would have expected it to.

He grinned. “Most likely but he never actually said clothes. Just more color. He knows better than to leave the terms of a contract that vague.”

While you didn’t know Foggy Nelson very well, you had the feeling he would not be impressed. You had also seem him and Matt needling each other at Josie’s often enough to picture the irritated look he would level at his partner if he returned to work looking like this and tried to make that argument. The image was so absurd that you had to giggle.

“Not sure that is a winning argument, Mr. Murdock,” you said,

“Sure it is,” he said. “Any ambiguity in a contract favors the party that didn’t write it. Foggy wrote the contract without defining his terms. So I am free to interpret those terms as anyone might reasonably expect them to mean.”

Which only made you giggle even harder. He was being so silly. “It’s not very professional?”

“Regretfully, I have to agree,” he said, sounding almost like he genuinely disappointed about that. Provided you couldn’t see the cheeky grin on his face. “Will I need anything special to remove the paint?”

“No,” you said, silently thanking Past You for choosing to work with acrylics today instead of oils. The faded spots the turpentine would leave would be less noticeable than magenta but still probably not something he wanted. Also even the low-odor version didn’t smell good. You didn’t know if there was any truth to that whole ‘blind people’s other senses get stronger’ thing but real or not, Matt seemed to have a pretty sensitive nose. “Acrylics are water-based. As long as it is still wet, warm water and soap is enough.”

“See? No harm done,” he said, giving that flirty smile that always made your heart go pitter-patter. Even when you tried to tell yourself that it didn’t mean anything. Matt was a charming guy who flirted a little with everyone. You had seem him get a little flirty with Mrs. Gonzales, the third resident of the sixth floor. Who was, as she pointedly reminded him, old enough to be his grandmother and scolded him for shameless flattery. She had rolled her eyes a little when he retorted the truth wasn’t flattery but did seem pleased. Pleased enough to make him tamales. Which honestly made you a little jealous. The tamales you had bought from her during the holidays had been really good . . .

Serena thought Matt wasn’t flirting with you just to flirt. That he actually liked you. But she was your best friend. It was her job to believe that you were wonderful and agree that the hot guy you had a crush on was into you. And if it turned out that he wasn’t . . . well, then he was an idiot who wasn’t worth your time. You wanted to believe her . . . you wanted that to true so badly . . .

But you had seen the women Matt used to bring home. And the ones who flirted with him at Josie’s. Beautiful, self-assured women with successful careers. They were everything that you weren’t. Granted, you hadn’t seen one of his paramours leaving or arriving at the building for a while. And the only ones you had seen him leaving Josie’s with lately were his friends.

Or you. Which you refused to read anything into either. Matt just didn’t think you walking home alone at night was safe. And it wasn’t. The Kitchen might have Daredevil, its guardian in red leather, but he couldn’t be everywhere. Couldn’t save everyone through if the rumors were to be believed, it certainly seemed like he tried.

The point was that Matt would the same thing for anyone. Even someone who really didn’t need it. Like Jessica Jones. Through he claimed that was just to save himself or Foggy from needing to make another late-night trip to the police station because she had punched some creep into a wall. While he agreed that yes, they deserved it for treating someone like that but the police didn’t see that way, Jessica . . .

Regardless of his reason, you always ended up agreeing because you were too weak to say no to spending just a little more time with him. And it wasn’t like you were making him go out of his way since you both lived in the same building . . .

“As long as it’s still wet,” you repeated. “It’s harder to remove once its’ dry.”

“How does that take?”

“About half an hour.”

“Good thing I’m so close to home then.” Then he seemed to hesitate. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Absolutely,” you said, cringing a little at how eager you sounded. But you had gotten paint all over him. A favor was the least you could do.

“Can you help me get this cleaned up?” he said, gesturing toward the paint. He gave you a self-deprecating smile. “Otherwise I might miss a spot.”

“I can do that,” you said. You had been intending to offer help anyway. You had made the mess. You should help clean it up.

He frowned suddenly, his head tilting to one side. “Are you sure? I’m not keeping you from anything?”

“No,” you said. “I don’t need to be at work until three and it’s . . .”

You tried to check the time on your watch but it had a smear of paint across the face. Unfortunately the hands were hidden by said smear of paint. “Probably not three.”

Matt’s lips twitched. “Problem with your watch?”

“Paint is hiding the hands.”

He gave an amused grin as he ran his fingers around the edge of his watch. “The downside of wearing non-tactile watches. It’s a quarter til one.”

“Plenty of time,” you said. And even if it wasn’t . . . Abby was a reasonable person. She would completely understand not leaving any neighbor, let alone your blind neighbor, to clean this up.

He smiled before reaching down to pick up his fallen cane. You felt your face get warm again. Both because you just realized what you had gotten tripped over (which made you feel like a jerk) and because that action had pulled those trousers taut over his ass (which made you feel . . . other things). But you couldn’t stop yourself from looking. Not when you had a front row seat to one of the best asses in America. Possibly the world.

Matt couldn’t possibly know that you were checking out his ass but that smug little smirk that he flashed in your direction made you feel like he did. You averted your eyes and tried to find a distraction. Before thinking about his ass (or other body parts) got you worked up. More worked up. Which not only would be awkward but make you nervous and prone to say something embarrassing.

Then you remembered your painting. You had dropped it earlier. Where was . . . you let out a distressed groan as you picked it up. The good news was that your painting hadn’t landed paint-side down. Which had saved the mostly dried paint from smearing or chipping. The bad news that hadn’t escaped The Magenta. It didn’t get hit as nearly badly as Matt but there was still a giant splat right in the middle of the lake . . .

“What’s wrong?”

“There is a giant glob of magenta in the middle of the lake,” you said.

“The lake?”

“In my painting,” you said. “I was doing one of the Bow Bridge in Central Park.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Maybe,” you said, looking at the mess and trying to think of how to incorporate the random splatters into the image. You could remove some of it without taking off the underlying layers but not all of it. That would have to be incorporated somehow . . . Maybe a boat? Or a float . . . some of the smaller ones could be turned into leaves if you switched the setting to autumn just as the leaves were turning . . . or a flowering tree with pink blossoms . . .

“We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents,” you reminded your inner perfectionist.

“That sounds familiar.”

“It’s something Bob Ross said a lot,” you said. “He was–”

“That guy on PBS who painted the landscapes?” Matt said. “Soft-spoken, sometimes had a squirrel in his pocket and talked about happy trees?”

“That’s the one,” you said. “The Joy of Painting. I watched it religiously as a kid. How about you?”

An odd little smile spread across Matt’s face. “Not often enough to qualify as religious but you could call us regular watchers. My dad wasn’t much of an art guy but he found the show relaxing . . . and it was quiet. I could turn it on in the morning without waking him up after he had worked late.”

He sounded nostalgic, like these were fond memories but also deeply sad. Then you remembered that Matt’s father was dead. Killed when he was a little boy. Which you only knew about because you had once given into temptation and googled Matt Murdock. Most of the search results had been about his law firm and the Castle trial but further down the page, articles about the accident that blinded him and his father’s death had also appeared. But by then, you had felt guilty enough about snooping into his life that you hadn’t read any those of articles beyond their headlines.

“Did you ever try to follow along?” you asked softly.

“A few times with the watercolors from my school supplies,” he said. “I was terrible at it but my dad hung up every picture on the fridge like it was the Mona Lisa.”

“Mine did that too,” you said. “My mom might still have a few of them tucked away with the baby pictures, waiting to embarrass me with them.”

He chuckled. “Did you ever fall asleep watching the show?”

You laughed. “Yes. Usually after I had stayed up too late reading.”

“Same,” he said, then gestured to the control panel. “Shall we go up?”

“Yes, we shall,” you said, a little amazed at how well this was going, despite the mishap. And that the elevator had remained here at the ground floor for this long. Probably it was the middle of the day and therefore most of the other tenants were either at work or school right now. As the elevator rose, you tried to think of something to talk about. You didn’t mind quiet but your earlier anxiety about his reaction had been replaced by your more usual nerves at being around the man you had spent almost half a year pining over.

Nervous You tended to be a chatterbox with chronic foot-in-mouth disease. Nervous You might blurt out that you liked him. Might detail how you wanted to go on dates, snuggle on the couch, hold hands while you took long walks, call each other by cliché nicknames like honey or dear. Basically be one of those disgustingly adorable couples . . . And behind closed doors, mind-blowing sex. The kind of sex that would leave you walking funny with a big smile on your face . . .

That thought alone made your cheeks warm. Among other places. Maybe work? Work should be a safe enough topic. Nothing naughty about work . . .

“What brings you home this early?” you asked, injecting as much cheer as possible in your voice to disguise your nerves. “Does no one need lawyering today?”

He chuckled. “No, we still have plenty of people who needed lawyering. I just forget my phone this morning and this was the first chance I’ve had to retrieve it.”

You hummed in acknowledgment as the elevator dinged your arrival to the sixth floor. The doors slide open and you walked out. Or rather you tried. But apparently you just had no luck with elevators today because you managed to slip on nothing. For the second time today, you started to fall. Only backwards this time.

And despite what happened the last time, Matt still caught you.

“Sorry,” you said, feeling the earlier flush to your cheeks deepen.

“No need to apologize, sweetheart,” he said. “I like having a beautiful girl in my arms.”

Which only made the warmth in your face start to spread down your neck. Even if he didn’t meant it, it was nice to be told that you were beautiful. You couldn’t help liking it. You did your best to ignore the nasty voice in your head – the one that sounded a lot like those awful girls in high school who had bullied you – saying how would Matt even know that you were beautiful or not . . . he was blind . . .

Your more optimistic side – which sounded like Serena – pointed out that for obvious reasons, that Matt was unlikely to find someone attractive based solely on their appearance . . . so maybe he really did find you beautiful . . .

You blamed those pernicious thoughts for making you feel like there was hint of hesitation, of reluctance, in Matt’s hands as they slide back off of your waist once you were standing upright again. But not matter how many times you told yourself that it was just your overactive imagination . . . part of you couldn’t help but hope.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Matt said as you followed him into his apartment. While he disappeared down a hallway, you propped your unfinished painting against a wall before slipping your tote off your shoulder with a sigh of relief. It wasn’t very heavy but those almost falls had jerked it and its contains around, making the straps dig into your shoulder. After sitting down the tote, you prodded the area. It was a little sore but it lacked the tenderness you associated with oncoming bruises.

You walked toward the kitchen and looked around, curious. In some respects, his apartment was a lot like yours. Both displayed the buildings’ previous life as factory in the exposed brick, scuffed hardwood floors, and visible HVAC and pipes. Both had large windows that let in a lot of natural light if even the old glass was a little wavy or different colored. Both had galley-style kitchens and generally open floor plan. Both of you seemed to have opted for a mismatched collection of secondhand furniture in either earth tones or neutral colors. But that was where the similarities ended.

The first and most noticeable difference was size. His was a lot bigger than yours. Which honestly you had expected, knowing very well that your side of the sixth floor had been turned into two units whereas his was left as one. Yours didn’t have access to the roof but in all honesty, you were fine with that. You weren’t afraid of high places in and of themselves but you were afraid of falling from high places. The outside of your windows wasn’t dominated by The Billboard. Which even during the day looked rather bright.

Matt’s apartment struck you as unfinished, like there was something missing but it took you a moment to figure out what. There was nothing decorative. The walls were bare and furniture were bare. It was sharp contrast to your place where the walls had been turned into a gallery for your unsold paintings and the furniture was festooned with the efforts of Serena’s knitting or your embroidery. You wondered if this was due to preference (Matt was simply a minimalist who considered decorative items to be annoying clutter) or to circumstance (Matt hadn’t found anything that he liked yet).

Another difference was the level of tidiness. You weren’t outright messy. You cleaned up after yourself. But there was always a certain amount of controlled chaos. For example, you were just as likely to find your pincushion and scissors on the kitchen table as in the sewing bag where they belonged. Or how your books often ended up stacked on the floor by your reading chair instead of being put back on the bookshelf.

Matt’s place, by contrast, looked very well organized. Everything obviously had a place and was always returned to its spot when not in use. Which made sense when you thought about it. No one wanted to go on a scavenger hunt every time they needed something. And given how busy Matt was, he also didn’t have time to be doing that.

Plus there were things that no one would want to get mixed up. Like grabbing the shampoo bottle when you wanted the mouthwash. Yes, there were other things that would clue him in before he inadvertently washed out his own mouth with soap. But, as your grandmother liked to say, an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure.

“Will any soap work?”

You jumped at a little at Matt’s voice. He sounded close. Much closer than you would have thought he could get to you without you noticing. Especially on these old hardwood floors which had so many places that creaked or groaned when stepped on.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s . . .” you started as you turned toward the sound of his voice. And promptly felt your intended words get tangled up in your throat. Your heart began to race as blood rushed back to your cheeks at the sight before you.

Your eyes greedily took in his broad shoulders, then down arms so thick that you doubted that you would be able to fully wrap your hand around it. Back up and across to the well-defined pectorals, then down through to sculpted abdominals until they disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. All covered in a skin that looked like it was as soft as satin.

You swallowed hard. You had known for a while that Matt had some muscle. He had saved you from your own clumsiness too often for you not to know that. But this . . . you had no idea he was hiding all this under those fancy suits of his . . . It was like someone had brought the statue of a Greek god or Michelangelo’s David to life . . . and then someone had apparently convinced him to put on pants. Whoever that idiot was should be fired . . . because if the rest of him looked this good . . .

“Sweetheart?”

Once again, you jumped at his voice. You raised your eyes up to his face. Your breath caught for the second time. Because Matt wasn’t wearing his dark glasses. You had never seen him without those glasses. Predictably, his eyes were just as pretty as the rest of him. Big, brown eyes sparkling with amusement and confidence. It matched that cocky little smirk he was sporting. The same one he had given you earlier. Only this time, you were positive that he knew that you were staring.

But it was so hard not to . . . he was so beautiful . . . it filled with you competing urges. The artist longed for your drawing pencils and a couple of hours to sketch. You weren’t sure you had the talent to fully capture his beauty but you would love to try. The woman, however, wanted him to fuck you. For him be inside you. Cock, fingers, tongue . . . your cunt didn’t care which. Any or all of them would do.

Watching that pink tongue dart out from between those oh-so-kissable lips before disappearing back inside his mouth did nothing to quell your arousal. Nor did the almost hungry look in his eyes. All it did was make you think about all things a man could do with his tongue if he was so inclined . . .

You dug your hands into your jeans to keep them to yourself. Silently you reminded yourself why you had to control the later impulse. First – Matt wasn’t your boyfriend. He was your neighbor and maybe a friend. Second – even if you were his lover and consented to having sex, neither of you had time today. He needed to go back to his office and you had to be the cafe at three. Abby would understand you being late because you were helping Matt clean up The Magenta. She would be far less sympathetic toward hanky-panky induced tardiness. So as much as you would like him to bend you over his kitchen table, you had to ignore that particular desire.

As for the artistic urge . . . since he didn’t seem to hate you for The Magenta, maybe he would agree to model for you? And you were friends of a sort. Friends could ask friends to model for them, right?

“L-liquid soap,” you said, doing your best to sound normal instead of incredibly turned on. “I-I found it easier to work with when cleaning up paint.”

Matt didn’t look like he was convinced by your non-existent acting skills. But he went along with the change of subject. Then gave you another heart attack by revealing that his shirt and tie were silk while his jacket was wool with a silk lining. You had no idea how to clean paint off of those without damaging them . . . isn’t stuff like that dry clean only?

The answer was yes and no. The shirt was made of a type of washable silk that he could launder at home – on the gentle cycle with mild soap. The suit and the tie, however, were both dry clean only. But Matt knew how to prevent stains from getting set in his fancy clothes and you knew how to handle paint. Between the two of you, you worked a plan that should get the paint off while preventing damage to his clothes.

Using an old gift card that you used as a painting tool as a scrapper, you removed the bulk of the paint from the tie and jacket while Matt used his bottle of liquid dish-soap and water to wash his shirt in the sink. Then, you dampened a white washcloth with lukewarm water, added a tiny amount of the soap, before dabbing the affected areas. Before dabbing again with a separate cloth that was just dampened with water, then carefully blotting with another washcloth that was completely dry.

You tried to keep your mind on the task in front of you but kept getting distracted. By his . . . everything. You wanted to trace every muscle with your fingers. Or your tongue. Either would be enjoyable. Or both. Both was good . . . the only thing that wasn’t making you press your thighs together in an effort to relieve the ache in your cunt were the scars.

Not because you thought his scars were ugly. The scars were like kintsugi. The healed but visible damage made the person more beautiful, not less. But because the scars worried you. It looked like someone had tried very hard to kill Matt.

You hadn’t realized that being a lawyer was so dangerous . . . but then, Nelson & Murdock had gone up against some powerful people. People like Fisk. Had Fisk or someone like him sent someone after Matt? You glanced at his hands. He had the same calluses on his knuckles as your ex who was a boxer. Did Matt know how to box? Was that how he had survived the obvious attempt on his life?

You were curious but realized that some of the answers you wanted might require a lengthy conversation. Which you didn’t have time for. Assuming Matt was even willing to answer those questions. He might not be. Which was fine. Trauma was rather personal and you didn’t really know each other.

You returned to your task. Despite your frequent distraction, soon the clothes were cleaned to the best of your ability. All three items were hung on hangers to dry in the case of the shirt or await a trip to the dry cleaners for the other two. Something that you offered to pay for.

“No need for you to do that, sweetheart. It’s about time for that suit to go to the cleaners anyway.”

“But it’s my mess,” you protested.

You didn’t win the argument. But it wasn’t a fair fight. First, he was a lawyer. He argued with people for a living. You painted or served food and drinks. Second, he still hadn’t put on a shirt. It was very distracting. And he knew it. His opposition in court was so lucky that he had to keep all his clothes on in the courtroom. Otherwise, they’d might never win.

“Stupid, sexy Murdock,” you muttered quietly under your breath as you washed your brushes and palette. Not quietly enough because he laughed.

“I’m sexy?” Matt asked. Warmth flooded your face. Judging by that cocky smirk, he knew the answer to that question. Yes, absolutely yes. But you were absolutely not going to say that.

“I plead the Fifth,” you said. Which only made him laugh harder.

He opened his mouth, probably to tease you some more, when his phone started ringing out, “Foggy, Foggy, Foggy.”

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he said.

“Go ahead,” you said quickly.

He flashed you a smile before answering his phone with a “What’s up, Fogs?”

You put away your things while Matt talked to his partner. From the sound of it, he was explaining why retrieving his phone was taking so long. A check on your watch – now cleaned of paint – warned you that you really needed to leave now if you wanted to be ready for work on time. You swung your tote up onto your shoulder.

Then found yourself in a quandary. It was rude to interrupt someone while they were on the phone but it was also rude to leave without saying good-bye. But it wasn’t like you could go just wave good-bye.

“Matt?” you called out.

“Hang on Foggy,” he said, pulling the phone away from his ear. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“I’ve got to go,” you said. “I’ll see you later?”

“You’ll have to. I can’t.”

For a moment, that answer confused you. But only for a moment. Blind joke. Not the first one he had made around you. It wouldn’t be the last. He seemed rather fond of them. Well, it was his disability. It certainly wasn’t your place to tell him that he couldn’t make jokes about it if he wanted to.

Besides sometimes the looks on people’s faces when he made them were very funny.

“Left myself wide open for that one, didn’t I?” you said.

“Yep,” he said. He looked very pleased with himself. “But yes, I’ll see you later.”

That made you smile. “Bye, Matt.”

“Bye, sweetheart,” he said before returning to his phone call. You closed the door to his apartment as quietly as you could, then made you way across the hall toward your own apartment. Time get for work.

Step one – a cold shower.

Notes

There are portable easels that are designed to be collapsed down and easily carried. I have one. Some of them come with an attached box that is meant to carry paint, brushes, and whatever else you need but that type is more expensive (about 70 dollars on the cheaper end) than one that is just the easel (which is about 20). Reader has a limited art budget and those fifty bucks she didn’t spent on an easel can buy a lot of paint and canvas.

I’ve found that tackle boxes and tool boxes make great carrying cases for arts and crafts supplies. The divided trays are very useful if the creative thing you are doing involves a lot of little pieces or tools like beading or jewelry making.

Reader took the subway for part of her journey because, according to what I could find, getting from Hell’s Kitchen to Central Park via subway takes about 14 minutes while walking that same distance would take about 40 minutes. So the subway it was.

Magenta is, generally speaking, purplish red color. The shades vary between more pink, more red, or more purple. Even paint doesn’t always agree. I have one set on acrylic paints that labels a color as ‘light magenta’ while a different set calls the same color ‘magenta’ and third just says ‘pink.’

Jackson Pollock (1912 – 1956) was an American artist who was part of the abstract expressionist movement. He is best known for his ‘drip’ technique where he would pour or splash liquid house-paint with frenetic movement onto the canvas which was laying flat on the floor. In some ways, his work reminds me of acrylic pouring which looks very cool but also very messy.

I mean no disrespect to those with an art degree. I started off majoring in fine arts and part of me wishes that I had stuck with it despite the challenges. One of my professors recommended getting your masters if you were going to major in art simply because then you could get teaching jobs in many places.

That contract thing is true but I’m not a lawyer and have never taken Contracts 101. Always get your legal advice from actual lawyers.

Turpentine is used to clean paint brushes and other tools when using oil paint. A low odor version is highly recommended but remember to only use it in a well-ventilated place as the fumes are toxic. It is also very flammable. You can use it to get oil paint off of your skin but it is very drying and probably isn’t be safe to use on places like your face. The skin there easily absorbs things (which is the primary reason that make-up has go through FDA approval).

For the record, blind people don’t have better senses than everyone else. They just pay more attention to the information from their other senses provide, things that us sighted people tend to ignore. And arguably have more practice identifying different sounds, smells, etc than someone who largely ignores that input.

While I cannot say that this happens in NYC, as I have never lived there, where I grew up (American southwest) and where I live now (Florida), the grandmas and aunties in the Latin community make and sell tamales during the winter holiday season. Maybe for some extra spending money for said holidays. In my experience, they are always excellent. I almost don’t consider it Christmas without some tamales.

The reason Reader feels like a jerk for tripping over Matt’s cane is that messing with someone’s mobility aid and/or not giving them enough space to use it is a dick move.

The Bow Bridge is a bridge in Central Park. You have probably seen it before since it is pretty popular for movies and television. Probably because it looks perfect for your sappy romantic moments, dramatic love confession, meet-cutes, etc. It also helps that it looks just as nice surrounded by leafy trees as it does covered in snow.

Bob Ross (1942 – 1995) was an American painter who was the host of an instructional art show called The Joy of Painting, which aired from 1983 until 1994, on PBS (public broadcasting station) in the US but also in similar public stations around the world. You can find the episodes on YouTube.

According to the internet, you can spot clean wool, silk, and other such fabrics like how Reader does without damaging the fabric. But it was the internet so take that with a generous portion of salt.

Yes, I do use an old gift card when I paint. To make smallish straight lines, very handy for fences and rain effects. I cannot speak for every artist but my painting tools aren’t limited to brushes and painting knives.

Kintsugi (“golden joinery”) is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer that has been dusted or mixed with gold, silver, or platinum. The point is not to hide the damage but highlight it, to treat the breakage and repair as simply part of the object’s history. And that having such a history makes it more valuable, not less.

#fan fic #daredevil #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem! reader #matt murdock x you #happy little accident series

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simpingladyforyourmom · 1 year

Text

reward

:black reader so again don't get the shit twisted

---------------------------------------------------- you and ony are in the car driving to mcdonalds cause you wouldn't shut your mouth about how bad you wanted it, I mean this is you reward for letting him fuck the brain cells' out of you let's recap shall we ----------------------------------------------- As the headboard hits the wall repeatedly ony is hitting your g-spot repeatedly as well He starts kissing down your neck leaving marks here and there while his hand rubs circles around your clit He pulls out of you and flips you over to where your ass is facing him. You feel him enter you once more this time the new angle makes it so he can go even deeper Your moans fill the room and probably the whole house, "F-fuck ony, don't stop!" His grunts get louder and his thrusts become sloppy meaning he's close to his release. He hits that spot inside of you making you release a scream that's sure to make your voice horse. You reach your high as well as him, his seed paints the inside of you white. You two collapse on the bed breathing heavily, your eyes feel heavy and before you know it your drifting off to sleep until ony wakes you back up and flips you on your back and spreads your legs wide open and begins to lick your sensitive slit and then dives his tongue inside of you, swirling it around you grip his hair and wrap your legs around his head, "O-ony oh my god!" After what seems like hours ony has stopped eating you out and gets up from the bed. He grabs you by your arms and throws you on his shoulders and walks you into the bathroom and puts you down, he starts up the shower and when the water is at a good temperature he pulls you into the shower with him. "Turn around" "What?" "I said turn the fuck around" He's never spoken to you like that before but it turns you on for some reason He pulls you close to him and reaches his hand around to play with your clit as he starts sucking on your neck You reach your hand behind his head to run your hands through his hair He then slides his finger inside of you, "Oh shit" He slides his finger in and out of you while he plays with your clit He removes his fingers from you and grabs his dick and slowly slides it inside of you, a gasp escapes your mouth "Ride me" you start to move up and down slowly but then ony slaps your ass, "Go faster" "Mmm okay" He pulls your head back and starts kissing you again and you start bouncing on him faster, his hips meet yours and it's almost too much for you "Fuck ony I'm gonna cum" "Me too" "Can I cum inside of you?" "Yes!" "Where do you want it?" "Ony stop playing with me!" He starts hitting that spot again and soon after he reaches his high and you release not too long after. He slides out of you and your legs almost give out, ony holds you steady, "You okay?" "Y-yeah" "Let's get cleaned up and get something to eat"

#aot smut #onyankopon smut #aot x black reader #onyankopon x black y/n #ony x black reader #onyankopon x reader #fypシ

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sweetsweetjellybean · 10 months

Note

dear god please finish torn i am frothing at the mouth

I'm sorry my fingers are starting to smoke with their click clacking. I'm trying to get it out to you by tomorrow. Please accept this sneak peek as an offering. <slides it under the door and back away>

Hitching the strap of your messenger bag higher on your shoulder, you kick at a loose stone on the sidewalk in front of the brick building. Car horns blare in the distance as traffic rolls by in the busy neighborhood. The sun casts a glint off the steel CursedSound sign, its metal already weathering with a faint tinge of color. The heavy door is yanked open, its clank and whine making you jump even though the sound is expected.

"Hi," Eddie greets you from the other side of the threshold, the softness of his tone mirroring the gentleness in his eyes.

"Hi," you return, shyness adding a tremble to your voice that shouldn’t be there. His fingers grip the edge of the door, and light flashes off the Rolex peeking out from under the cuff of the plaid flannel he wears over a fitted v-neck and jeans, the fabric snug against his defined shoulders. It’s still a novelty to see how his slim build has filled in over the years, still expecting the boy you knew instead of this man in front of you. He looks you over the same way he did last time like he’s trying to decide if you’re really there. Maybe it’s the differences he sees in you, too, or does he look beyond the scars to the lonely girl he once knew? You shift your gaze away, down the street, your toes curling inside your Converse as a flush of warmth climbs up your neck. "Are you going to let me in?"

"I don't know." He pretends to ponder, a smile forming, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Where's your hard hat?"

Tilting your head to the side, you purse your lips until he breaks into a chuckle. He swings the door open wider to welcome you inside. You pass him with a shake of your head and continue down the dimly lit hall, now familiar with the layout.

The lobby is in utter chaos.

"Sorry for the mess. The maid took the week off," he quips as he watches you take in the sight before you.

The brown paper has been removed from the windows, allowing bright light to stream through the streaked and dirty glass. All the furniture has been pushed toward the center of the room, and ladders and paint cans litter the floor space. A large mural wrapping around the windows and front entrance has been outlined but not completed. In the same graffiti style as the one upstairs, this one displays more cityscapes with waves of the lake breaking at the forefront. Winged skulls and guitars blend with colorful swirls of clouds rising toward the ceiling. The colors brighten the deep tones of the space, capturing the essence of the city and the spirit of CursedSound.

"It’s perfect," you tell him as your eyes follow the sweeping, colorful lines around the room.

"Was that a compliment?" He asks, coming up behind you. "I thought it was a dump."

His breath, a warm whisper against your ear, spins you around. "Well, what can I say? It’s growing on me." Your fingers move to your lips, concealing your smile as his deepens.

"You look really good." His low voice bounces off the empty walls, "I mean…your, uh, outfit is nice." He waves his hand toward you before wiping it on the front of his jeans.

Your brows raise as you glance down at the jeans and plain tee with Lollapalooza written across the front. None of the trendy fashions you usually wore to interviews seemed to fit right today. Causing you to tug at necklines and fidget with the hems of three different outfits before settling on something casual. There’s nothing to hide behind – the armor is off. It’s time to hear him out.

"Wow, that was smooth," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don’t know why I’m feeling nervous."

The fluttering in your stomach matches his energy. The shield of anger you’ve held between you is battered and worn thin, leaving uncertainty behind.

"It’s because I’m going to get you to spill all your secrets and print them so the whole world can sit in judgment."

A choked sound comes from his throat as his eyes widen into saucers.

Unable to keep a straight face, you giggle. "Relax, Eddie. I already told you I’m not writing some hit piece. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Besides," you shrug, "It’s only me."

A sharp breath escapes as his shoulders lower. "Yeah, you’re right," he takes a step forward, his gaze locking with yours, "After all these years, it's you.

#steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #eddie munson smut #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfic #jelly's asks #torn #torn series

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trashmouth-richie · 2 years

Text

TWIN FLAMES: 14

twin flames masterlist

WARNING: mentions of homelessness, rough times etc

W.C 3.5k

A/N: guess who’s back…. Back again. Sorry this took so long!!! 🫣

Oh my god. What happened to him? Why is he living on the streets?! Tears prick at your eyes as you frantically run to him, discarding the bags in your arms. “Eddie! Eddie! Are you okay?” You remove the vest from his head and move aside his blonde matted hair.

A mixture of suntanned, leathery burnt skin stares at you, “Hey this mine! Git yer own!” The appearance shocks you, it wasn’t him. This poor man was not your Eddie.

Your heart breaks for a second time. The temporary tape on your heart mending it together in hopes that this poor man was in fact Eddie, is now peeling back faster than a greedy child opening a Christmas present. You were upset but needed answers. The vest meant that Eddie was here at some point in time and either lost it or donated it, but you could hardly think that he would give it away.

“Wh-where did you get the vest! It’s my friends—where did you find it?!” you ask angrily, your mother trying to drag you back from him by your upper arms.

“Found it, fair ‘n square! Out by the motel off’d the innerstate. Jus layin’ there.”

“Thank you sir,” your mother says, cautiously handing him a $20 bill.

She guides you away, holding you and the bags as you cry into her shoulder. What happened to him? Was he hurt? Injured? Lying in a hospital somewhere? Dead? Where the fuck is he?

The ride home is quick considering your hysterical crying ended up with you involuntarily falling asleep against the window, waking to find that your mom was just pulling into the driveway. The ache behind your eyes is too much, pressing into your head like coiled springs in a mattress—ready to spring free from the weight of your tears and anguish. Throwing yourself out of the car you gather the shopping bags and head inside, your mother quick on your heels.

“Honey, are you— are you alright?” She asks, eyebrows knitted with worry shoulders sagging in defeat.

You shake your head back and forth slowly, letting the weight of today consume you again as a sob racks your entire body. “I just need to lay down,” you blubber through an overflow of tears. She nods and takes the bags out of your hands, guiding you through the front door and watching you rush up the stairs to your room. Flopping onto you bed, your mind spirals out of control.

Why? Why did he leave? Why did he run to Indianapolis? Is he okay?

A thousand questions split your head, scattering around it like lightning breaking against a blackened sky. Your heart aches for him, it feels like it’s in a blender, swirling around, breaking down its soft edges, making it a bloody valve smoothie. The love you had for him was deeper than anything you’ve ever felt, it wasn’t a first kind of love all pristine and painted with daisies. This love was deeper than that. The fact that he was gone now and you not only didn’t know where he was but he possibly wasn’t safe. The thought of Eddie dead, lying somewhere on a cold street alone, body twisted and broken made you want to puke. No thinking now. You run to the connected bathroom and puke again and again until there is nothing left. Tears cloud your vision as the memories of just weeks ago in this very bathroom invade your head.

[Lighting a few candles and moving your essentials from the shower over to the edge of the tub, you turn out the lights. You remove your panties and Eddie his socks, the only clothing he had remaining. Eddie climbs in and you climb in after him, wedging yourself between his long skinny legs, leaning back against him.

This is paradise. The soft flicker of the candles casting dancing shadows against the walls in the bathroom. Eddie is humming along to music only he can hear. He lifts your left arm up and strums a guitar on your stomach moving his left fingers frantically across your arm for the frets. He sings in your ear. ]

A smile breaks across your lips at how simple things were in that moment, how desperately in love with you he was. His simple touches, feeling of his hands in your hair. The memory now feeling like a drunken night, remembering patches of the truth, a black out of if this really happened or not. He was everywhere, all around you. There wasn’t a single place in your home that a ghost of him didn’t surround. You needed him, didn’t he need you? Didn’t he love you anymore? Didn’t he care about all the times you had in the short amount of time you two had known, loved, and cared for one another. The passion behind your love, the twin flames energy bringing you both together, fighting to stay together, for you love to last. Was that all for nothing? Steve going to rehab, Mike Wheeler shooting Billy?! All of that was for him to just up and leave? Cast you aside like a used condom? Wash away all of his feelings for you in the rain that night as he screamed and was tortured by his own demons, projecting them onto you? No. You needed answers and you needed them now.

You wipe your mouth and stand up, looking at yourself in the mirror, you had seen better days. The hallows of your cheeks were deepened, the sparkle in your eye hadn’t been seen in months. You turn the sink on and splash some water onto your face. You grab your purse and immediately head down the stairs, pushing yourself faster to get your shoes on, get into your own car and drive to Hawkins, hoping to catch Wayne before he goes to work.

“…I mean it’s a lead right?” you flew to Hawkins in record time, catching Wayne right before he was getting ready to leave for work, explaining everything you had seen and what the homeless man told you.

Wayne rubs his scruffy beard, pacing around the small kitchen, “yeah it is, I’d put money on it. Goddamn boy, what the hell is he doing in Indianapolis?!”

“I’m going back, I’m gonna find him, Wayne and bring him home.”

“Darlin’ you can’t go alone.” Wayne protests, “I swear if anything happened to you, your daddy’d kill me, and I’d never forgive myself. Let me make a few calls and we will go together.” He leans forward quickly standing on his feet and making his way to the old phone hanging from the wall.

Wayne calls his work and tells them he won’t be in. You had both agreed to take your car since there was more room. “I’m gonna fill your car up quick, call your folks and let ‘em know what’s going on, I don’t want them thinking that you ran off too, they don’t want to know what that feels like.” He blinks back tears and grabs one of many caps hung by the door.

After calling your parents and explaining to them that you were going with Wayne to look for Eddie, your father had agreed to call anyone he knew in Indianapolis to keep an eye out for him. You decided to call Gareth, the only other person who might know Eddie better than you or Wayne. All of you together knowing Eddie on different levels.

Gareth had agreed to go with, almost giddy at the opportunity. He rushed down to the Forest Hills Trailer Park on his bike, the wind whipping between the tufts of the moppy honeyed curls on his head.

“Did you see anything else?” Gareth pipes up from the passenger seat. You were crammed in three across the single cab of Wayne’s pick up chugging along to Indianapolis.

“Just the vest, and the motel the guy mentioned.”

“God what the hell man?” Gareth snips, “Sorry, Mr. Munson.” Gareth checked, an awkward look upon his face.

Wayne shoots a glance over at Gareth, shrugs and says, “have you met Eddie? He isn’t exactly Mr. Proper.”

Gareth laughs, “I mean I get you guys broke up or whatever but he didn’t just leave you, he left all of us. Corroded Coffin, Hellfire Club— like none of it mattered to him, I’m gonna kick his ass when we find him.”

“Might have to beat Wayne to get to him first.” you smile softly as you look straight ahead, a smirk jumps across Wayne’s face.

You were so wrapped up in the way that you were hurt by Eddie that you hadn’t even given it a thought on how anyone else but you and Wayne were hurting from his disappearance. He abandoned everyone who loved him in Hawkins, anyone who had ever cared for him. It was sad, and you weren’t the only one who was clearly upset about it.

The drive wasn’t long, your car adding to the soft hums of some oldies radio station Wayne had insisted on listening too. The closer and closer you got to Indianapolis, the more worried you became, “Off the interstate?” Wayne asked, rubbing his scruffy beard.

You nod your head yes and intake a big breath. “What if—what if I’m wrong Wayne?” Tears threatening to spill over your lashes, as you wring the denim of your shorts. Gareth looks out the window, shuffling uncomfortably.

Deep in thought, Wayne tapped his fingers along the steering wheel. “We’ll just keep looking if that’s the case.” He smiles unconvincingly and turns his eyes back to the road.

The last thing you wanted to do was give Wayne false hope. He was hurting more than you were, impossible as that seems. The thought of burrowing a senseless hope for finding Eddie in Wayne made you physically sick.

The outline of the shady motel peered into view as Wayne craned the wheel into the parking lot, throwing the car in park and looking around at the office. “Well, this must be it,” Wayne says, peering out of the window. Neon lights of the motel were flickering. The parking lot was desolate, Eddie’s van nowhere in sight. Your stomach drops. “Let’s uh—let’s go find out what we can.”

Heavy footsteps move you all closer to the office following Wayne as Gareth trails behind you. The hotel was nearly run down, yellowing wallpaper sagging from the office walls, a fat lazy orange cat lays on the stained desk. Dying plants hung from the ceiling, decaying leaves scattered on the floor beneath them. A short brittle old woman with oversized glasses and a two pack habit thumbed through the yellow pages. Cigarette with a mile long ash hanging on for dear life. “Excuse me, ma’am?” Wayne asks with a stern voice, “have you seen a guy in here, about 20, longer brown hair, probably had a guitar?” He asks, “drives a two-toned van?”

The older woman thinks for a while, picking tuna from her teeth, “Room 38,” she said tossing Gareth a key, “and if you see him, you let him know that he owes for this passed week, and I’ll sell whatever he has in there if he doesn’t come back and clean up that mess!”

“Wait, what do you mean if we see him?” Gareth asks, “isn’t he here?”

“No idea, haven’t seen anyone go into or out of that room for about three days now.” She scowls, petting the cat as she feeds it the rest of a sad looking tuna sandwich.

“Thank you ma’am,” Wayne says politely, a slump to his broad shoulders as he heads out the door, hanging his head as he walks. The feeling of dread radiates through your body and pulls on your heart as you move toward Room 38. The broken slabs of sidewalk leading from the office to the door of room 38 are anything but comforting, the ‘3’ hanging on the door is held up by the bottom nail through the number, hanging slanted and upside down. Wayne quickly unlocks the door, eyes large as he shoves the door open.

The pay phone outside of Club Z barely worked, cords hanging on by threads, the receiver cracked and busted, more than likely broken from one too many slams against the pole it rested on, heartbreak on one end, drunken slob of a man on the other. Fumbling with a quarter he fits it into the slot, hammering the number he had memorized. Trying like hell to stand up.

He had tried so hard. So fucking hard to make this work, why wasn’t it working for him? Plenty of people left Hawkins and ended up fine, great even, why couldn’t he? He couldn’t get you out of his head. It was you who he saw when he closed his eyes at night, every single night since he left. The reality of his predicament weighing heavy on his mind, and his heart.

When it happened he just thought it was a stroke of bad luck. People get mugged in big cities all the time right? He would just have to get used to it, the busted up face? Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. Only this time you weren’t there with him. He continued on like always, trying to sweet talk the manager of the club into letting him play a song, asking the band who did play that night if they needed an extra guy on vocals or bass. Only to be laughed out of the club entirely. But alas, he had kept his head up. Things weren’t good but they certainly weren’t the worst. He still had a little bit of money from selling some of his extra amps. A couple cans of spaghetti o’s could last him two days if he planned it out right.

And he could have kept going, could have made it—wouldn’t have been standing here clinging to the phone and trying to keep from falling over. If it hadn’t happened again.

The second mugging he was sure his ribs were broken, he wasn’t sure how many were broke, but it was difficult for him to breathe. The wound in his leg was festering and in desperate need of attention, but he didn’t care. He had lost all hope at this point, only finding thinking of you made the pain hurt a little bit less, like the blood pumped slower when he concentrated on your face, made him stop thinking about all the bad shit that continued to happen to him since he had been gone.

He was at a stoplight thumbing his fingers along to ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ when it happened. They came out of nowhere, whether he was too naive to see it, or simply wasn’t paying any attention, he had been blind sighted, punched in the head, and pulled hard out of the van, kicked into the ribs by at least two pairs of heavy boots, and then the final stab to the leg, ensuring he wouldn’t get up to chase them. As if that would be something he would do. They took the van and everything in it, some of his clothes, the last little bit of money to his name, and more importantly, his guitar. He was left bleeding in the street, blood painting the asphalt like a sidewalk artist with chalk.

That was two nights ago. And it has taken two full days to get back to this goddamn pay phone. He originally wanted to get back to the motel, possibly take a shower, lay in bed and then make his phone call, but he couldn’t make it that far. His energy was depleted. He just had a few numbers to punch in and then he could sit down. He wouldn’t hang up this time, he would wait for you to answer— you always did. He was just too chicken shit to say anything. But this time he needed you, needed help. Punching the last digit to your number Eddie felt woozy, closing his eyes and leaning back against the pay phone, not realizing his body is slipping down, fading into the sidewalk.

“Jesus.” Gareth muttered when the door to Eddie’s motel flung open. A quick scan of the room obviously revealed that he wasn’t there, but that he had been here at some point in time. The wallpaper was peeling from the wall in the corners, roof damage presented itself with pools of brown stains on the ceiling tiles. The shag carpet was coming up and tumbled in places that the adhesive no longer stuck to. The brass decorations clashed heavily with the warm copper and rust colored drapes and bedding.

Empty cans of spaghetti o’s and beer littered every surface, a carton of milk sat opened on top of the mini fridge, dirty socks, various band shirts and boxers littered the floor along with dozens of scraps of paper. Some just doodles of creatures from DnD others were song lyrics, scrawled across the pages in every which direction. A notebook and pen lay on the unmade bed, the mattress itself lay crooked on the mattress. Empty cigarette packs and a single guitar pic were on top of the tv. The room smelled like him, cigarettes and a hint of weed mixed with some cheap cologne. The nightstand held a telephone, a full ashtray and a book of matches. It was a mess. No wonder the old lady at the desk was pissed, it had looked like a tornado had come through here destroying everything in its wake and projectile vomiting it in complete and utter disarray.

“Let’s look for any signs of where he could be,” you decide, fumbling through the papers on the floor. Gareth started looking in the bathroom, finding nothing but strings of Eddie’s long mane stuck in the shower drain and crawling onto the sink like long legged spiders. Wayne looked through the pairs of jeans on the floor, searching the pockets for any scrap he could find. You adjusted the bed and took a seat reading through the scrawl of Eddie’s handwriting, laughing at how terrible it was.

The lyrics were full of pain, sorrow, the dark pits of despair of being alone. They were heartbreaking mostly because they were all about you. You didn’t have time for this right now, you quietly fold the papers and stuff them into the pockets of your shorts, wiping the tears away as quickly as they fall. Gareth fumbled around with his jean pockets, looking for a lighter, “anyone got a lighter?” He grumbles. You pick up the matches next to the table and toss them towards him, “gracias,” he chides.

“Holy fuck, holy fuck!” Gareth screams as he runs towards Wayne.

Wayne puts a calloused hand over his heart, “Christ you’re gonna give me a heart atta—”

“Look! Look!” Gareth is waving around the matches, like a child winning tickets at a fair. Wayne looks at the matches and grins, he tosses them to you. Printed on the back reads:

Club Z

Indianapolis, IN

‘Open 24 hrs’

Running to the office to get a phone book to find the address, Wayne and Gareth lock up Eddie’s room and start the car. You write the address down as quick as you can, getting a quick direction of where the club was from the older lady—you hurry back to the car.

Gareth sits in the passenger seat as you climb into the back Wayne wastes no time, speeding down the road to the direction of the club.

He’s swimming towards you. The closer he thinks he is the further away you get. Something's not quite right. Each time his head breaks the surface you’re standing exactly where he just was, waving him towards you, calling out to him. He tries again, but the same thing keeps happening. He’s pulled under the water, his lungs feel like they’re collapsing. He needs to breathe. He opens his mouth and takes a deep breath, expecting the taste of chlorine to fill his mouth instead it’s the sweet scent of vanilla icing, a hint of smoke, and Doritos.

His eyes flash open, and your face comes into view. Tears are dripping down his face but they aren’t his. He must be dreaming, how are you here in front of him.

“He’s awake! Wayne! He’s awake,” sobbing is heard from further away, but Eddie pays no attention to it. Only focusing on your face smiling at him, is this heaven?

Or is this hell? Surely you wouldn’t have come to get him, you wouldn’t have drove here to find him. How did you find him? No this is a fucking joke, a sick satanic dream. You didn’t want him, not after everything he put you through. Not after the way he treated you— left you at the end of your driveway crying like that in the rain. There’s no fucking way. This isn’t real, he needs to wake up. But you’re looking right at him and crying. So he must be dead. Your voice is fading in and out. He closes his eyes and paints a mental picture of your face behind his lids, a time when you were happy, a time when you were his.

Taglist: @munson-blurbs @gathered-moss @boomhauer @b-irock @sidthedollface2 @big-ope-vibes @syrennna @idkidknemore @creoleguurl @manda-panda-monium @tlclick73 @munsonficdump @brittney69 @strngrlytn @chloe-6123 @sweetsouthernbitchery @basketcaseeeeee @x-lunagirl-x @eddiemunsonshellfirebitch @trixyvixx @chelebelletx @lacrymosa-24 @nevermore66 @aysheashea @secretdryrose @punkwitchcosplay @chychy6

#eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson #stranger things x y/n #stranger things #eddie x you #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things x you #eddie x y/n fluff

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ultraguardindia · 3 months

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Maintaining Your PPF Coating: Tips for Long-Lasting Protection

Investing in PPF (Paint Protection Film) coating for your car is a smart decision that ensures long-term protection against scratches, chips, and other damages. However, to maximize the benefits of PPF, proper maintenance is essential. In this guide, we’ll provide practical advice on how to care for and maintain your PPF coating to ensure it remains effective for years. Whether you have PPF on car from Ultraguardindia or another provider, these tips will help keep your vehicle looking pristine.

Understanding PPF Coating

PPF coating is a transparent, durable film applied to a car's paintwork to protect it from external damage. Despite its robust nature, it requires proper care to maintain its protective properties and appearance.

There are common misconceptions that PPF maintenance is cumbersome, but with the right approach, it can be straightforward and effective.

Regular Cleaning

1. Frequency

Cleaning your car with PPF should be done regularly to prevent the buildup of dirt and contaminants. Ideally, you should wash your car every two weeks.

2. Tools and Products

Use soft microfiber cloths and pH-neutral car wash soap to avoid scratching or damaging the film. Avoid using abrasive sponges or harsh chemicals.

3. Techniques

Start by rinsing your car thoroughly to remove loose dirt. Apply the car wash soap using a microfiber mitt, and gently clean the surface in straight lines rather than circular motions to minimize swirl marks. Rinse off the soap thoroughly and dry with a clean microfiber towel to prevent water spots.

Avoiding Harsh Chemicals

a. Products to Avoid

Avoid using ammonia-based cleaners, alcohol, and other harsh chemicals that can degrade the PPF. These substances can cause the film to yellow or peel over time.

b. Safe Alternatives

Opt for cleaners specifically designed for PPF-coated cars. Ultraguardindia offers a range of PPF-friendly cleaning products that ensure safe and effective cleaning.

Protection Against Environmental Factors

UV Protection

Although PPF coatings like those from Ultraguardindia come with UV protection, parking your car in the shade or using a car cover can provide additional protection against prolonged sun exposure.

Bird Droppings and Tree Sap

Bird droppings and tree sap can be highly corrosive. Clean them off as soon as possible using a soft cloth and a gentle cleaner to prevent staining and damage to the PPF.

Road Debris and Bugs

Remove road debris and bugs regularly to avoid buildup. Soak the affected area with a gentle cleaner and then wipe it off carefully to avoid scratching the film.

Regular Inspection

Checking for Damage

Regularly inspect your PPF coating for any signs of damage such as bubbles, peeling, or scratches. Early detection allows for prompt repairs, ensuring the film continues to protect your car effectively.

Addressing Issues Promptly

If you notice any issues, contact a professional installer immediately. Minor problems can often be fixed without replacing the entire film.

Avoiding Mechanical Washes

Risks

Automatic car washes can be too harsh on PPF, causing scratches and lifting edges. The brushes and high-pressure water jets can damage the film.

Hand Washing

Hand washing is the safest method for cleaning a PPF-coated car. It allows for gentle and thorough cleaning, reducing the risk of damage.

Dealing with Scratches and Minor Damage

a. Self-Healing Properties

Many PPF coatings, including those from Ultraguardindia, have self-healing properties that can repair minor scratches and swirl marks with heat from the sun or warm water.

b. Repair Kits

For more severe damage, use PPF repair kits available from professional providers. These kits can help fix minor issues without needing a complete reinstallation.

c. Choosing a Professional Service

Look for reputable service providers with good reviews and a history of quality work. Ultraguardindia offers professional maintenance and repair services to ensure your PPF remains in top condition.

Seasonal Considerations

1. Winter Care

In winter, protect your car from salt and snow, which can wear down the PPF. Regularly wash your car to remove salt deposits and apply a sealant for extra protection.

2. Summer Care

During summer, ensure your car is parked in shaded areas to minimize UV exposure. Regularly clean off bird droppings and tree sap to prevent damage.

Conclusion

Maintaining your PPF coating is crucial for long-lasting protection and the pristine appearance of your car. By following these tips, you can ensure that your PPF coating from Ultraguardindia remains effective for years. Regular cleaning, using the right products, and seeking professional help when needed will keep your car looking as good as new. Invest in proper care to enjoy the full benefits of your PPF coating.

#PPF Coating #PPF On Car #PPF Coating for Car #ultraguard #ultraguardindia #paint protection film

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idolsummons · 10 months

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Sick Day

It's totally normal for your sister to have objects of the occult hidden in her room, right? Yeah, totally normal.

'Remember, Misaka, you can reach me or your dad if you have any problems, okay?' 'Yes, Mum.' 'You've got both of our numbers?' 'Yes.' 'And my work number?' 'Yes,' she droned. 'And your dad's number?' 'Mum, I just wanna get some rest.' 'Sorry, dear. Alice will be back this afternoon, okay?' And at the risk of contracting Misaka's mystery illness, her mother pressed a kiss to her forehead. 'Bye, Misaka.' 'Bye, Mum.' Misaka closed her eyes and cuddled up in her bed, peacefully napping. That was, at least, until she heard her mum lock the front door behind her and her car pull out of the driveway. That's when her eyes shot open and she slid out of bed.

The truth was, Misaka was perfectly fine, at least physically. The words of her bullies at school had been cutting deep and the prison cell that was the classroom was the last place she wanted to be. Hopefully she could get another day or two off school before her mum tried dragging her off to see a doctor. Now, there were so many ways to fill her day - where to start? There was a marathon of that stupid western soap opera that she'd shamefully gotten hooked on in the past couple of months, but she'd hate to accidentally ruin the outcome of Jamie and Leanne's wedding if she caught a later episode by mistake. There was video games, but she wasn't sure she could stomach the latest RPG with everything swirling around her head. She could always raid the kitchen, of course, but an empty pantry would be a telling story of the truth. That just left one of her other favourite past times. With not an ounce of regret, Misaka walked towards Alice's room and opened the door, leaving it wide open in case she needed to make a sudden escape. Even though she had grown out of typically rifling through anything she could find, Misaka found Alice's room to be a treasure trove of secrets and, given Alice wasn't about to tell her family a single fun fact about herself, Misaka thought it her duty to find out whatever she could about her sister in the hopes of being able to relate to her just a little better. The light flicked on. Alice had so much up on her walls, from posters of gothic bands to paintings which looked to be centuries old (who knew if they really were) and even a framed taxidermy bat which made Misaka feel a little sick whenever she saw it, that it seemed like she was trying to stop any natural light from entering. Now, where to start? The drawers were a decent spot, but much, much too intimate; although Alice did have some admittedly pretty underwear, Misaka did not want to go through it like she was some creepy guy. Under the bed could also hide many secrets, but Misaka had vowed off that area after she once found her birthday present there (a signed copy of Miyu's latest album at the time). Which left one good option: the sizeable wardrobe which took up most of the long wall. Misaka slid the door open and her eyes fell, as usual, immediately upon the plentiful dresses and shirts which hung upon clothes hangers. It was a sea of blacks and deep blues and reds, organised by their colour, some with nice patterns on them. Misaka's personal favourite was one she didn't immediately see here, a deep blue dress with constellations around the skirt. But her eyes travelled down, past the section of platform boots and shoes to boxes which had been pushed to the back and the side, right beside the suitcase which Alice had brought with her to Japan. Remembering a package Alice had received only days prior, Misaka took the top box, crimson red, where she knew her most recent letters to be stored. Misaka placed the box down and carefully removed the lid. Twelve November. That seemed right. And so she began to read:

My dearest Alice,

How long has it been since I last laid eyes on you? Since I last smelled your rose-scented perfume and hair which matches? When will I be able to gaze into your ocean blue eyes once more, or hear that gentle voice leave your lips in the hopes that you will call yourself mine? At times I fear my memories of you are growing hazy, only for my heart to skip a beat as my phone pings to tell me you've posted again! And again I get to remember how beautiful you are, how sweet and doll-like your features, and my mind begins to wander and I imagine you taking the outfit in your picture off layer by layer, leaving you in nothing before -

Nope, nope, nope. She absolutely did not need or want such images of her sister floating around in her head, especially when it came from the mind of some creepy guy obsessed with her. Misaka jammed the letter back into the box and put the lid back on top and the entire box back in its original position. A shiver went down her spine. Gross. Her eyes then came to the white suitcase, which she pulled out from behind the dresses, careful not to mess them up. As she did, the contents of the suitcase could be heard within, thudding gently against its walls. A puzzle will get my mind off that. The truth was that as much as Misaka had gallivanted about Alice's room, not once had she ever been able to get the combination lock correct. Every time she would move a few numbers around in the hopes of hearing that promising little click. Where was I up to? 0600... Nothing. 0601... Nothing. 0602... Nothing. 0603... Click. Misaka could feel her heart ready to jump right out of her throat. She laid the suitcase down on its side. Alice knew well enough that Misaka enjoyed going through her belongings. Whatever was in the suitcase had to be her most personal possessions. Something from France, she assumed. Misaka unzipped the suitcase. Perhaps a keepsake of her mother... She opened it up. Inside she found nothing like what she expected.

A black robe. A dagger with a silver hilt, symbols which she did not recognise inscribed upon it, and a curved blade. A book with no title, but symbols which resembled those upon the dagger. Misaka's hands shook. Alice was strange - Misaka didn't really understand the whole goth thing - but a dagger? Why would she need a weapon? She picked up the book. Opened it. Inside, at least, were words, written in French. Maybe it's her journal. Misaka pulled out her phone and brought up the translation app. As she scanned over the pages, the words appeared on her screen translated into Japanese. Her stomach dropped. Sacrifices. Blood rituals. Demon possession. All in the name of - the app couldn't translate the word into Japanese, but she knew enough English to be able to read the word - Vh'thra. This is all just some work of fiction, right? 'Misaka!' The growl came from behind her but there was no time to process it before she was thrown to the ground. Alice kneeled over her. 'A - Alice,' stammered Misaka, 'I thought you weren't meant to be home u - until later.' 'Shut up.' She hadn't heard her sister talk like this in a long time. 'How many times have I told you not to go through my stuff?' 'Wh - what is all this?' 'How did you get into my suitcase?' Misaka's eyes followed Alice's hand as she reached over and grabbed the dagger. She brought it high above her head, aimed right towards Misaka's chest. She was unblinking, unwavering, like this was nothing new to her. 'You're going to keep this to yourself, aren't you?' Misaka didn't move. 'Because if you don't, there will be grave consequences for you.' She wanted to say something, make a counter threat. I know about all those men chasing you. About the manipulation. I know about the baby. Nothing came out. 'And if you tell Mayumi and Taichi -' Alice brought the dagger down, close to Misaka's neck. Alice herself leaned in close so she could see little more than Alice's face and those pretty blue eyes that looked so intimidating now - 'then I will not hesitate to end you all and make it look like a fucking accident. Got it?' No response. Alice pressed the dagger against Misaka's skin. 'Got it?' 'Y - yes, A - Alice.' Tears filled Misaka's eyes. Alice stood. 'Now, get out of my room, and I better not see you in here again. Understand, you piece of shit?' Misaka, shaking violently, could only nod. She ran out as quickly as she could and back to her room, where she would spend the rest of the day hiding under her covers, crying her eyes out.

#gothic manipulator ･ﾟ✫ side muse (alice delecroix)#little slices of an existence ･ﾟ✫ drabble

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driveclean · 2 years

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The 4 Stages of Detailing a Car

The first step in detailing a car is to wash it. A good wash will remove dirt, grime, oil, and salt. It also makes the surfaces shiny and sanitized.

Next, you should polish the surface. This can totally revitalise the paintwork and reduce the appearance of swirls and stains. It can also remove oxidation, haze and other undesirable marks that can dull the finish.

A dedicated Xenon or powerful LED detailer's lamp is very useful at this stage to assist you with locating any swirls and imperfections on the paintwork.

You'll also need to inspect the vehicle thoroughly to determine whether you'll need to correct the paintwork or machine polish it. This will depend on how much work needs to be done and what paint type you're using.

When you're working on the paint, make sure you're only applying small amounts of protectants and dressings. You can't over apply them because porous surfaces like leather and rubber can only absorb very small amounts of a dressing.

The final step in auto detailing is to wax the vehicle's exterior. A good waxing job will keep your paint protected from water spots, UV rays, and road salt.

You can use a quality product, like Meguiar's or Turtle Wax. You should apply it from the top down, avoiding bumpers, rocker panels and tires until last.

For more details, contact Drive Clean Auto Bath, an experienced auto detailing service in Vaughan.

#car detailing #car detailing vaughan

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fulcrum-writes · 10 months

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WRITING COMMISSIONS OPEN

THINGS I WILL WRITE:

-OC x OC

-Character x OC

-Character x self insert/reader insert

-Character x character

-NSFW

-SFW

THINGS I WILL NOT WRITE:

-Incest

-Pedophila

-Zoophila

PRICES:

sfw: $7 for 900-1k, $15 for 2k (other word counts can be talked about)

nsfw: 10$ for 900-1k, 20$ for 2k (other word counts can be talked about)

A reference of my work under the cut:

The engine sputters as the pick-up truck strains against its old, rusted frame to make it up the gravel hill. It has long gotten used to the pavement and asphalt roads from the large city, where it lived out cold winters and sweltering summers in an underground parking lot.

Optimus Primal glances over at his husband, watching as his jaw clenches in irritation at his truck. Optimus places his hand on Dinobot’s arm, a reminder for him to stop biting the inside of his mouth when he gets frustrated. They both know it’s on it’s last limbs, yet Dinobot refuses to get rid of it. So many memories have happened in this truck. Some of Dinobot’s, some of Optimus’. Too many for his husband to even consider getting rid of the battered blue truck.

Dinobot’s wide shoulders fall as he takes a deep breath and Optimus removes his hand. He turns back to the open window, the heat from the humid July weather still filling the truck, just as it had the entire six hour drive to their new property.

He can see the farm house from here. The roof sticks out from the long grass that covers the winding acres of land that he can’t believe is his. There’s no music playing from the speakers. They had given up trying to fix the radio. All they can hear is gravel crunching against the tires and the chirp of birds and the soft hissing of the bugs hiding in the grass. It’s not an awkward silence, it’s an exciting one. He is so excited for the things to come. He has a husband, as insane as that sounds to his brain. He has a husband that is completely his.

The truck finally pulls up the hill and into the driveway. It shakes as it breaks, slightly faulty and engine overworked. He unbuckles his seat belt and waits until the doors unlock before getting out. The sun is against his skin, and he has to squint to see the fading red paint of the farmhouse.

Dinobot comes from the driver seat of the car, two duffel bags on each shoulder. Optimus takes one out of his hands. He looks back at the farmhouse, smile on his lips.

“Are you ready?” he asks Dinobot without turning to face him. The question is for himself as much as it is for his husband.

“Yes,” Dinobot responds, and Optimus can tell from his tone that he doesn’t understand how big of a deal this is for him. He’s back where he should be. Dinobot thought of his family farm as a prison, Optimus thought of his own as what it’s supposed to feel like. Home. A family. Any word that applies to a feeling of comfort.

The two make their way into the house, floorboards creaking under their collective weight. The home smells like mothballs, the air is stuffy and not affected by the warm Canadian summer.

The walls have a light blue with darker blue swirls as it’s wallpaper, and Optimus is already making plans on how he would change it. Dinobot doesn’t seem to care, face emotionless.

The stairs make more noise than the rest of the house, groaning loudly as he walks up it.

The upstairs doesn’t look any better, with pink flower wallpaper and every door in the hallway shut tight.

Optimus only saw a few photos online of the home, but it was the acres of land for such a cheap price that made him buy it. He gives Dinobot a glance. “Let’s find a bedroom. At least then we can put our bags down and see what our sleeping situation is like.”

Dinobot grunts a response, and Optimus guesses he’s not in the mood for conversation. Optimus isn’t either, but he fears that he has been left with his own thoughts for too long and craves the comforts his husband brings. They step into what is supposed to be the master bedroom. It’s big, oddly big. It has depressingly blue curtains covering a large window that overlooks the driveway and some of the tall grass. The bed post is void of a mattress, but the actual frame itself has pretty designs carved into it. Optimus doesn’t know what they’re supposed to be, they look like flowers more than anything else. “We’ll have to sleep on the floor,” he points out, “unless we can find a couch or you want to sleep in the truck.” The delivery guys wouldn’t get there until at least the next day, and that was him optimistically reaching. He knew he could have—and should have—waited until the moving company arrived, but he needed to get out of the city.

Dinobot scowls a little at the thought of having to sleep on the floor. Optimus reminds him that they slept on the floor for a month in their first apartment.

“We’d get eaten alive by bugs if we stay in the truck,” Dinobot says. The window in that load of shit didn’t roll up all the way, making for annoying winters.

“That’s true.” Optimus still wanted to see the rest of their little farmhouse. Now realizing that it seems bigger on the inside than the outside.

Optimus sets down his bag next to the bed frame, and Dinobot hesitates for two or three seconds before setting it down beside his husband’s.

In the span of a few hours, they had throughly explored everything, including the barn and the suspicious looking shed at the far edge of the property. The basement door is locked, there is no attic despite the pointed roof being perfect attic shape, and there is a closet that Optimus feels needs a lock in the master bedroom. The kitchen, bathroom, and guest bedroom are completely normal — or, as normal as a room could get in a house like this. He wonders if the laundry room is supposed to be in the basement.

Once it starts getting late, they head outside and sit on the porch. They eat sandwiches they had packed for the drive up and then stayed to bask in the sunlight until it set down below the tree line.

They stay out until the crickets start chirping and the mosquitos come out. The sky darkens after a while, not dark enough for the stars to peak out from the folds of the scattered clouds.

Optimus rests his head against Dinobot’s chest, sharing his heat with his husband. His back is against the wood of the farmhouse, and he can see the forest through the gaps in the railway.

He yawns, eyes shutting for a moment. When he opens them, there is two white dots staring at him from the darkness of the forest. He blinks. It’s still there. What is that? There is barely any light for an animals eyes to reflect off of.

An uncomfortable feeling rests in his gut. He stands up, and Dinobot sighs dramatically at the loss of warmth Optimus brung.

“Let’s go in, yeah?” Optimus suggests, because he doesn’t want to admit that two dots of white light out in the distance scares him enough to want to go inside.

Dinobot gives him an odd look, opening his mouth to speak. He shivers before he can say anything and seemingly decides that being slightly chilly isn’t worth it.

As soon as Dinobot shuts the door, the feeling stops. He is not being watched anymore. Although, thinking that he’s being watched is illogical. He is overreacting. Optimus’ husband rubs his shoulder, then starts walking upstairs.

“Will you join me on the floor, Optimus?” Dinobot inquires, a small smile on his lips, hand outstretched as if he is a prince asking his lover to a dance.

Optimus smiles. “Of course.” He takes Dinobot’s hand, pulling himself onto the same step the taller man is on.

Dinobot pulls him to his chest, kissing the top of his head. Optimus laughs a little, looking up at him, eyes soft.

The floor isn’t as uncomfortable as Optimus suspected it to be. It’s better with a blanket underneath to stop splinters from getting into Optimus’ bare back. It’s hot upstairs, and it’s hotter with another body curled up next to him.

Dinobot shivers next to him as if it’s they had just come in from a snowstorm. He presses his face into Optimus’ naked chest, feeling the warmth of his skin against his lips and nose.

“Are you sure there isn’t another blanket?” Dinobot asks, his breath is making Optimus’ head feel fuzzy with love.

“Yes, I’m sure. Do you need me to check again?” he questions, rubbing circles along his lover’s back.

“Stay.”

“Alright.” Dinobot’s request relieves Optimus. He knows that there might be another blanket in the truck, but he doesn’t want to go out there, in a place he still has yet to fully explore, with whatever wild animals could be lurking. He’s no stranger to creatures coming around, but this place makes him feel odd. Dinobot snuggles closer to him, his hair tickling Optimus’ chest with each strand. Optimus wakes up in the middle of the night to a clawing at the kitchen window. He ignores it.

#writers on tumblr #writing commissions #writing comms open #i need money #fanfic #fanfic commissions #transformers #open commissions #commission #commisions open #commissions info #commissions sheet #x reader #character x reader

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sister-salacious · 2 years

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Hello my devil, pt.3

Again maybe explicit like previous parts

I pout in the corner for a moment, it was my fault i teased him first he just got me back, crafty bastard. We continue on roads for a while occasionally stopping at gas stations. I would have to be the one to get out and pump gas. Unfortunately his face is far to recognizable with his make up, we are not sure how to remove it because unlike secundo he never had a second life to take it off for. Once he became Emeritus he was father unholy, basking in the light of a rockstar. We leave the gas station with the car full, i am not sure how we still have money but each time i ask he manages to pull out cash from somewhere.

Evening is starting to hit again, we are still on the road who knows for how much longer. I start to dose off in the passenger seat. My brain floods with incoherent dreams thoughts fogging my sleep. What if Terzo is the undead..? Should i worry about where we are going.? Can he still get me pregnant….? Everything swirls into this unbearable harpy coming down upon me when suddenly i an shaken awake by my dearest. I sit up startled looking into his eyes.

“ Are you okay my love..? You were talking in your sleep” his eyes dig into my soul for a moment.

“Yea I’m fine just a bad dream, where are we..?” I look out the windshield, in the darkness of the evening i can make out the shape of a large victorian style house. It seems like we are in wooded country again so the house is tucked away from the public eye. He shuts off the car and steps out, flying to my-side he opens up the door and picks me up out if my seat. The air nips at my legs and exposed ass as he carries me up to the door. He sets me down as he goes looking for a key finding it hidden in a fake plant. Opening the door the smell of cedar wafts out and warm air hits me as if the heater has been on lately. I step inside, Terzo following behind me. My hand searches the wall for a light switch, when i think i find it i flip only for nothing to happen. I sigh and turn that one off and follow it a little further and turned that one on. The room suddenly is a glow as i now get to see the beautiful foyer. There was a black rug on the ground from the door down the hallway, a small coat closet to my right and paintings of Nihil and his sons strewn about on the walls. This didn’t feel like a home owned by the satanic church, it felt like a family truly lived here.

I look back at Terzo and step out of my shoes sliding them against the wall.

“So, are you sure we will be safe here for a little while?”

“Yes.. we have until spring before Copia will be here most likely. Sister will be to busy chasing around her progeny to come this far.”

I nod slightly in understanding and start to head into the rest of the house to explore when i hear a clattering noise. I gasp and jump as it sounds like a human running by in the darkness. My eyes search the darkened corridors for any sign of movement, I hear it again. A human it has to be skittering around me but i don’t see anyone. Just then as i peer down the hallway i see a white eye staring back at me, i turn to look at Terzo as maybe i am just looking at a reflection but no. His back was turned the other way as he was shimmying out of suit jacket. I look back towards the white eye, it blinks at me and starts to come closer. I scream and practically jump over Terzo as i try to scramble away. What in the absolute hell is…that.. before my panicked thought could finish the familiar white paint and brown ruffled hair comes closer. It was Copia, why was he skittering around like.

“Youre alive..?” Copias voice sounded, terrified, like he had seen a ghost. I mean he has, Terzo has been dead for the last few years.

Terzo turns around and meets Copia’s gaze, both of them freeze. My hand makes its way to Terzos hand as i cling to him mildly terrified of what this means. If Copia is here does that mean Sister wasn’t to far behind? Did they already search here or were they hiding him? Terzo didn’t seem to hesitate as he stepped towards Copia pulling me with. His free hand shoots out and catches Copia by the shirt collar.

“ if you say a WORD of this to your mother i will show you what hell really feels like” his voice was cold, harsh, almost as if satan himself was speaking through him. Copia’s eyes widened in absolute panic as he begins shaking his head no. I step in between them and look up at Terzo.

“Please.. he won’t do anything he was a friend when they took tour body in tour..” Terzo sets him down and Copia staggers a few steps back.

“Im sorry brother.. i.. i didn’t know how else to help aside from letting her follow with us…. Imperator told me to come up here after she saw your body was gone..” Copias voice was tender sincere and lost. I knew he saw Terzo as a big brother and losing him like that hurt him almost as much as it hurt me. Silence very quickly set in, Terzo didn’t want to speak to the man whose mother had him killed, Copia didn’t want to start anything as that wasn’t his thing. We sat there for what felt like forever, but after the shock had settled Copia turned on more lights and shut the door behind us. I take the chance to explore the house, if i was going to be hiding here with my lover then i might as well see what i am dealing with. Off of the hallway to my right there was a large kitchen, the cabinets were painted a pine green all of the appliances looked fairly new too. The island in the center was adorned with flowers a lit candle and a glass of wine. I suppose we might have interrupted his little drinking session in the kitchen with our intrusion. I turn and leave the kitchen only to walk into a large living room. There was a stage in the corner littered with instruments, there were pictures scattered all over the walls and a lounge set all facing towards a TV. The maroon wall paper made me feel like i was inside a personal movie theater or concert hall. Continuing my misadventure i sneak down the hall that was just past the stage. Three bedroom doors all shut tightly each one with a name scrawled on. “Primo, Secondo, Terzo”, it must have been their rooms when they traveled up here during the off season with their father. Continuing further i find a rather large bathroom, and a stair case the wound its way upwards. As i climb the stairs i soon find myself in the middle of what i can assume is the master bedroom. A large room painted emerald green with large rounded windows that would let in light from all angles.

Just then I hear my name being called and i come flying down the stairs. Terzo sat at the end of the hallway with open arms and a loose smile and Copia was just behind with his head hung low. I walk into Terzo’s arms and stay for a brief moment before looking up at him.

“What are wer going to do..?”

“Copia has agreed to keep his mouth shut and let us hide here for a while”

“Well how long is a while..? Especially with Imperator looking for you”

“As long as we need isn’t that right Copia?”

I look past Terzo where Copia nods his head.

“As long as you possibly need my brother, after all it was yours before Sister had you killed..”

Terzo looks down into my face and lets a smile creep back across. His arms slack to his sides as he then grabs my hand and leads me to the door with his name on it. He pushes it open flips a switch and inside lay a room covered in posters of rock bands, pin-ups and framed dried flowers. His bed was shoved into the corner and couldn’t be larger than a full size. A pile of sheets sat on it begging to be shaken out and stretched over the old mattress. The floor was hard wood, gently aged over the years. It felt cozy, and like his teen years were preserved here in this room. I stand in the door way drinking it in as he goes over and makes the bed for us. Copia comes up behind me.

“I don’t understand how he is back.. he looks so alive.. you must be very happy hm?”

“I am.. i feel bad though, he lost all this time only to suddenly rise and run away.”

“Ah yes.. but my fratello has you, i know how good of a lover you can be.”

I shoot him a look over my shoulder and shake my head laughing softly and pushing him away.

“Leave us you goofy thing, i will talk to you in the morning, i am sure he is tired yea?”

With that he smiled and walks off towards the staircase. I shut the door behind me and look at terzo as he finishes making the bed. He stretches up wards and turns around to face me.

“Now.. where did we leave off hm?” He strides over and picks me up pushing me against the door. I gasp and look at him my jaw hitting the floor. In that moment he closes my mouth for me as he kisses me with more heat than the sun. I wrap my legs and arms around him as we make out, he takes the chance to move us to the bed. We fall together and i let go of him, he stands over me and unbuttons his shirt, pulls off his gloves and removes his pants. He stands before me completely bare before dropping to his knees and diving between my legs. I help frantically to remove my clothes but he stops me at my underwear.

“ leave this for me” he smiles and takes the band in his teeth pulling them down my thighs. As he pulls them off and drops them to the floor he makes his way back up my legs kissing ever so softly. His breath warm on my thighs he moves towards the inside of them. His hands part my legs and i can here a relaxed sigh. Suddenly i feel his tongue teasing my slit, i stifle a moan and bite my lip knowing what he is doing. He takes his time, lightly tracing over it before letting his tongue explore further. He finds my clit and encloses his lips on it as he licks and sucks. His fingers carefully part my lips and slip inside my now soaking wet hole. He makes sure that his golden claws do not cause me any harm as he finger fucks me ever so gently. Between his mouth and hands i can not help to let out another moan. My body being dragged closer and closer to orgasm. As if I let him know im close he pulls his fingers out and releases my clit. Instead i can feel his tongue tease my vulva and his thumb makes it to my throbbing cherry. He wraps his other arm around my leg to not let me move as he proceeds to push me over the line. My hands grab at the sheets as the orgasm explodes inside me. Moans leave my throat as i lay there with my legs wrapped around his head. The entire time he does not stop until i stop moving. I try to catch my breath and whimper at him pathetically as he moves to kiss up my bare body.

I watch as he makes it to my breasts taking one in his mouth. His sharp fangs again stabbing me as i feel him suckle on my tit. I pant softly, running one hand into his hair and the other down his back. He starts to let go so i drag my nails up his back, a husky moan escapes his throat and he closes his eyes for a moment. He stands back and pushes me further onto the bad before leaping ontop. I can feel his member begging to be let in, I squirm a little and whine.

“ mm are you really going to make me beg papa..?”

He proceeds to grab my wrists and pin them above my head.

“ no but you can’t complain my dear”

As the last sound leaves his lips i feel him push deep inside me. I gasp softly as he begins to fuck me harder than last time. Each time he pulls out almost all the way and slams his hips back into mine. I can feel his cock as it hits my cervix repeatedly and can do nothing about breathless moans that escape my mouth. His hand moves from my wrists to my throat, his talons digging in just enough to get me to stifle my sounds. I watch as his head falls back ever so slightly, deep groans coming from his mouth as he picks up speed. He stops for a moment panting, his eyes meet mine and i can see his eye is already starting to glow just slightly. He smirks, and slides off to the side. I take my cue and mount him, slipping his cock inside me with ease. As I ride him i get the pleasure of watching his mouth open as he moans and pants. I take my time for a moment as i go his full shaft length before leaning forward to kiss at his neck. He pulls away for a second and then relaxes letting me kiss and bite. As i do so he wraps his arms around me and uses me like his own sex toy fucking me from below. I can feel him getting close as he slides his hand down my hips. One, two, three he explodes inside me his back arches and a moan that nearly makes me cum erupts from his throat.

My heart races as i stare at him, his eye didn’t go full glow like it had the day before. It didn’t matter though as he laid there beneath me quivering.

“My love.. I really did miss this in death, you are my little succubus” his voice was airy as he is coming down. Instead of pushing me off to clean up he pulls my body down onto his and wraps his arms around me again. After a few moments i can feel his member go limo and fall out me followed by a small stream of cum. His beautiful face unchanged from our activities, he kiss my forehead and pushes my head to his chest. A hand strokes my hair and i start to fall asleep.

Once more hoping this was not a dream.

#ghost bc #copia #papa terzo #terzo emeritus #terzo #smut #slow burn #resurection

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